Point of Knives (6 page)

“Rathe doesn’t believe her,” Eslingen said. “He’ll delay as long as possible. Which means you should call up those witnesses you spoke of—his crew, his friends, anyone who can speak to the matter—and haul them down to the station or get a sworn statement or both. That’ll slow things down, at the very least.”

“Why should the pointsman care?” Steen tossed down the last of his beer.

“Because it’s justice,” Eslingen said, and shrugged. “His stars run that way, I suppose, but—that’s how he is. He’s the man who saved the children, and he did it because someone had to.”

“And I know you, now, too,” Young Steen said, slowly. “You worked with him—you’re the other half of that, Lieutenant.”

“I helped,” Eslingen said. “But it was Nico—Rathe—who did most of it.”

“I’ll call up my witnesses,” Young Steen said. “And would you take a word to Caiazzo?”

“Of course.”

“Tell him that if I can claim my father’s goods, I’d be happy to make the same bargain with him that Dad did.” Young Steen pushed himself to his feet, and Eslingen copied him, tossing a handful of demmings on the tabletop to cover the cost of the meal. Of course Young Steen would say that; it was the best way to get Caiazzo to back his claim. But it was also obvious that van Duiren was a liar—and probably after the gold herself, Eslingen thought.

“I’ll tell him that,” he said, and made his way through the tables to the door.

He caught a low-flyer back to Customs Point, paid it off at the bottom of the street where Caiazzo had his house, and went in by the side door, hoping to steal a moment to pull his thoughts together before he had to take his news to Caiazzo. Unfortunately, his wish was not granted. Aicelin Denizard, Caiazzo’s magist and left hand, was crossing the hall as the door opened, and stopped in her tracks.

“Eslingen! You were looked for hours ago.”

“I know,” Eslingen answered. “Is himself about?”

“Above in his workroom, and contemplating sending runners to find you,” Denizard answered. “I’ll send him word you’re here.”

“Come up with me,” Eslingen said. “You’ll want to hear as well.”

She lifted an eyebrow at that, but turned, the heavy grey silk of her magist’s robe rustling against her fashionable ox-blood gown, and led the way up the central stairs.

Caiazzo’s workroom was at the end of the gallery, with long windows like the stern of a ship overlooking the garden behind the house. His counter ran along the wall beneath it, piled with papers and ledgers and an abacus, and Caiazzo himself sat on a high stool near its center, while his clerk sat at a low table, diligently making notes. He broke off as the door opened, and the clerk looked up, pen poised.

“All right, Biblis, that’ll be all for now,” Caiazzo said. “Philip, I hope you have a good explanation for where you’ve been.”

The clerk stoppered her inkwell and hurried out, Denizard closing the door firmly behind her. Eslingen took a breath. “I have an explanation,” he said, “but I wouldn’t call it good.”

“Go on.”

“Old Steen’s dead,” Eslingen said bluntly. “And his aged father murdered, too.” He ran through the events of the previous night and their aftermath, finishing with Young Steen’s offer. Caiazzo stared at him for a long moment, and Eslingen fought back the temptation to elaborate. That was one of Caiazzo’s favorite tricks, luring you into saying more than you’d meant, and he refused to fall victim.

“So you’ve been at Point of Hopes all this time,” Caiazzo said at last.

“Yes.”

“What does Rathe say about the woman?”

“He doesn’t believe she’s his wife,” Eslingen answered. “I don’t think the Chief Point does, either, but the marriage lines look good.”

“Oh, Bonfortune.” Caiazzo slanted a reproachful glance at the altar hanging on the side wall, where a bright bundle of autumn flowers lay beneath the feet of the merchant-venturers’ god, then slid from his stool. Standing, he was smaller than one might expect, a neat dark man, unobtrusively well dressed, with eyes that looked almost black in the morning light. Only the small scar at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he was more dangerous than he seemed. “Aice, I’ll want my advocates on this straightaway. Have Lunele place a claim against the estate, that should tie things up for a bit.”

Denizard nodded. “Do we have a claim?”

“Does it matter? She can find one, I’m sure.” Caiazzo didn’t wait for her answer, but reached for a pen and a clean sheet of paper. “As for you, Philip…. This is a note for the chief at Point of Hopes, what’s her name—”

“Monteia,” Eslingen said.

“Right, Monteia, stating that I’m making a claim, and that she’ll be in receipt of a proper writ within the day.” Caiazzo wrote busily for a few moments, the pen loud in the silence, then dusted the sheet with sand to dry the ink. “But your main business—I know you’re still friends with Nicolas Rathe, and I’m pleased that you’ve not made it an issue for me. And now I’m sending you to help him in any way you can. And make sure I get the gold I’ve contracted for.”

Eslingen opened his mouth, and closed it again, knowing that protest was futile. He knew exactly what Caiazzo meant by “helping,” and he’d be damned before he’d cheat Rathe that way—but to say it outright was to lose his place, with winter coming on and no money saved to tide him over until he found other work. Not that there was much demand for soldiers in Astreiant in the first place, and that brought him back to the dilemma that had kept him here since midsummer.

“Very well,” he said. “And what about my usual duties?”

Caiazzo smiled. “I took care of myself long enough, Philip. And Aice can mind the rest.”

The magist looked both fond and exasperated at that, but said nothing. Caiazzo folded the note and handed it to Eslingen. “I’m sure Rathe will be glad of your help,” he said, with a twist of a smile that wasn’t quite a smirk. “But mostly—get the gold.”

“Yes, sir,” Eslingen said, and turned away.

As Monteia had predicted, van Duiren returned within the hour to demand Old Steen’s effects. Rathe made himself scarce while the Chief Point handed them over, and Lennar, coming to say the coast was clear, reported that the woman had been in a rare temper, though at least she’d had the sense not to turn it on Monteia.

“Because the Chief was a hair’s breadth from telling her to get a judge’s ruling on the matter,” Lennar said. “And that would have spoiled her game.”

Rathe nodded, and checked as he saw the figure ahead of him in the station’s main room. For a craven instant, he thought about walking away before he got himself in any deeper, but Eslingen was already up to his neck in the matter. There would be no avoiding him, no matter what Monteia said, and he couldn’t decide if that thought was pleasant or not.

“Hello, Philip,” he said. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Eslingen looked over his shoulder with a wry smile. “Caiazzo has a claim to make, though I gather we’re too late to have the effects impounded.”

“Afraid so,” Rathe answered. “Not that there was much to consider. As you saw.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Eslingen answered, in the dulcet tones that always made Rathe want to snicker. “Lunele—his advocate—is closeted with your Chief, and I imagine she’s making that very point.”

“I daresay.” Rathe lowered his voice slightly, just enough to keep the duty point, all ears at the desk, from hearing clearly. “I don’t suppose you’d care to share what Young Steen told you when you took him off? Which I do appreciate, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Eslingen answered. “No more than he told you already, I’m afraid. I left him heading for Point of Knives to roust out witnesses to his father’s non-marriage.”

“Is that where Old Steen lodged?” Rathe asked.

Eslingen shrugged. “So his son says.” His gaze sharpened. “And that’s important how?”

“Point of Knives—you know the Court of the Thirty-Two Knives, I know I told you about it, and I know Caiazzo has dealings there.”

Eslingen gave a soft laugh. “I’ve had an adventure or two there, yes, since entering his employ. Nothing to concern the points, of course.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that,” Rathe said, and managed to keep a straight face. The Court of the Thirty-Two Knives had once been a great mansion, fallen into disrepair two centuries ago, and during the civil wars, the original thirty-two knives had turned it into a fortress from which they terrorized most of the area south of the river. It had taken a regiment of soldiers with artillery to batter them into submission, and there were still plenty of folk southriver who would rather handle justice in the Knives’ fashion than acknowledge the law or the points. “Point of Knives is the area that grew up around the Court, among other things. The regents forced our surintendant to open a points station there three years ago, but it went to Mirremay, who’s a direct descendant of one of the bannerdames—the Knives’ only real rivals, and the people who took over when the Knives were driven out. She paid a huge sum in fees to get the place, or so one hears, and she’s taking fees hand over fist herself to make up for it. If that’s where Old Steen lodged—we won’t get any help from Mirremay, not unless Caiazzo’s willing to meet her price.”

“I don’t know that he’d be averse to it,” Eslingen said. “Though he does like to get value for money.”

“She stays bought,” Rathe said, reluctantly. “That’s all the good I can say of her.”

“Well, if it’s just a matter of the fee,” Eslingen began, and a door closed sharply upstairs.

Rathe looked up to see Caiazzo’s advocate and Monteia emerge from the chief point’s workroom, the advocate still talking quietly while Monteia nodded with decreasing patience. The advocate—Lunele—seemed to realize she was harming her case, because she stopped and made a polite curtsy instead, her black-and-red gown rustling. Monteia matched the gesture, and Lunele descended the stairs, as graceful as if she were at a soueraine’s ball. She looked discreetly pleased with herself, however, and Rathe’s mouth tightened. As Eslingen had just pointed out, Caiazzo was hardly opposed to paying for the law.

“Rathe!” Monteia reached for her pipe, was filling it as she spoke. “A word with you, please.”

Rathe looked at Eslingen, who gave a fractional shrug.
And I believe him,
Rathe thought, as he started up the stairs.
Whatever this is about, I don’t think Philip knew it beforehand.

Monteia closed the door of the workroom behind them, and waved Rathe to the nearest stool. She settled herself beside the stove, and lit a long straw to coax her pipe alight. Rathe waited, knowing better than to interrupt, and at last she leaned back in her chair, a cloud of smoke wreathing her head.

“Caiazzo is filing an official complaint,” she said, “and making a formal claim against Old Steen’s estate. It seems Steen owed him money.”

“Right,” Rathe said. He didn’t believe it for an instant, and from her expression, neither did Monteia. “But why—?” He stopped, shaking his head. “To force an inventory, under judicial supervision. I wonder what he’s after?”

“I’m hoping your friend Eslingen can tell us that,” Monteia answered.

Rathe paused. “I thought you were warning me off,” he said.

Monteia met his gaze squarely. “I was. But Caiazzo’s offered us his services, full assistance to the points, and you said it yourself, he proved himself a useful man this past summer.”

And Caiazzo’s fee’d you.
Rathe knew better than to say that aloud, but the knowledge must have shown on his face, because Monteia frowned.

“Yes, there’s a fee for it, and a good one. And if you weren’t so damned stiff-necked, you’d have a share of it. But you are, and so I don’t offer.” She held up a hand to forestall his protest. “And there’s another reason I accepted. I want this knife where you can keep an eye on him. It’s as they say on the caravans: better to invite him in, and have him pissing out of the tent, than the other way around.”

There was some truth to that, Rathe thought. It was just—he thought he’d managed to resign himself to the situation. To be thrown into Eslingen’s company day and night, working together again—he could hardly expect that they wouldn’t fall back into old habits, and he couldn’t stop the treacherous eagerness that stole over him at the mere idea. And that was dangerous. Eslingen was still Caiazzo’s man, and he couldn’t afford to forget it. Even so, he felt his heart lift.

Monteia seemed to have read his thought, and gave a rather sour smile. “Take the rest of the day and sort this out,” she said. “I’ll have Amarele finish your shift.”

“Yes, Chief,” Rathe said, and scrambled to obey.

Eslingen was still waiting in the main room, a slightly bemused expression on his face. As Rathe came down the stairs, he came to meet him, saying, “It seems I’ve been seconded to your service, Adjunct Point.”

Beneath the cool drawl, Rathe thought he detected a hint of uncertainty, and it was that he answered. “Yes. And I can’t say I’m sorry, either.”

The faintest hint of color tinged Eslingen’s cheeks. “You know that Caiazzo—”

“Sent you, yes,” Rathe interrupted. This was not a discussion he was going to have in the station precincts, or anywhere close at hand. “Betts, I’m out for the rest of the day, Chief’s orders. Livsey will take the rest of my shift.”