Point of Knives (9 page)

“To see Young Steen,” Eslingen called back.

“What’s the name?”

“Eslingen.”

“Come aboard, and I’ll see if he’s free.” The girl vanished.

Eslingen made his way gingerly up the ramp, not at all reassured by the sudden appearance of the little-captain. It growled at him from the rail that guarded the high stern platform, and Eslingen was careful to come no closer. At least the river was relatively quiet here, not as choppy as it could be down by the Exemption Docks. He could hear voices from beneath the deck, quite a few voices, but couldn’t make out the words. They didn’t sound angry, at least, but it didn’t sound precisely like a friendly gathering, either—more like a meeting or the crowd at an auction, though the latter was prohibited shipboard. Cargos were put to bid at the public auction hall in Point of Sighs or in guild-owned halls along Mercandry, where they could be seen and taxed. Not that half those bids weren’t fixed in advance, he’d learned that much from Caiazzo, but in theory the system was open and fair.

The voices were suddenly louder, and a door opened between the ladders that led to the stern platform, disgorging a stream of people. There were a good dozen of them—a lunar dozen, Eslingen amended, fifteen, mostly men but a few sharply-dressed women, trailing out from what had to be the captain’s cabin. Young Steen trailed behind them, followed by a woman his own age in a well-tailored gown, and one of the other women turned back to take his hand.

“Just say the word, and we’ll be there. All the witnesses you need.”

“Thank you, Berla. Father would appreciate it.” Steen caught Eslingen’s eye and nodded, but said nothing until the last of the group was on the gangway, and only the well-dressed woman and the girl remained behind. “Eslingen. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your father’s cargo,” Eslignen said, with a wary glance at the woman at Steen’s shoulder. “I just had a few questions, if you had a moment.”

“I’ll take my leave, then,” the woman said. From the look of her, she was a well-off merchant—or, more likely, a merchant’s daughter, Eslingen thought. She looked much of an age with Steen, and women that young didn’t own their own combines, worked instead for their mothers and aunts. “But—give it some thought, Steen, will you?”

“I certainly will,” Steen said, and bowed over her hand as though he’d been a gentleman. She grinned at that, not at all displeased, and made her way down the gangway.

Steen looked at Eslingen. “Jesine Hardelet,” he said. “One of the owners.”

“Ah.” Eslingen kept his face impassive. That put a different complexion on her visit, and on Steen’s graces: she was of an age to be starting a family, and what better way to bind Steen to the family business than to propose he sire a child for her? “And the rest were your witnesses?”

Steen nodded. “Fifteen today, and each of them can bring two or three fellows. Surely that will be enough.”

“One would hope,” Eslingen said, though, given the look of the group, he rather doubted it. Mostly men, mostly sailors, and none of the women were of a class to stand up to van Duiren’s documents. And of course those would be Old Steen’s friends and equals, but they wouldn’t stand against a signed constract.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” Steen said. “I’ve something to tell you, too.” He whistled through his teeth and the girl snapped to attention. “Essi, keep the watch. I’m not to be interrupted unless it’s serious.”

“Yes, captain,” the girl answered, and perched on a barrel by the gangway.

“Come within,” Young Steen said, and Eslingen followed him into the cabin.

It was bigger than he’d expected, with a front room like a parlor and a door that obviously led to the captain’s private quarters. The parlor was dominated by a chart table, and a rack of cubbies was chained to the rear wall. Thick glass sun-stealers caught and magnified the light from the deck above, and a pair of bracket-lanterns were lit as well, the sweet smell of the oil not quite enough to drown out the smell of tar. Steen waved him to a stool, and took another one himself, leaning one elbow on the chart table.

“What did you want with me?” Steen said.

“I came to see if you’d thought of any place your father might have hidden his chest of gold, since it seems clear Dame van Duiren hasn’t found it,” Eslingen answered. “Or, failing that, where he might have left some key to finding it.”

Steen grinned. “Dad was never much for treasure maps.”

“And here I thought they were de rigeur,” Eslingen said.

“It’s not always like the broadsheets,” Steen answered. “Dad liked keeping his secrets secret.”

Eslingen’s heart sank. If Old Steen hadn’t kept any record of what he’d done with his treasure, they were beaten before they’d started. Rathe would figure it out, he told himself, and lifted an eyebrow. “Surely he had to take into account the possibility that something might happen to him,” he said. “He wouldn’t have wanted the gold to be lost entirely.”

“You’d think not,” Steen answered. “But it would be in his goods if there was anything, and—she’s got them. But that’s what I wanted to tell you. Jesine—Dame Hardelet—I pointed out van Duiren to her, when we were collecting witnesses, and she said she knows the woman under another name. As far as she knows, Dame Costanze van Duiren is Dame Amielle Delon, and she owns a counting house in Point of Knives. A counting house that employs no clerks, and is almost never open for business, but she pays the rent and keeps stout locks on the doors. What do you say to that?”

“It’s interesting,” Eslingen agreed. “Very interesting.”

“Jesine said she just thought Delon was a fence, there’s dozens of them in Point of Knives. But I say she’s keeping her real business there.” Steen leaned forward. “And I say we should raid the place, see what she’s got in her coffers.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Eslingen said.

“Why not? We could be in and out again before she knew what hit her.”

“Except she would know,” Eslingen said. “Granted, she’s probably got more enemies than just you and Caiazzo, but right at the moment, you’re the first one she’ll point fingers at.”

“Then what, we should just do nothing?”

Eslingen shook his head. “Let me tell Rathe, have him put a watch on the place. We might find out more that way than if we just go crashing in without any idea what she uses the place for. Not to mention the points have the rights to break down a door or two if it comes to that.”

“You really think he’d do it?” Steen asked.

“He wants to know what’s going on,” Eslingen said. “He’ll do it. I give you my word on it.”

Steen nodded slowly. “I’ll hold off, then. But if it comes to court without any more than this—I’ll have to act, Eslingen.”

“Understood,” Eslingen answered.

To Rathe’s surprise, Eslingen was more than punctual, arriving at the eating house before the appointed time. The day had turned fair, and they took their meal into the back garden, where the chance of eavesdroppers was diminished. The vines that adorned the brick walls were already turning scarlet, and Rathe eyed them with a certain melancholy. They seemed all too emblematic of this relationship, brilliant and delightful, but all too soon to fade. And that, he told himself, was the worst sort of theatrics—even the crowds at the Bell would scorn such melodrama.

“Any luck?” he asked, and made himself meet Eslingen’s eyes with a smile.

Something that might have been worry eased from the other man’s face. “Not with what I went to ask,” he said. “Apparently Old Steen didn’t believe in treasure maps or sharing information. And Young Steen’s witnesses are numerous but not what I’d call convincing. But I did find something interesting. His boss knows Dame van Duiren under another name entirely. And she has a counting house that’s never seen to do much business, yet somehow still survives.”

“That is interesting,” Rathe said, once Eslingen had gone through the details. “And I’d guess she’s right, your Dame Hardelet—”

“Oh, most definitely not mine,” Eslingen said, with a smirk. “She’s courting Young Steen, and I think she’ll get him.”

“Also interesting, but not to the point,” Rathe said. “She’s probably right, van Duiren’s a fence, and that’s where she changes her money when she has to.”

“So presumably that’s where she’ll manage this business,” Eslingen said. “It stands to reason she won’t want anything associated with herself as van Duiren, there’s too much chance Caiazzo would find out and tangle all her businesses in the courts. What do you want to wager that she’s got Old Steen’s papers there?”

“It’s possible,” Rathe said.

“So maybe we should make sure,” Eslingen said. “Sneak in, take a quick look round—”

Rathe shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Once we do that, she’ll know we’ve found the place. She’s bound to have wards on the place, magistical and not, and—well, I’m good, but I’m not good enough to be sure I can reset them perfectly.”

“What about b’Estorr?” Eslingen asked.

“He’s a necromancer, Philip. He doesn’t do locks.” Rathe paused. “Not as far as I know, anyway. And even the best lockpicks leave signs. How do you think we call half our points?”

Eslingen lifted a hand, acknowledging the point like a fencer admitting a hit. “And here I thought you’d have an expert ready to hand.”

“Sadly, no.” Rathe drained the last of his wine. “Though if it comes to that, there are tools—but no matter. We’ll put a watch on the place, certainly. One of the apprentices, maybe, or a junior, someone van Duiren’s unlikely to have noticed. That should give us an idea if she’s using it for this business. In the meantime, though—we do need to talk to Istre.”

“I thought you said he didn’t do locks,” Eslingen said, and fished in his purse for the money for his meal.

“He doesn’t.” Rathe tossed his share of the reckoning onto the table. “But he does understand about gold, and what he doesn’t know—he’ll know who we should ask.”

“Are you back on that again?” Eslingen demanded. “I tell you, Caiazzo’s not interested in politics. The government suits him just fine the way it is.”

“And I believe you,” Rathe answered, though a part of him wasn’t entirely sure. “But I’m going to have to answer to the Surintendant sooner or later, and I want to rule out politics before then.”

They made their way across Temple Bridge toward the Pantheon and Temple Fair, Eslingen lagging only a little behind as they passed along the row of printers’ shops on the east side of the square. Checking the broadsheet horoscopes, Rathe knew, and kept his own gaze turned resolutely away. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by unlicensed printers, and particularly not ones printing under Caiazzo’s coin. They passed through the Northgate and made their way into the University grounds. The winter term was well begun, and the streets were crowded with students in their short gray gowns, worn open over every possible combination of fashion. That was against University rules, Rathe knew, and he wasn’t surprised to see various of them pause at the doorways of the lecture halls to do up a minimum number of buttons before rushing inside.

b’Estorr, like most of the senior masters, had his lodgings on the University grounds. Rathe led them across the open courtyard, scattering a flock of gargoyles scrabbling at a pile of gardeners’ waste, and knocked at the porter’s door. He expected b’Estorr to be at classes, but to his surprise, the porter said he was in, and a few moments later the necromancer himself appeared at the top of the stairs to beckon them up. His rooms were comfortable, parlor and bedroom and study as well as the necessary, but, as always, Rathe felt a faint chill at the back of his neck as he came through the door. No natural chill, that, not on a warm autumn day, but the presence of b’Estorr’s personal ghosts, gathered during his service with the late king of Chadron. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eslingen’s eyebrow wing upward as he felt the same touch, and hoped the Leaguer wouldn’t say anything inappropriate.

If b’Estorr saw, he ignored it, and waved them toward the chairs that stood beside the unlit stove. “I’ve just had tea brought up,” he said. “It should still be hot enough.”

Eslingen shook his head, but Rathe accepted the offer, settled into the more comfortable of the two chairs b’Estorr kept for visitors. b’Estorr poured himself a cup as well, and looked quizzically from one to the other.

“What brings both of you to me?” he asked, and Rathe thought there was a distinctly wary note in his voice. “I didn’t think you were allowed to work in harness these days.”

“Is it that obvious?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr nodded. Eslingen looked faintly abashed, and brushed at his hair as though an insect had landed there. b’Estorr frowned, seeing that, and made a small gesture with his left hand. The chill faded, almost reluctantly, and Rathe knew the ghosts had been warned to stand further off. From Eslingen’s unhappy look, he knew it, too, but Rathe pretended he hadn’t seen.

“Anything that makes Hanselin Caiazzo join forces with the points and requires my attention….” b’Estorr let his voice trail off. “Let’s just say it makes me nervous, especially after this summer.”

“And there’s an unholy echo of this summer in the business,” Rathe said, “which I’d like to rule out as quickly as possible. In confidence, Istre—”

“My word on it,” b’Estorr said quickly.

“—there’s a chest of gold missing, gold that’s never been taxed, and two dead men into the bargain.”