Point of Hopes (21 page)

“
I don’t, Rathe, it’s nothing more
than you’ll hear in half a dozen taverns!”

Rathe released the man with an oath. “North or
southriver?”

“
North. ’Course, southriver, they
think it’s northriver merchants. When it’s not Leaguers. But it’s
all pretty ugly, and the, um, independent printers are having a
field day with it.” Lebrune spoke with the contempt of the recently
legitimized, and Rathe acknowledged it with a sour
smile.

“
Caiazzo used to fee you, didn’t
he? Who’s he fielding these days?” Rathe asked, overriding the
other’s inarticulate protest.

“
I’m bonded, Rathe, how should I
know who’s printing under Caiazzo’s coin?”

Rathe just looked at the other man, eyes hooded.
After a moment, he said, “Just what kind of a fool do you take me
for, Lebrune? No, I’m curious.” He put his hands down on the table
edge and leaned forward. The wood creaked slightly, and Lebrune
grimaced.

“
I’ve heard,” he said, with
delicate emphasis that suited oddly with his oversize frame, “that
he’s supporting a number of free-readers who are doubtless printing
their findings.”

“
A name?” Rathe asked
gently.

Lebrune gave him a fulminating look, but said, “One
I know of is Agere. You’ll probably find her working the Horsefair
these days. Or she may have moved to the New Fair by now, she
usually works there at Midsummer.”

“
So which is it?”

“
How would I—?”

“
Oh, Lebrune,” Rathe said, and the
printer sighed.

“
New Fair, probably.
Certainly.”

Rathe nodded and straightened his back. “Thanks,
Lebrune. Have a busy day.”

Lebrune’s response was profane. Rathe grinned and
turned away.

It made sense, he thought, as he joined the traffic
heading east along the Fairs’ Road. The fair didn’t officially open
for another three days, but there were always a few dozen merchants
who managed to get permission to open their stalls a day or two
early in exchange for an early closing, and there were even more
Astreianters eager to get a start on the semi-holiday. What better
place to sell unlicensed broadsheets than in the middle of that
confusion?

He found the row of printers’ stalls easily enough,
set into the shade of a stable on the western end of the New Fair
itself. At the moment, they were encroaching on the spaces
generally held by the painter-stainers, but that guild’s
representatives had yet to make their appearance, and the
fair-keepers were currently more concerned with dividing the prime
space at the center of the fair to everyone’s satisfaction.
Administering the fair was a thankless task, falling to each of the
major guilds in turn, and not for the first time Rathe was glad
there was no pointsman’s guild. They had enough to do to keep the
peace without having to administer the fair as well.

Unfortunately, it was early enough that the
broadsheet sellers hadn’t collected many browsers, and Rathe was
conspicuous in his jerkin and truncheon. For a moment, he
considered trying to hide at least the truncheon, but put that
aside as impractical. Agere, and any of the others who were
printing without a bond, would be watching for just that kind of
trouble; better to keep out of sight, and think of something
better. Before he could think just what, however, a voice called
his name.

“
Rathe! I hope you’re not poaching,
my son.”

Rathe turned to see a stocky man, his truncheon
thrust into a belt that strained over his barrel-shaped body. His
jerkin, white leather, not the usual brown or black, was stamped
with a floral pattern that sat rather oddly on his bulk. “Chief
Point,” he answered, warily. Anything that brought Guillen Claes to
the fair in his own person had to be of significance; Claes
pre-ferred to leave the fairgrounds to his subordinates, and
concentrate his attention on the rest of Fairs’ Point.

“
So, if you’re not poaching, what
possessed Monteia to give you a day off so early in the fair
season?” Claes went on.

“
It’s not poaching,” Rathe
answered. “We’ve had some problems with illegal broadsheets being
sold in Point of Hopes; I’ve traced one of the printers
here.”

“
You think,” Claes said, and Rathe
grinned.

“
I think. But I’m pretty
sure.”

“
Who?”

“
The name I have is Agere,” Rathe
said.

“
Franteijn Agere,” Claes repeated.
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“
I’ve also heard that she’s
printing under Caiazzo’s coin,” Rathe went on, and the other man
snorted.

“
Also wouldn’t surprise me. But I’d
be astonished if you proved a point on him.”

“
Frankly, so would I,” Rathe
answered. He glanced around seeing only the usual early fair-goers,
mostly merchants, small and large, buying their goods before the
general crowd. He thought he caught a glimpse of a black robe—one
of the runners’ astrologers?—but it whisked out of sight behind a
stall before he could be sure. He sighed and lowered his voice
before going on. “I came here mostly to see what she was printing,
see if she is the one we’re after, but there’s not enough of a
crowd. And I’m a little conspicuous to do my own shopping. I was
going to send one of our runners, but, seeing as you’re here, I
wonder if I might borrow one of yours. We’d be willing to split the
point.”

Claes nodded, appeased. “I trust you’ll remember
that when the time comes.” He lifted a hand and a skinny boy seemed
to appear out of thin air. He was barefoot, toes caked with dirt,
and shirt and breeches were well faded, imperfectly patched. He
looked like any one of the dozens of urchins who gathered to run
errands at the fairs, and Rathe nodded in appreciation of the
disguise. The boy grinned back at him, showing better teeth than
Rathe would have expected but the eyes he fixed on Claes were
wary.

“
This is Guillot,” Claes said.
“He’s one of our runners—not the best, not the worst.”

Rathe nodded, and fished in his purse for a couple
of demmings. “I’m looking for a broadsheet, printed without
license, and I think you’ll find it at Agere’s stall. That’s the
one with the three gargoyles for its sign.”

The boy nodded. “I know Agere. Was it a particular
sheet, or will any one do?”

“
The one I want shows a horse and
rider, a woman rider, and a tree behind her that’s full of fruit. I
think they’re supposed to be apples.” Rathe held out the demmings,
and Guillot took them eagerly. “Pick up any others that look
interesting.”

Guillot nodded again, and scurried away, to
disappear between a pair of canvas-walled stalls. Claes watched him
go, turned back to face the younger man only when he was out of
sight. “How are things in Point of Hopes?”

“
Nothing new,” Rathe answered.
There was no point in pretending to misunderstand. “Our missing
ones are still missing, and the locals are blaming a Leaguer
tavern.”

“
Which it isn’t?”

“
Which it isn’t, at least not as
far as I or Monteia can see,” Rathe said. “Anything new
here?”

Claes shook his head. “Not a thing. I’ve been
keeping a watch on the caravaners, of course, but there aren’t that
many in yet—more coming in every day, of course, but the stalls
aren’t more than half filled. And we’re watching the
ship-captains.” He shook his head again, mouth twisting into a
bitter smile. “I’ve a pair of twins missing, I thought sure we’d
find them on the docks—they’re river-mad, the pair of them, but
they’ve got Phoebe in the Sea-bull’s house.”

“
Not good for travel by water,”
Rathe said, and Claes nodded.

“
So you can understand they
wouldn’t find a riverman willing to take them on as apprentices.
But then Jaggi—Jagir, his name is, he’s one of our juniors, bright,
too—he tells me the Silklanders don’t read that configuration the
same way, so I thought sure we’d found them.” He sighed. “But my
people have been up and down the docks and not a sign of them. No
one remembers them, and you’d think someone would, a pair of
identical redheaded thirteen year olds.”

“
Paid not to remember?” Rathe
asked, without much hope.

“
By whom? Besides, there are too
many people on the docks. Someone would have noticed.”

Rathe nodded. Redhaired twins would surely be
noticed. “I’ll have our people ask along the Factors’ Walk and the
Rivermarket, just in case, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“
Nor will I,” Claes answered
sourly, then said, “but I would take it kindly, Rathe. Thanks. It’s
just—we’ve got these printers, and then the bloody astrologers to
deal with on top of it all.”

“
And about those astrologers,”
Rathe began grimly. Claes lifted a hand.

“
Freelances, no temple, no
training, and they’re infesting the grounds like a pack of black
gargoyles,” he said. “The arbiters say they’re all right, but the
Three Nations are getting mutinous. And that’s all we need, student
riots to round out a really exciting fair.”

Rathe nodded his agreement, and the boy Guillot
appeared from between a different pair of stalls, a sheaf of papers
in his hand. “Sir? Were these the ones you wanted?”

Rathe took the smeared pages from him, flipped
quickly through them. Agere was a better printer than Lebrune, but
she’d obviously worked in haste. The images—woodcuts, from the look
of them, easily made and as easily burned, eliminating evidence—lay
crooked on the page, and here and there a letter sat askew, or had
been put in upside down. The message, however, was clear enough:
the stars said the queen should name her heir, and the clear
implication was that she should name Palatine Marselion. “These are
the ones.”

“
They’ve all got a bond mark,”
Guillot said.

“
Forged” Rathe said. “Look
closer.”

The boy did as he was told and grinned suddenly.
Rathe smiled back—it took a certain sense of humor to replace the
wand of justice carried by the hooded Sofia at the center of the
seal with Tyrseis’s double-headed jester’s stick—and looked at
Claes. “As I said we’ll split the point with you, but it doesn’t
seem the best time to be playing politics.”

Claes nodded. “Leave Agere to me, Rathe. You catch
your sellers, and we’ll be ready.”

“
Thanks,” Rathe answered and turned
away. Neither man mentioned Caiazzo: proving his involvement, that
it was his coin that paid for ink and paper, would require either a
stroke of luck or a major mistake on Caiazzo’s part, and that was
more than anyone dared hope for at this point.

Caiazzo lived in a low, sprawling house in the river
district of Customs Point, a new-style house, not one of the old
half-fortresses. Rathe ignored the discreet alley that led to the
trades’ entrance and instead climbed the three broad steps that led
to the main door. They were freshly washed, too, he noticed, as he
let the striker fall, not just swept. But then, Caiazzo was a great
believer in matching his surroundings. Rathe let his gaze run the
length of the street, surveying the other houses that stood there.
Caiazzo’s was exactly as well kept as the rest, his brickwork as
neatly pointed, the glass in his windows no better—and no
worse—than his neighbors. Strictly, geographically speaking,
Customs Point was southriver, and more established merchants, even
the ones who had been born here, would never dream of having their
houses there. These were homes of the up-and-coming, people whose
fortunes were still precarious, who still feared going back to
reckoning their wealth in silver rather than gold. Caiazzo was
better off than that, but he made his own rules, and he chose to
live at the heart of his business, a bare five minutes’ walk from
the wharves at Point of Sorrows. Which made a good deal of sense,
Rathe thought, given how much of that business depends on the
ability to slip goods and coin discreetly between one place and
another. Caiazzo was southriver born and bred, and he hadn’t
forsaken his heritage; some of his business methods were pure
southriver, the sort honed and polished to perfection in the Court
of the Thirty-two Knives. Not that Caiazzo was just any court thug,
Rathe added silently, and kicked a piece of mud off the freshly
washed stone.

The door opened at last to reveal a young woman in a
clerk’s dun suit. She looked at him inquisitively, a little
dubiously, and said, “Can I help you?” She bit off the honorific,
seeing the jerkin, and then her eyes widened as she saw the
pointsman’s truncheon in his belt. Rathe hid a grin. Caiazzo’s
people were mostly as southriver as himself; a northriver clerk,
from a family of unbroken, unblemished history of service, would
have a very different attitude toward any pointsman who presumed to
knock at the front door.

“
Would you tell Caiazzo that Rathe,
from Point of Hopes, is here to speak with him?”

“
Yes, that is….” She paused, and
started over. “I’ll see if he’s in.”

“
Ah, now, we’re not going to play
that game, are we? Just tell him—tell him he’ll be happier seeing
me than not.” Rathe let the smile fade from his face.

The clerk hesitated, then stepped back grudgingly to
allow Rathe into the tiled hall. “Wait here,” she said, and
disappeared through a side door. Rathe settled himself to wait.

It was only a few minutes before the clerk was back,
emerging onto the gallery at the top of the main staircase. “If
you’ll come up,” she said, “he says he can see you now.”