Point of Hopes (29 page)

Eslingen hid a smile at that, but said nothing. The
pointsman’s mouth twitched in an answering almost-smile, and he
turned away to disappear behind the bar. Eslingen leaned back in
his chair again, watching the journeymen at their table, and wasn’t
surprised to see them leaning heads together. Their hands were
moving, too, suppressed choppy gestures, and then the
oldest-looking stood up, shaking his head. He said something, but
kept his voice low enough that Eslingen only caught two words,
“hotheads” and then “Huviet.” Another young man stood with the
other, and then a third; the oldest looked down at the others, his
head tilted to one side in obvious inquiry. They looked away, and
the first three turned and pushed their way out of the main door. A
quarrel over tactics? Eslingen wondered. Damaging property seemed
to be a cardinal evil in Astreiant.

The kitchen door opened again, and Rathe came out.
His gaze swept over the now-diminished table, and Eslingen almost
would have sworn he smiled but then the pointsman pointed toward
the garden door. Eslingen sighed, and followed the other man out
into the summer air. The garden was empty, the stools stacked on
top of the tables, and he squinted toward the gate that led out
into Point of Dreams, wondering if it was still locked and barred.
He couldn’t see for certain, not at this distance, but would have
been surprised to find it open: Devynck was not one to take
unnecessary chances. Rathe leaned his hip against the nearest
table, as easy and comfortable as if he were drinking in his own
neighborhood and Eslingen gave him a sour look.

Rathe met it blandly. “I take it you haven’t had any
trouble with that lot in there?”

“
Not yet,” Eslingen answered and
knew he sounded bitter.

Rathe nodded. “I told Aagte she should close for a
day or two, let this blow over.”

“
Do you really think this would go
away in a day or two?” Eslingen demanded.

“
No, not really. But they might
find someone more likely to blame.”

“
They might,” Eslingen said.
“Anyway, when I suggested it, she said no.”

Rathe nodded again. “She told me no, too.” He
sighed. “So how are they behaving themselves, these junior
butchers?”

Eslingen made a face. “Well enough, at least today.
Though I still think Aagte’s right, it was them who broke our
windows. But today, they’re just sitting here. They pay for their
beer politely enough, and they keep their voices down, haven’t
given me an excuse to be rid of them—or the pointswoman who was
here earlier.”

“
That was Amerel Ghiraldy,” Rathe
said. “She’s good.”

Eslingen grunted. “Aagte thinks they’re watching us,
and I agree. I don’t know whether they think you didn’t find the
missing children yesterday because you were bribed or because we
were clever, or just because the kids weren’t here, but they—the
journeymen, anyway—are convinced that we’re involved in all this,
and they’re going to keep an eye on us until they find something to
blame us for. And if you hadn’t given Huviet that much credence,
searching our place, we might not be in this state.”

For a minute, he thought he’d gone too far, and then
the corners of Rathe’s mouth turned up in a sour smile. “Monteia
searched the place because she thought it’d make a difference. For
you, not against you, I might add. Huviet is not universally loved,
it seemed a good bet to call her bluff.” The smile widened. “But
I’ll grant you at hasn’t worked the way she planned.”

“
No.” Eslingen leaned against
another table, looked across the kitchen garden with its patches of
herbs and vegetables. He smelled basil suddenly, and saw a gargoyle
run a paw across the fragrant leaves. It reached beyond them, then,
into the vegetables, and he stooped quickly, found a pebble, and
slung it in the creature’s direction. It lifted instantly,
scolding, and he looked back at Rathe. “Instead of solving the
problem of them thinking Leaguers are stealing their apprentices,
they’re now thinking the points are conspiring with us.”

Rathe swore under his breath. “You’re sure—no,
sorry, that was stupid.”

“
It’s what I’ve overheard,”
Eslingen answered.

Rathe muttered something else. The gargoyle circled
the garden plot again, spiraling lower, heedless of the scarecrow,
and he glanced down at the dirt beneath his feet. He found a
heavier stone, and flung it with a violence that was startling. The
gargoyle sheered away, barely able to dodge, and Rathe looked
abashed. “Sorry. I should’ve expected it, I suppose.”

“
It seems to me—Eslingen chose his
words with care. “It seems to me that you might have done, yes.
Given what I’ve paid in fees, and what I know Aagte and all the
others here pay in fees—” He stopped at the look on Rathe’s face,
spread his hands in instant apology.

Rathe took a deep breath. “We don’t all take fees
for everything,” he said, his voice ragged with temper, “and not
for something like this. Gods, put the worst face on it, it’d be
bad for business, making everyone hate us like this. Rather puts
paid to our chance of getting more fees, don’t you think?”

“
I don’t think,” Eslingen said, and
let the ambiguity stand. “I don’t believe it, no. But it’s how
people are thinking now.”

Rathe sighed again, visibly making himself relax.
“No, I know it.” He shrugged, managed a sudden, almost genuine
grin. “People are getting used to us, to the points, but it’s a
slow process because it’s not precisely what most people call a
natural situation. People like me—a southriver rat, I know what
they say, and half of them are serious—enforcing the laws on people
like them, property owners, burghers, even guild-masters? It’s not
quite comfortable.”

And from the sound of it, Eslingen thought, that’s
the part you like best about being a pointsman. He knew better than
to say it aloud, however, after his previous gaffe, contented
himself with saying, “So they’re quick to think the worst.”

Rathe nodded, the brief lightness going out of his
face. “As I said, I should’ve expected it.”

Eslingen hesitated, a new thought rising in his
mind. If the points were under suspicion, what better way to defuse
that than to find a scapegoat, and what better scapegoat would they
find, at least in Point of Hopes, than Devynck and the people at
the Old Brown Dog. He opened his mouth to voice that fear, took
another look at Rathe, and closed it again. Neither Rathe nor
Monteia would be party to that; all he would have to worry about
was the journeymen’s anger. “Is there any chance of a pointsman
keeping watch here tonight? I dare say Aagte could find the extra
fees, if it came to that.”

Rathe’s mouth twisted again. “She already asked. I
said I’d try, but we’re stretched pretty thin, with the fair
beginning tomorrow and the nightwatch already overworked. They’ll
come by regularly, I’ll see to that, but I can’t promise to post
anyone. I’ll speak to the masters, too, see if that helps at
all.”

Eslingen sighed but nodded. “I appreciate it, Rathe.
As I’m sure Aagte does.”

Rathe smiled wryly. “Oh, I still don’t take fees,
Eslingen, not even at times like these. As I said I want to enjoy
my points.” He pushed himself away from the table, stretching
slightly, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. In that instant,
Eslingen was aware of dark shadows under the other man’s eyes,
lines that had not seemed as deeply carved bracketing his mouth.
Obviously, he cared deeply about this business. And then Rathe
shook himself, and the moment vanished. He lifted a hand in
abstracted farewell, and went back through the inn. Eslingen
followed more slowly, hoping that the pointsman’s plan would
work.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully
enough, and as the first sundown approached Eslingen began to hope
that maybe the trouble would defuse itself. The knot of journeymen
remained but as the afternoon turned to evening and the sunlight
faded to the silvery light of the winter-sun, they, too, seemed to
mellow, seemed more relaxed at their table. A pointsman’s clapper
sounded from the street, the slow, steady beat of the wooden knot
that marked the nightwatch, and he listened carefully as it moved
close and then retreated. Rathe was keeping his promise there, at
any rate. Jasanten appeared on his crutch, and no one said
anything, or made his way more difficult than need be. Seeing that,
Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief, and addressed his
dinner—another of Devynck’s stews, vegetables, and meat in a broth
thickened with beer and bread—with something like a normal
appetite. The brewer didn’t make an appearance, but her son and a
pair of his lemen, big, broad-shouldered men like himself came in
for a quick pint. They kept a scrupulous distance between
themselves and the journeymen, but the one exchange of words was
polite enough. Eslingen drew a slow breath as they moved apart
again, and saw Adriana’s eyes on them as she brought him another
pitcher of small beer.

“
So far, so good,” he said softly,
and immediately wished he hadn’t spoken. There was no point in
tempting the gods.

She made a face, and Eslingen knew she was thinking
the same thing. She set the pitcher in front of him, and then
displayed her hands, fingers crossed in propitiation. “Only two
more hours to second sunset. Sweet Tyrseis, I’ll be glad when we
close.”

Eslingen nodded, and she turned away to answer a
call from the kitchen. He poured himself another cup, but didn’t
bother to taste it, his attention instead on the others in the
empty room. The brewer’s son and his friends finished their drinks
and the plate of bread and cheese and left, still quiet; the
journeymen remained, were joined by another man who looked a little
older than the rest. He, too, wore a butcher’s badge at his collar,
and even from a distance Eslingen could tell that it was made of
silver, not the pewter the others wore. Someone of real rank within
the guild, then, he thought, and wondered if it were a good or a
bad sign. The group of journeymen seemed more relaxed, at any rate;
he could see more smiles among them, and once heard laughter, but
he wasn’t sorry to hear the nightwatch’s clapper in the street
outside.

The light was fading steadily, paling toward true
night. He went out to the garden privy, glad of the cooler air—the
inn held the day’s heat in its walls and floor, a benefit in
winter, but uncomfortable at the height of the year—and on his way
back looked west to see the diamond point of the winter-sun almost
down between the housetops, poised between two’ chimney pots. Even
this low, it was still too bright to look at directly, and he
blinked, and went back into the main room, a point of green haze
dancing in the center of his vision.

Loret emerged from the kitchen in almost the same
moment, began closing the shutters on the garden wall. He had to
stretch to fasten the upper bolts, and in the same moment, one of
the journeymen called, “Hey, what are you doing?”

“
Last call,” Adriana said, from
behind the bar. “It’s almost closing, so if you want another round,
this is your chance.”

Eslingen moved closer to the bar, keeping an eye on
the group at the table. They were the only customers, except for
Jasanten, drowsing at his corner table, and there were only four of
them; not bad odds, Eslingen thought, but I hope it doesn’t come to
that. The journeymen exchanged glances, and then the oldest one,
the one with the silver badge, stood, stretching.

“
Not for us, I think. Come on,
let’s pay and be gone.”

The others copied him, reaching into purses and
pockets to come up with a handful of copper coins. There was only
the last pitcher to pay for; they counted out the coins, and the
leader, shrugging, added a last demming to bring it up to the mark.
Eslingen heard Adriana release a held breath, and nodded to Loret,
who came to take the coins, touching his forehead in perfunctory
salute. The journeymen ignored him, as they’d been ignoring him all
night, and turned in a body for the door. Eslingen pulled himself
away from the bar and followed, intending to bar the door as soon
as they’d gone.

Before he could reach it, however, there was a shout
from outside. He stepped hastily into the doorway, blocking it
completely, and looked back over his shoulder for Loret. “Go to
Point of Hopes, now.”

The waiter’s eyes widened, and he darted out the
garden door.

“
Trouble?” Adriana called and
banged on the kitchen door, a deliberate, prearranged
pattern.

Eslingen nodded not taking his eyes from the street.
A new group was moving toward him from the Knives Road, a dozen
people, maybe more. The leaders, at least, carried torches, and
behind them their followers’ shapes blended in the new dark, into a
single mass. The torchlight glinted from more badges at hat and
coat, and Eslingen realized with a sinking feeling that at least
some of these were masters, not mere journeymen. The group who had
been drinking in the Old Brown Dog had stopped in the dooryard, and
Eslingen could have sworn he saw confusion in the leader’s
face.

“
You, soldier!”

The voice was unfamiliar, sounded older than the run
of journeymen, and Eslingen couldn’t suppress a grimace. If the
masters were leading, this time, it would be a hell of a lot harder
to get them to back down.

“
Stand aside,” the voice went on,
and Eslingen shook his head.

“
I’m sorry, sir, we’re
closed.”

“
What in all hells do they want?”
Devynck demanded but softly.

Eslingen didn’t dare look back at her, but he could
feel her presence at his elbow “I don’t know yet,” he answered and
kept his voice equally low, “but I sent Loret to Point of
Hopes.”