Point of Hopes (34 page)

Monteia nodded. “So be off with you, then, Nico. The
council wasted enough of our time this morning. Oh, and Nico?”

Rathe turned in the doorway.

“
I don’t expect to see you back
here tonight, understand?”

Rathe smiled and nodded. “Yes, Chief. And
thanks.”

She waved a hand. “Go on, get out. Good luck to you,
Lieutenant.”

Eslingen nodded, recognizing dismissal when he heard
it, and followed the adjunct point out into the main room. Rathe
said something, low-voiced, to the woman at the duty desk, and then
slung his jerkin over the shabby coat.

“
Shall we go?”

“
Why not?” Eslingen murmured, and
trailed behind him through the station’s yard into the busy street.
They took the river roads, along the upper levels of the Factor’s
Walk, and as he threaded his way through the busy crowd, Eslingen
had to admit some misgivings. After all, was a job with a
southriver-rat-made-good really what he was looking for? The man
might be wealthy—was wealthy, according to Rathe, who would
know—but not all of that wealth was honestly come by. That Rathe
seemed to think well of him, or at least to praise him with faint
damns, was something of a reassurance, but, all in all, Eslingen
thought, I might have been better off staying Devynck’s knife. The
towers of Point of Sighs—Point Assize, its true name was, a typical
Astreianter sour joke—rose among the wharf-side buildings, and he
looked away, swearing under his breath. Wiser it might be to stay a
tavern knife, but Devynck wanted no part of him after last night,
and there weren’t that many tavern-keepers who would hire a Leaguer
and a soldier. Which left Rathe’s merchant, this Caiazzo. He could
almost picture the man, the sort of gross merchant one found on the
broadsheet prophecies, usually at the head of predictions involving
Bonfortune and Tyrseis. He would be large and loud, his clothes
rich and tasteless, canny, cunning, shrewd, but without the tact
that redeemed those qualities—a bully, Eslingen thought, a man of
weight who wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

They had reached the eastern docks by then, and
Rathe paused, scanning the pennants that drooped from the crowding
masts. Eslingen copied him automatically, though he recognized only
one of the house-signs, the blue and white stripes of Gauquier
Daughters. It would be granddaughters now, or great-granddaughters,
he thought, and wondered if he should change his mind now, before
Rathe had gone to the trouble of an introduction. But then Rathe’s
hand was on his arm.

“
See? One of Hanse’s ships was
reported in this morning, so I knew we’d find him here. I wanted
you to get an idea of the man, better than what I’ve given
you.”

“
Marvelous,” Eslingen said, and
knew he sounded less than gracious. “Thank you.” He followed Rathe
through a tangle of untended handcarts, and out onto the wharf
itself. It was almost as wide as a city street, but only a single
ship, a tidy caravel, the sort that Eslingen had seen in every port
along the southern coasts, was tied up at the dock. The pennant at
its single mast was a long streamer of scarlet, a gold shape like
an inverted heart at the broad end: Caiazzo’s house-sign, it had to
be, Eslingen thought, and scanned the caravel’s crowded deck for
the man of his imaginings. There was no one among the dozen sailors
and bare-backed laborers who matched that description, and the knot
of factors gathered by the hoist looked equally unlikely. A woman
in a neat skirt and bodice, a blue coat with split sleeves open
over it, was standing to one side, and Rathe moved toward her.
Eslingen followed, and saw a magist’s bar vivid on one shoulder. He
hesitated, but Rathe didn’t seem to notice. “Aicelin, where’s
Hanse?”

The magist lifted an eyebrow that was as grey as the
feathers of the gargoyles that fought the seagulls for the dockside
scraps. “Business, pointsman?”

Rathe cocked his head. “Of a sort. He still looking
for a bravo?”

“
He’s not had a lot of time to
interview candidates. Why? I know you’re not offering your
services, much to both our disappointment.” She glanced at
Eslingen, both eyebrows rising now in silent question.

“
Lieutenant Eslingen here recently
mustered out of the Dragons,” Rathe said, “and is in need of a
position.”

“
Until last night, he was working
at the Old Brown Dog in Point of Hopes,” a new voice said. One of
the factors—not a factor, Eslingen corrected himself instantly, the
fabric and the cut of the plain coat were far too good to be a mere
factor’s, not a factor at all, but the merchant-venturer
himself—detached himself from the group by the steadily growing
stack of cargo, and came to join the magist. “Devynck’s new knife.
Now, as I see it, good knives prevent trouble.”

He smiled, showing teeth, but the expression didn’t
reach his black eyes. He was a wiry man, built a little like Rathe
himself, but his face was narrower, the bones of cheek and jaw
stark under the olive skin. Up close, his clothes looked even more
expensive, his shirt of fine linen, freshly washed and pressed,
fastened at the neck with a lace-edged stock, the coat plain grey
silk with only the jet buttons for decoration, but cut to flatter
the slim build. He was young to be as rich as Rathe had hinted,
Eslingen thought, maybe forty, but then, it took a young man to
outface the law.

“
You’re remarkably well informed,
Hanse,” Rathe said, sounding bored. “If you know that, you also
know it can hardly be laid at Eslingen’s door, now, can
it?”

“
I’d be more inclined to lay it at
yours.” Caiazzo showed teeth again, but this time the lines at the
comers of his eyes deepened in real amusement. “Not yours
personally, Nico, but the points’. Yes, I’d say they have something
to answer to Devynck for.”

Rathe looked sour. “You can leave that to Monteia
and Devynck to settle between them, I think.” He shrugged. “But I
thought I could at least introduce Eslingen to you.”

Caiazzo laughed softly, and turned to Eslingen.
“Known our Nico long, have you, lieutenant?” His voice was pleasant
enough, still touched with the sharp southriver vowels, but
Eslingen’s scalp prickled.

“
Only a week. Long enough to lose
my job, though.”

“
Only a week? Gods, Nico, even for
you that’s quick.”

“
The times are like that,” Rathe
answered. “You’ve heard the story, I thought I owed Eslingen
something for it, the situation not being his fault. You need a new
bravo, Eslingen needs a new place…. It seemed to make
sense.”

“
It does,” Caiazzo agreed, and
sounded almost rueful. He looked at Eslingen again, the glance
frankly assessing. “Duellist?”

It wasn’t hard to guess the required answer, not
after what Rathe had told him. Eslingen shook his head. “Soldiers
are rarely duellists, sir. It’s not our skill, and only fools try
to do two things that well. If you want a duellist, you’ll have to
hire someone else.”

“
I had a bodyguard who
thought
he was a
duellist,” Caiazzo said. “What I want is a knife with brains, not
pretensions.” He glanced at the magist, and Eslingen thought he saw
her head tip forward slightly. Caiazzo nodded himself, decisively.
“All right, Eslingen, let’s try it. Nico, I’m obliged—I think, and
to a point.”

“
A little in-good-standing?” Rathe
asked, demurely.

Caiazzo’s head lifted slightly, the gesture of an
angry horse, but then he had himself under control again. “I’ll
think of it that way.” He looked back at Eslingen. “I’ll pay you a
snake for a week, Eslingen, keep you or not, and we’ll talk wages
at the end of that time. What do you say?”

“
I’m in,” Eslingen answered, and
wondered if he was doing the right thing. Caiazzo wasn’t what he’d
imagined, but there was something a good deal more dangerous about
the trader than he’d expected.

Caiazzo beckoned to the magist. “Aicelin Denizard,
my left hand. We’ll try him for a week, Aice, see how it
works?”

“
Despite the doubtful provenance, I
think it’s worth it,” the magist answered. Face and voice were
sober, but there was laughter in her eyes, and Eslingen caught
himself smiling in answer. Denizard held out a painted hand—black
and silver on pale skin, intricate and unsmudged—and Eslingen took
it carefully. “A pleasure, lieutenant.”

“
Mine, surely, magist,” Eslingen
replied, and bent his head to her.

“
Where’s your gear, Eslingen?”
Caiazzo asked.

Eslingen nudged the saddlebags he’d set down when
Rathe had spoken to the magist. “This is it.”

“
Not your weapons,
surely.”

Eslingen shook his head. “They’re at the Aretoneia.”
Caiazzo looked over his shoulder at the caravel, and then at the
group of factors. Something he saw there made his mouth tighten,
but he said nothing, and looked back at the soldier. “Right, then.
Aice, go with him, pay whatever bond they want—I’m sure the points
will want their share—and bring him back to the house. Take the
boat, I’ll be here a while.”

And I don’t envy his factors, Eslingen thought. He
glanced at Rathe, and saw the same thought reflected in the
pointsman’s half smile. He held out a hand, and Rathe’s smile
widened. “Thanks.”

Rathe lifted a shoulder, but looked faintly pleased.
“Like I said, I owed you this much, after last night. I wish you
good luck with it.” He looked up at the sky, gauging the position
of the winter-sun. “Hanse, I’ll be seeing you.”

“
Like my shadow,” Caiazzo agreed,
and Rathe turned away.

“
This way,” Denizard said. “What’s
your first name?”

“
Philip.” Eslingen slung the bags
over his shoulder again, and followed her down to the end of the
wharf where a private barge was moored. It was small, only four
oarsmen and a steersman for crew, but Eslingen couldn’t help being
impressed. It took money to keep a boat in Astreiant, almost as
much as it took to keep horse and grooms—but then, if Caiazzo’s
business took him along the wharves, then it was probably as much
necessity as luxury. The steersman held out his hand to help
Denizard down into the cushioned seats, and Eslingen glanced back
to catch a last glimpse of Rathe as he turned away down the river
road. It was just as well he’d gone quickly; Caiazzo had good
reason to be wary of anything brought him by any pointsman, and
Eslingen was quite sure that at least one reason he had been sent
with Denizard was to give the magist a chance to gather her
impressions of him, arcane as well as mundane. The thought of her
ghostly investigation was enough to make him shiver a little as he
stepped into the boat beside her, and he thought he saw her smile.
She gestured for him to seat himself, and he did so, schooling
himself to impassivity as the boatmen began to cast off. The
astrologer had warned him against water—but there was no avoiding
this. He was determined to give them no cause for suspicion:
whatever Rathe’s motives had been, placing him here, this had the
chance of becoming a decent position, and he wasn’t well off enough
to risk losing it, at least not yet. If the trader was involved
with the missing children, well, that would change everything, but
even Rathe didn’t seem to believe that. The boat lurched against
the current before the oarsmen could find their stroke, and he
smiled blandly at the magist, trying to ignore his sudden unease.
Denizard smiled back, and fished a small silver medallion from
under her bodice, cupped it in both hands. Eslingen eyed her
warily, recognizing a truth-stone, and the magist’s smile widened.
“Now, lieutenant—Philip, if I may. Tell me about your service. From
the beginning, please.”

Rathe made his way west again along the river,
skirting the Rivermarket and the warrens of the Factors’ Walk,
ignoring the small twist of conscience within him. He had, after
all, told Eslingen exactly why he was recommending him for the job,
and what he was—and wasn’t—looking for. Nor was it entirely
self-serving; Eslingen did need a job and a place to live, and
Caiazzo’s service was a good deal richer than Devynck’s. And it was
unlikely that Caiazzo would put him into a position that would
bring him into danger, at least not yet, not until Caiazzo had
decided that he could trust his new man, and by then Eslingen would
have seen enough to make the decision for himself…. Still, the
soldier was virtually a stranger here, with little knowledge of the
city and its more notorious citizens; Rathe couldn’t stop himself
from feeling slightly guilty for what he’d done.

And that, he told himself firmly, was foolish. He’d
done the best he could for Eslingen, and for himself; he had other
work to do before he could take Monteia’s offer and declare himself
off duty. He reached into his pocket, checked his tablets. The last
set of nativities—one for a girl who’d vanished from the family inn
two days before Herisse Robion, the other for a boy just under
apprentice-age, son of a weaver—should be ready; he could at least
collect those and bring them to b’Estorr along with the rest. He
glanced at the sun again, and smiled, slowly. Better still, he
would send a runner to University Point and ask b’Estorr to meet
him at Wicked’s, At least that way he could be sure of getting one
decent meal.

The sun was low in the sky as he finally reached the
tavern, the papers with the nativities folded securely in his
pocket. The building itself, long and low and old, wooden walls on
a solid stone foundation, had once been a temple, though that had
been generations ago, before the Pantheon had been built. On the
clearest of days, with all the windows open to daylight, you could
see some of the old carvings, high on the walls just below the
ceilings, but those were the only lingering traces of its former
life. Nor did anyone—these days, at least—consider its current use
an especial blasphemy, not least because no one could remember what
god it had served. There was an offering tablet, one of the blank
stones that stood for all-the-gods, and a candle beside it to
appease the prudish, but that was all. The name was more of a joke
than anything, a typical southriver joke. Astreiant was, Rathe
thought, usually a city that could laugh at itself. Only these
days, people weren’t finding much to laugh at, and neither did he.
But there was always Wicked’s, to put aside immediate worries.