Point of Hopes (42 page)

“
You’re welcome, for what it was
worth. I’ll ask for the return of the favor some day.”

“
I don’t doubt you will,” Rathe
answered, and let himself out.

Despite what Mikael had said, Chevassu was not at
the Heironeia. Swearing under his breath, Rathe retraced his steps,
threaded his way through Manufactory’s crowded streets to the
banker’s house. It was an expensive-looking place, but at second
glance he could see that the glass in the upper windows was of
distinctly lesser quality, and the stone of the façade was not
matched on the sides. Monetary difficulties? he wondered, as he
tugged the heavy chain of the bell, or just southriver
practicality? The door opened after only a moderate wait, and a
tall, greying man in footman’s livery looked down at him. The
discrepancies between façade and sides were just practicality;
Rathe decided, looking at the quality of the linen and the metal
braid that guarded every seam of the man’s narrow coat. If she
could afford to dress her servants like that, she could afford good
glass if she wanted it.

The footman opened his mouth—to direct him to the
trades door, Rathe was sure—and Rathe cut him off with a smile that
showed teeth. “Adjunct Point Rathe from Point of Hopes. They told
me at the Heironeia that Madame Chevassu’s here.”

“
Point of Hopes?” The man was
visibly startled, but recovered himself quickly. “We’re in
Manufactory Point—”

Rathe shook his head, and the man stopped.

“
May I ask your
business?”

“
You may not,” Rathe answered,
pleasantly. “Just tell Chevassu that I’d like to speak to her,
please. I don’t think she’d refuse.” He let the words
hang.

For a moment, it looked as though the footman would
protest further, but then southriver habits took over, and he
stepped back from the doorway. Rathe followed him in, as always a
little annoyed by his own methods. It was bad enough to use a
woman’s past against her, worse when it was the same as his own—and
worst of all when it made him into a bully.

“
Wait here,” the footman said, and
disappeared up the main staircase. He was back a moment later, and
paused disdainfully at the top of the stairs.

“
Madame will see you
now.”

Rathe nodded, and climbed to join him, the wood of
the railing warm under his hand. The house smelled expensive, herbs
and wax; the furnishings were good, obviously chosen by someone
with an eye for quality, and he revised his opinion of Chevassu’s
fortunes once again. If she needed funds, all she would have to do
was sell one or two of the tapestries that adorned her upper
hall—so what; he wondered silently, is Caiazzo up to, that he
doesn’t just borrow from her?

“
Pointsman Rathe, madame,” the
footman said, flinging open a painted door. “Point of Hopes.” He
stressed the last word, and Rathe couldn’t repress a grin of his
own.

“
Adjunct Point, actually, madame,”
he said, and stepped past the man into Chevassu’s workroom. It was
a cluttered place, full of good furniture and better paintings, and
the fittings on table and sideboard were all of silver. “I
appreciate your seeing me.”

Chevassu was easily sixty, maybe older, her hair a
grey somewhere between iron and silver. Her skin was the color of
very old ivory, and her eyes were the palest blue Rathe had even
seen, barely darker than the ice blue silk of her gown. She didn’t
rise from behind her table, but gestured for Rathe to take one of
the fragile chairs instead. It was a nice balance of courtesy and
status, Rathe reflected, and perched carefully on the carved and
gilded seat. It creaked under his weight, but he thought it was
stronger than it looked.

“
I’ll be blunt, I’m curious what
Point of Hopes wants with me,” Chevassu answered. She wore no
paint, either on hands or face, and her skin was crisscrossed with
a web of fine lines, like soft and crumpled paper. “I’ve done no
business there these past, sweet Heira, seven years. Do you tell me
my past has come back to haunt me?”

“
I’m more interested in your
present, madame, and I’ll say straight out it’s nothing to do with
Point of Hopes,” Rathe answered. He watched her closely as he
spoke, but saw no change in her calm expression. “I understand you
handle the exchange for Hanselin Caiazzo.”

“
I have done,” she answered, and
Rathe tilted his head to one side.

“
But not this year?”

“
I fail to see why I should tell
you—” Chevassu began, sounding almost indulgent, and Rathe lifted a
hand.

“
Bear with me a moment, madame. You
know what’s been happening in Astreiant this summer, you know why
we in the points are looking sideways at anything out of the
ordinary. And you also know that Caiazzo’s dealings, business and
otherwise, have not been exactly ordinary. I understand, you do
business with him, you wouldn’t want to jeopardize that, and I
wouldn’t ask you to—in the normal way of things. But things are not
normal.”

“
Are you accusing Caiazzo of being
behind these child thefts?” Chevassu demanded. She sounded, Rathe
thought, almost more outraged by that than by anything else he’d
said.

“
I don’t know,” he answered,
bluntly. “But there are people who do think so, and I’m duty bound
to make sure he’s not.”

Chevassu tipped her head back, bringing him into the
farsighted focus of the old. “Off the books, pointsman?”

“
As far as I’m able.”

She studied him for a moment longer, expression
thoughtful, then nodded. “I’ll take the chance. Hanselin Caiazzo’s
not one to deal in these goods. Let me tell you a little bit about
him.” It was the tone a grandmother used to begin a story on a
winter-eve, and Rathe smiled back at her, not the least
deceived.

“
Hanselin is one of the canniest
and most intelligent businessmen I’ve worked with, not excepting
his mother, who was as canny as they come. The two don’t always go
together, but Hanselin—ah, he has both, in roughly equal portion,
and what I wouldn’t give to see a copy of his nativity.”

So would I, Rathe thought. He knew almost nothing of
the trader’s stars, he realized, with some surprise, not even the
major signs of his birth.

“
It’s not the usual nativity of a
long-distance trader, I would wager,” Chevassu went on, “and it’s
equally not your usual southriver knife’s, however much he likes
walking that line. How many questionable businesses do you think he
fees, either the whole or in part, here in Astreiant?”

She seemed to expect an answer, and Rathe shrugged.
“I’ve lost count, but then, I have a suspicious mind.”

She gave him an approving nod, as though he’d passed
some test. “You probably do, it’s a hazard of your profession, and
I’m not surprised you’ve lost count, because it changes year to
year. He keeps the money moving in and out and that keeps
his—associates—on their toes, and that keeps them all the safer.
But there’s always been one thing that puzzles all of us. For all
he’s a shrewd judge of the chance, and a hard man for a bargain,
he’s had more coin than he ought for the past several years. Oh,
the Silklands caravan is well managed, extremely well managed
indeed, and that pays well and in coin, but he’s always had more to
hand than he reasonably should have, coin that’s not tied up in
goods until he chooses to spend it Now, here it is, time for him to
be changing monies, setting his Silklands caravan on the road,
outfitting his ships…and things have been very quiet from Customs
Point this year. Aurien’s caravel coming in, that was luck, but it
hasn’t helped. So, Caiazzo’s problem is a money problem, pointsman,
and one that has roots years back. Whatever’s wrong can’t have
anything to do with the children, but it could get him into serious
trouble, in and out of the court. Which I would surely hate to
see.” She smiled. “And now you’re wondering why I’d tell you this
much.”

Rathe blinked. “Frankly, yes.”

Her smile widened. “Hanselin has a nice hand in his
business, a subtle hand. There are people who would like to take
his place whom I would very much dislike dealing with. Which is why
this old woman has been rambling on at you, pointsman, and you’re
very kind to listen to her.”

Rathe blinked again, a kind of awe filling him. She
had told him everything he could have thought to ask, and never
once had directly implicated herself or anyone. “Not at all,
madame, it’s been my pleasure to listen to you ramble.”

“
Because that’s all it is, of
course, pointsman.”

Rathe’s eyes met hers, his expression as ingenuous
as her own. He’d agreed to keep it off the books; she could and
would deny ever having said any of this, if he were foolish enough
to try to make a points matter of it. But he did believe her—if
nothing else, it fit in too well with what Eslingen had said.
Caiazzo was having problems, and with something that had worked
well in the past. And that argued that he didn’t have anything to
do with the missing children: the two events just didn’t fit. In
other times, the sources of his coin might be Rathe’s concern, but
at the moment, he could leave that to Customs Point, and
concentrate on the children. “Of course, madame. And I thank you
for letting me take up so much of your time. You must be very
busy.”

She sighed, and lifted an enameled bell that stood
beside the silver inkwell. “I could be busier, and hope to be so
soon. My man will see you out.”

The door opened, and the footman loomed in the
doorway. Rathe nodded politely to Chevassu—almost a bow—and
followed the servant out.

Caiazzo’s temper had improved markedly since the
arrival of Aurien’s caravel, and for the first time, Eslingen began
to understand why the long-distance trader’s household was so
fiercely loyal to their employer. With the immediate problems
somewhat relieved, Caiazzo relaxed, showing a deft awareness of his
people that surprised and, unexpectedly, charmed the soldier. The
household relaxed, too, as the night of the clocks receded without
further consequence, and Eslingen found himself made cautiously
welcome.

“
You’ve done well, settling in,”
Denizard said, as they climbed together toward Caiazzo’s
workroom.

Eslingen shrugged. “I’m not ungrateful, but I’m also
not unaware that at least some of them think I’m good luck. And
that’s a chancy reputation.”

Denizard grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about Azemar,
she’d follow every broadsheet astrologer in the city if she could
just figure out how to do it all at once. No, seriously, you’ve
done well. I think Hanse will want to keep you on, if you’re
willing.”

Eslingen hesitated. Now that it had come to an
offer, he found himself surprisingly reluctant, but then he shook
the thought away, impatient with himself. This was the best place
he’d had, not excepting his post with Coindarel, and he’d be a fool
to turn it down, particularly when he couldn’t have put a name to
the reluctance. “Thanks,” he said. “I—it’s a good place, I’d be
glad to stay.”

“
Good—” Denizard broke off as the
door to the counting room snapped open, and Caiazzo himself stood
framed in the doorway.

“
Oh, there you are. Good. Eslingen,
I want you to go to the fair, to the caravan-masters, and tell
Rouvalles he can send for his coin tomorrow—any time after second
sunrise, tell him. And you can make reasonable apologies for me,
but don’t give him any explanations.”

“
Sir,” Eslingen said,

“
After that—” He rolled his eyes at
Denizard. “After that, meet me at the public landing at the
northriver end of the Manufactory—the Point of Graves—Bridge.
You’re in for a treat, Eslingen, we’re going to see my merchant
resident.”

“
Sir?” Eslingen said again, and
immediately wished he’d left the question unasked.

Caiazzo’s grin widened. “Oh, you’ll like Madame
Allyns, Eslingen, and, more to the point, she’ll certainly like
you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the standing clock. “Be there
by noon, that should give you enough time with Rouvalles.”

The dismissal was obvious. “Sir,” Eslingen said, for
the third time, and took himself off.

The fair was in full swing at last, and Eslingen
wasn’t sorry to have an excuse to explore its byways. The older
members of the household grumbled that this fair was a shadow of
its usual self, that the commons of Astreiant were too busy looking
over their shoulders and keeping a hand firmly on their children to
loosen their purse strings, but for Eslingen the rows of
stalls—some of them easily as big as an ordinary shopfront, and as
well stocked—were an almost magical experience. He had been to the
various fairs of Esling as a boy, and once to the Crossroads Fair
held at the autumn balance outside Galhac, south of the Chadroni
Gap, but none of them compared with this display of goods. He took
a roundabout road to the corrals on the eastern edge of the
fairground, dizzying himself with the scent of spices from the
Silklands and the strange, musky ambers and crystal flowers from
the petty kingdoms north and west of Chadron. They lay in baskets
and shallow dishes on every counter, and the suns’ light sent the
pungent odors skyward. Between the drapers and the dyers, he nearly
walked into a black-robed astrologer, orrery out as he spoke to a
girl in an apprentice’s blue coat. Eslingen murmured an apology,
but the astrologer had already turned away, pocketing his orrery,
and faded into the crowd.

“
Hey,” the girl called, but he was
already almost out of sight. She swore and started after him.
Eslingen blinked, startled—what had the man been promising her, to
run so fast—but shrugged the thought away. The leathersellers’
alley was too crowded to pass—Astreiant was noted for its
leatherwork, but bought most of its hides from the League—and he
skirted the mob of masters, each with her train of apprentices and
journeymen. Handcarts trundled between the stalls and the river,
hides in various stages of preparation stacked so high that the
sweating laborers could barely see the path in front of them.
Eslingen kept a wary eye out, and wasn’t sorry to reach the end of
that section.