Point of Hopes (54 page)

The soldier shrugged, not knowing what answer the
other wanted, but couldn’t help remembering the astrologer’s
warning. He’d been right about the change of employment; Eslingen
could only hope he’d be less right about travel by water.

Caiazzo looked away again, fixing his eyes on the
shimmer of light where the winter-sun was reflected from the
current. Eslingen followed the look but could see nothing out of
the ordinary, just the sparkle of silver on black water. The
winter-sun itself was low in the sky, would set in a little more
than an hour, and the brilliant pinpoint hung just above the roofs
of the Hopes-point Bridge. And then they were in the bridge’s
shadow, the light cut off abruptly, and Eslingen caught himself
looking hard for the bridge pillars. He found them quickly enough,
the water foaming white around them, and the steersman leaned on
the tiller, guiding the boat into the relative calm between them.
Eslingen allowed himself a sigh, and Caiazzo looked at
Denizard.

“
I’m not convinced, Aice, that
there’s going to be much profit in this little jaunt. It may not be
scientific, magist, but I’ve got a sick bad feeling about
it.”

“
I know,” Denizard said quietly.
“So do I.”

To Eslingen’s surprise, Caiazzo laughed again. “Oh,
that’s wonderful. I expected you to contradict me, Aice, or at
least tell me not to anticipate trouble. The last thing I needed
was for a magist to confirm my fears.”

“
Well, that’s all they are at the
moment—the stars are chancy, but not actively bad,” Denizard
answered. “But I’d be lying if I said I was comfortable. And night
meetings are never my favorite.”

“
The midday ones can be just as
dangerous,” Caiazzo murmured, and lapsed into a pensive silence.
Denizard sighed, and folded her hands in the sleeves of her coat.
Eslingen glanced from one to the other, and wondered if they were
also remembering the old woman in her shop at the heart of the
Court of the Thirty-two Knives. That had been broad daylight, and
he’d been glad to leave alive. He jumped as water splashed over the
gunwale, and then told himself not to be foolish. The boatmen knew
their business, and besides, they were none of them born to
drown.

They were turning in toward the bank now, the boat
rocking hard as the oarsmen fought the current, and Eslingen braced
himself against the side of the boat, twisting to look toward the
shore. The houses of Point of Hearts stood tall against the dark
sky, lights showing here and there in open doorways and unshuttered
windows, and he thought he heard a snatch of music carried on the
sudden breeze. But then it was gone, and the boat was sliding up to
the low landing.

“
Wait here unless I call,” Caiazzo
said to the steersman, and the man touched his cap in answer. The
trader nodded and levered himself out of the boat without looking
back. Eslingen made a face, distrusting the other man’s mood, and
hurried to follow.

“
Where to?” he asked, and Caiazzo
turned as Denizard pulled herself up onto the low wharf.

“
Little Chain Market,” Caiazzo
said. “It’s not far.”

“
But very empty, this time of
night,” Denizard said.

“
Don’t you think I know that?”
Caiazzo snapped. “Why do you think I brought the pair of
you?”

“
Let’s hope we’re enough,” the
magist answered, and Caiazzo showed teeth in answer.

“
It’s what I pay you
for.”

Eslingen’s mouth tightened—he hated that sort of
challenge—but there was no point in protesting. Instead, he
loosened his sword in its scabbard, the click of the metal loud in
the quiet, and fell into step at Caiazzo’s right. The magist
flanked him on the left, her eyes wary.

It wasn’t far to the Little Chain Market, as Caiazzo
had said—but the street curved sharply, cutting off their view of
the river. Eslingen made a face at that: they’d get no help from
the boat’s crew, unless they shouted, and that might be too late.
Caiazzo stopped at the edge of the open square, staring across the
empty cobbles. The market was closed, the stalls shuttered and
locked, shop wagons drawn neatly into corners; the winter-sun had
dropped below the line of the rooftops, and the shadows were deep
in the comers. Eslingen scanned the darkness warily, but nothing
moved among the closed stalls. “Now what?” he asked.

“
Now we wait,” Caiazzo said,
glancing around. “And hope he shows this time.”

Eslingen grimaced again, letting his eyes adjust to
the darkness. He could distinguish one patch of shadow from another
now, could make out the shapes of the trestles piled in the mouth
of an alley, but there was still nothing moving in the market. He
heard something then, a faint sound, like feet scrabbling against
the loose stones of the river streets. It could be a river rat, but
he moved between it and Caiazzo anyway, cocking his head to listen.
Caiazzo moved up beside him, and Eslingen glanced at him, wanting
to warn him back, but the trader lifted a hand, enjoining, silence.
Then Eslingen heard it, too, a wordless sigh with a nasty, liquid
note to it. He swore under his breath, and Caiazzo snapped
“Quiet.”

The shuffling came again, this time more clearly
human footsteps, dragging on the stones, and Caiazzo turned toward
them. “Who’s there?”

“
For the love of Tyrseis, sieur,
help me.”

Caiazzo’s eyes flickered to Denizard who nodded.

“
It’s Malivai,” she said and it was
Caiazzo’s turn to swear.

“
Help me,” he said and started
toward the source of the sound. Eslingen went after him, his hand
on his sword hilt.

Malivai—it had to be the messenger, a nondescript
shape in a battered riding coat—was leaning against the arch of a
doorway, one hand pressed tight against his ribs, the other braced
against the stones. Caiazzo took his weight easily, for all the two
men were of a height, and eased the man down onto the tongue of a
wagon.

“
Gods, Malivai, what’s happened?”
He was busy already, loosening the messenger’s coat, one hand
probing beneath the heavy linen.

“
I’d gotten to Dhenin, almost to
the city itself, I thought I was clear, but then they found me
again.” Malivai caught his breath as the probing hand touched
something, and Caiazzo drew his hand away. Eslingen could see blood
on the fingertips and made himself look away, across the empty
market. There was no sign of whoever had attacked Malivai, but he
doubted that would last much longer. Almost without thinking, he
drew his sword, the blade catching the last faint light from the
winter-sun.

“
That’s old,” Caiazzo said.
“When?”

“
Three days ago.” Malivai winced
again. “I told you, I’d made it to Dhenin, thought I’d lost them,
but then they found me again. I got away, but one of them got off a
pistol shot, that’s what you see there, and they’ve been close on
my trail ever since. That’s why I couldn’t make the last meeting. I
couldn’t get clear of them.”

Caiazzo nodded. “But you lost them.”

Malivai shook his head, dark braids falling across
his face. “I had lost them, I wouldn’t’ve come here else, but when
I tried to pass the Chain, they jumped me again. I got free, but
that—” He touched his side, flinching. “—opened again. But you have
to know. De Mailhac’s betrayed you.”

“
Has she, now,” Caiazzo said
softly, but before he could say anything more, Eslingen heard the
sound of soft boots against stone.

“
Sir,” he began, and Denizard broke
in sharply.

“
People coming, Hanse.”

Eslingen could hear the sound of swords now, and
reached left-handed for his knife. “And not to open up shop,
either. They’re carrying steel, and they don’t care who knows
it.”

“
They probably also don’t give a
damn about legal limits,” Caiazzo said. He was smiling, a toothy,
feral grin that made the hackles rise on Eslingen’s neck. He had
served with officers who’d had that look before; they were the sort
who got one killed, or covered in glory. “I don’t see that we have
a choice, do you?”

“
The boat,” Denizard said, and
Caiazzo shook his head.

“
There isn’t time, not with
Malivai.” He stooped, brought the messenger bodily to his feet,
taking most of the other man’s weight on his own shoulders. He drew
his own long knife with his free hand, and edged Malivai toward the
mouth of the street that led to the public landing. “How many were
there, Mal?”

“
Three, I think, maybe four.”
Malivai’s voice was weaker than before, and Eslingen risked a
glance over his shoulder. The messenger was leaning heavily on
Caiazzo, who was bent sideways by his weight. They’d never make it
back to the boat before the pursuers appeared, Eslingen knew, and
stepped between them and the footsteps that were getting steadily
louder. Denizard moved to join him, her own blade drawn, and
Eslingen glanced sideways at her, hoping she knew some magist’s
tricks to even the odds.

A figure stepped out of the mouth of the street that
led west to the Chain, and was quickly followed by two more. They
all carried drawn swords, but their faces were muffled by heavy
scarves, drawn close in spite of the lingering summer warmth.
Eslingen shook his head, studying them, and lifted his sword. It
wasn’t bad odds, even with a wounded man to protect, and the bravos
were obviously concerned with keeping their identities hidden—as
well they might, attacking honest people in the streets. It was
nice, for once, to have the law on his side, but why was there
never a pointsman around when he needed one? He killed the giddy
thought, born of the anticipation of battle, and lifted sword and
dagger.

The first bravo rushed him, sword raised for a
chopping blow. Eslingen ducked under the attack, and drove his
dagger into the man’s stomach. There was leather under the linen
coat, and the blade slid sideways but caught on a lacing and tore
into the man’s side. In the same moment, Eslingen brought his sword
across, hilt first, and slammed it into the bravo’s face. The man
dropped without a word, and Eslingen spun to face the second man,
parrying awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see
Denizard and the third man exchanging thrusts, but his own opponent
feinted deftly left and struck right, and the tip of his blade
ripped Eslingen’s sleeve before the soldier could dodge away.
Eslingen parried the next attack with his sword, and, as the man
lunged again, trying to catch that blade, aimed his dagger for the
bravo’s throat. It was an awkward blow, but the bravo’s own
momentum drove him forward onto the blade, and Eslingen twisted
away, freeing himself and his blade, the bravo’s blood hot on his
hand. He turned toward Denizard, and saw her step into the second
man’s attack, lifting her knee into his groin. He staggered back,
blade swinging wildly, and Caiazzo shouted, “Ferran, to me!”

That was enough for Denizard’s attacker, who dropped
his blade and ran. Eslingen crouched beside the dead man, wiping
his hand on the skirt of the dead man’s coat, and then searched
quickly through his pockets. He found a purse, and pocketed it, but
there was nothing else. He shook his head—he had been hoping to
find tablets, a slate, a paper, something—and turned to the other
man, but Denizard was there before him.

“
This one’s dead, too,” she said,
and Caiazzo smiled, not pleasantly.

“
Good. Anything on him?”

Denizard shook her head. “Just his purse, and from
the weight of it, he wasn’t paid in advance.”

“
Or this one was the banker,”
Eslingen said, and held out the purse he’d taken. “There’s coin
here.”

“
Interesting,” Caiazzo said. “Bring
it, let’s see what we were worth.” The boatmen appeared then,
breathing hard, and Caiazzo swung to face them. “Ferran, help me
with Malivai.”

Eslingen wiped sword and dagger on the dead man’s
coat, and resheathed it, his fingers still sticky with the other’s
blood. Caiazzo, still supporting Malivai, turned toward the boat,
and Denizard fell into step behind him.

“
How bad is it?” she asked, and the
trader shook his head.

“
I’ve seen worse,” he said, and the
steersman came to help him, taking part of Malivai’s weight. The
oarsmen followed, stolid, not looking at the dead bodies still
littering the cobbles, and Eslingen trailed behind them back to the
boat, wondering just what he’d gotten himself into this time. Two
men dead, and another hurt—even Caiazzo would have a hard time
buying his way out of this one. And I, Eslingen thought, don’t have
his kind of influence to buy off my second dead man in as many
weeks. He glanced at Caiazzo, but the trader’s face was closed and
angry, and he decided to keep his questions for later. Together,
Caiazzo and Ferran helped Malivai down into the boat, settling him
against the cushions, and Caiazzo bent again over the injured man.
Denizard stepped down into the boat as the oarsmen prepared to cast
off, and Eslingen hesitated on the bank. For an instant, he was
tempted to run, to step back into the shadows and turn and run as
far and as fast as he could, until he was well out of sight and on
the road north again. Then the magist looked up at him, her face
curious, and Eslingen shook the thought away. It wouldn’t work, for
one thing, he thought, and, for another, I’ve given my word here.
And, most of all, I want to know what’s going on. He climbed into
the boat and seated himself beside Denizard, letting his hand trail
in the cool water, washing the blood away.