Point of Knives (4 page)

“So why, then?” Rathe sipped cautiously at his tea. “Why kill not only your man but his aged father?”

“Damned if I know,” Eslingen said. “Something personal, maybe?”

Rathe smiled. “That’s always possible. But you’ll forgive me if having Hanse involved makes me just a bit—wary.”

“Caiazzo wouldn’t kill him,” Eslingen said. “He was buying—goods, shall we say? A straightforward piece of business.”

“If outside the law,” Rathe said, and Eslingen gave him a limpid stare.

“You know I can’t answer that, Adjunct Point.”

“Not that you need to,” Rathe said.

Eslingen laughed. “Touché.”

Rathe shook himself. “All right, I’ll buy that. But if it’s not because of Caiazzo’s business—what, then?”

Eslingen rubbed his neck, the ache of a sleepless night settling into his bones. “It might—and I stress the word
might
, as in only possibly and remotely—have something to do with the business. Someone wanting to muscle in. But it wasn’t expected, and Caiazzo didn’t kill him.”

Rathe shook his head, but he was smiling again. “Right. I’ll bear that in mind, too: a mysterious something that might possibly have provoked someone to try to muscle in? That’s very helpful, Philip.”

“I try,” Eslingen said, with exaggerated modesty, but sobered quickly. “I’ll ask around, if you’d like. Caiazzo will want this person caught, if only as a lesson, so he might be willing to help.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Rathe said, and looked up as the door opened. The little-captain sat up just as sharply, brown eyes alert. “What is it, Lennar?”

“Excuse me, Adjunct Point, but Young Steen’s here. About his father’s body.”

“Show him up,” Rathe said. Eslingen started to rise, but Rathe waved for him to sit. “Stay,” he said. “You can speak for Caiazzo if need be.”

That was a double-edged sword, too, Eslingen thought, and sank back into his chair.

The man who appeared in the doorway was tall and sun-browned, his long hair bleached to the color of straw. He was younger than he looked at first sight—the lines around his eyes were carved by weather, not age—and he wore a decent coat over sailor’s wide breeches, with a kerchief of bright Silklands printing to close the neck of his shirt. The little-captain scrambled to its feet at the sight of him, and launched itself into his arms. The sailor caught him with a fond curse, submitted to being licked on chin and nose before tucking the dog firmly into the crook of his arm.

“There’s one question I don’t have to ask,” Rathe said, with a wry smile. “You’d be Old Steen’s son.”

The sailor nodded. “They call me Young Steen. I’m master of the
Soeuraine of Bedarres
.” He glanced at the dog, still trying frantically to lick his face. “They tell me Dad’s dead?”

“I’m sorry,” Rathe said. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“He was shot with a birdbolt,” Rathe said. “And—your grandfather was knifed as well.”

“Dead?”

“I’m sorry,” Rathe said again.

“Damn it to hell.” Young Steen lifted the dog, buried his face in its fur. “Who—and why?”

“We don’t know yet,” Rathe said. “But we’ll find out.”

“Whatever fee—” Steen began, then shook his head. “No, I know you now. You’re the one who doesn’t take fees.”

“I don’t,” Rathe said. From his tone, it was still a sensitive point—but then, Eslingen thought, most of Astreiant’s pointsmen were happy to take an extra seiling or five to ensure a job well done. “What you can do is answer some questions.”

“Yeah,” Steen said. “Yes, of course.” He glanced at Eslingen then, as though his presence had only just registered. “Who’s this?”

“Philip Eslingen,” Rathe answered. “He found your father’s body.”

“Oh, yes?” There was a definite note of suspicion in Young Steen’s voice, and Eslingen straightened slightly.

“I was supposed to meet him, on my employer’s behalf—Hanselin Caiazzo.”

Steen nodded, not entirely appeased, looked back at Rathe. “You’re sure of him?”

“I am,” Rathe said, and Eslingen felt an unexpected warmth steal through him.

“Right.” Steen took a deep breath, resettled the dog against his elbow. “What can I tell you?”

“Whatever you can,” Rathe said. “Anything of his business, enemies, anyone you can think of who might have done this—or who might have it in for Grandad, for that matter. I’ve been assuming your father was the primary target, but I’ve no real proof of it.”

Steen hissed softly through his teeth. “His business I don’t know much of, or Grandad’s. I’ve been at sea the last six months.”

“But you knew he had dealings with Caiazzo,” Rathe said.

“He’d done in the past,” Steen answered. “It’s no surprise to hear. Grandad, though, he’s retired, he’s got no business, except what he does for Dame Lulli, and that’s his choice, Dad and me, we’d have taken care of him—” He broke off, shaking his head.

“Grandad’s body was searched,” Rathe said. “Any idea what someone might have been looking for?”

Steen shook his head again. “Grandad banked his money—Orlandi’s, in Point of Sighs. Unless someone believed his stories? Tyrseis, that would be cruel.”

“Stories?” Eslingen asked.

Steen looked at him. “Grandad liked to hang about the taverns and tell tales for drinks, about his life as a pirate and the like. There was always a lost treasure or three, and a mysterious island, and monsters.” He broke off, blinking hard.

“Mermaids,” Rathe said, and Steen looked blankly at him. “A story he told me once, and I’ve never forgotten. He’ll be missed.” He shook himself. “But I don’t think that’s why he was killed. Old Steen had business with Caiazzo, we know that much, and that’s more likely to bring death in its wake.”

Steen nodded slowly, his eyes on Eslingen. “And this business would be—?”

“Caiazzo’s,” Eslingen answered, carefully, and after a moment, Steen nodded again.

“I’ll have a word with him, then, soldier.”

“He’d welcome it, I think,” Eslingen answered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rathe grimace.

“And if it ends up having a bearing on these murders, I’d appreciate hearing it,” he said. “Or I’ll have to have a word with Hanse myself.”

“And I’m sure that will please him, too,” Eslingen murmured.

Rathe ignored him. “What about enemies? Anyone you can think of who’d want to kill your father?”

“Not so many ashore,” Steen answered. “And not in Astreiant. He’s only been home a week or two ahead of me—we both sail under charter from Bastian Souers, to the Silklands and the southern isles.”

“So your guess would be that it was business?” Rathe asked, and Steen nodded.

“My first guess, anyway, Adjunct Point. But I don’t know what he was up to since he was home.”

“We’ll be asking about that,” Rathe said.

“Yeah.” Steen squared his shoulder, the little-captain snuggling against him. “The—bodies. They’ll be at the dead-house, then? How do I go about claiming them?”

“You’ll need to prove you’re the next-of kin,” Rathe answered, “which shouldn’t be a problem—”

He broke off at the knock at his door, tipped his head to one side. “I’m sorry, Adjunct Point,” the runner Lennar said, “but Old Steen’s wife is here to claim the body.”

His eyes were wide at the very idea, and Eslingen blinked. Not many people of Old Steen’s status ever married; they might run a shop or some other business with the woman whose bed they shared, whose children they fathered, or perhaps make some more tenuous contract, some promise of maintenance in exchange for the children and the company, but they did not marry. Not chartered captains who gave half their take to the women who funded the venture, and paid their crew out of their own share.

“My father’s not married,” Young Steen said.

“She has his marriage lines, the chief says,” Lennar answered. “If you please, Adjunct Point?”

“Let’s see what she has to say,” Rathe said, forestalling Young Steen’s indignant answer, and pointed him toward the door. He glanced back at Eslingen. “Come on, Philip, you don’t want to miss the show.”

“Indeed not,” Eslingen answered, and trailed behind them down the stairs to the station’s main room.

Rathe led the way down the stairs, glad that Eslingen closed up at his shoulder, blocking Young Steen from any precipitate action. Monteia and Jiemen were standing beneath the station’s case-clock, Jiemen looking harried, Monteia with her pipe in her mouth and her hands on her hips, staring at the third woman. She wasn’t young herself, looked to be about the same age as Monteia, and as soberly dressed, bottle-green skirt and split-sleeved bodice that showed a glimpse of ivory linen. The neck was square but modest, made so by a fichu of inexpensive lace: not quite what he’d been expecting, and Rathe glanced over his shoulder at Young Steen.

“Do you know her?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Eslingen’s eyebrows winged up at that, but he swallowed what was probably an inappropriate retort. Rathe gave him a look that he hoped conveyed the desire that Eslingen continue to behave decorously, and nodded to Monteia. “Chief?”

Monteia removed her pipe from her mouth, pointed with it to the stranger. “This is Costanze van Duiren, wife to Old Steen.”

“No, she’s not,” Young Steen blurted.

“He never approved of the marriage,” van Duiren said. Her voice was sharply southriver, less cultured than her clothes. “Him being motherless and all.”

“There never was any marriage,” Young Steen said. “In fact, I’d lay good money my father never even bedded you.”

“Enough,” Monteia said. “Captain, Dame van Duiren has your father’s marriage lines.”

“Forged, I don’t know,” Young Steen said. The little-captain, catching his mood, growled from the shelter of his arms.

“Unusual for the wife to have her husband’s lines,” Rathe observed. “Usually it’s the man who wants the proof.”

“He was at sea seven months out of twelve,” van Duiren answered. “I kept many of his papers for him.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rathe saw Eslingen’s head lift slightly. Whatever Caiazzo was after, then, there were papers involved. He put that thought aside for later. “I’d like to have a look at them, Chief?”

Monteia gestured with her pipe again, and van Duiren pulled the folded sheet from the purse at her waist, handing it over with a quiet flourish. Rathe took it, his gaze flicking over the printed form, the names and dates written in the familiar clerical hand, recording the marriage of Costanze van Duiren and Steen Stinson. There was a second document as well, a contract of maintenance, van Duiren’s promise to support the potential father of her children should she conceive by him, with bonuses for a daughter, and the usual provisions for miscarriage and stillbirth. The ink had flowed smoothly, none of the faint shifts in color and thickness you saw on even competent forgeries, and all the stamps and seals looked genuine. He nodded and handed it back, and she folded it carefully away.

“The original of the contract is on file at the Temple, of course,” she said. “I’ll have that sworn to if necessary.”

“We’ll see,” Monteia said.

“In any case,” van Duiren said, “there can’t be any serious argument that I’m not his next of kin. I am his wife, by all legal reckoning.”

“You’re not his wife,” Young Steen said. “This is madness!”

“What proof do you have that there wasn’t a marriage?” Monteia asked.

“My father wouldn’t— I’ve never seen this woman before, never heard her name mentioned. Would my father marry and never tell his own son?”

“That’s hardly proof,” van Duiren said. “Even if it were true.”

Young Steen took a step forward, and Eslingen blocked him without seeming to have moved at all.

“Dame van Duiren has a point,” Monteia said.

“Ask his crew—ask his landlady,” Young Steen began, and stopped, shaking his head. “Ask anyone who knew him.”

“You can call your witnesses,” Monteia said, and Young Steen shook his head again.

“I don’t know who’s in town, I don’t even know where to start.”

Rathe said, “What does the dog say?”

Monteia cocked her head at him, and Rathe held out his hand for the little-captain. Steen gave him up warily, and Rathe gentled it into the corner of his arm. “The dog should know her, right, if she’s his wife.”

“The dog didn’t,” van Duiren began, and stopped herself.

“Didn’t what?” Monteia asked.

“Didn’t like me,” van Duiren said, with dignity. That wasn’t what she’d intended to say, Rathe knew, but she’d saved herself from an outright lie.