Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“They generally do. When they’re not searching taverns,” Adriana answered, and grinned. “Your friend Rathe, he has friends at the university, or so I’m told. Above his station, surely.”

“No particular friend of mine,” Eslingen said, automatically, and only then thought to wonder at his own response. I wouldn’t mind calling him a friend, though.

Adriana’s eyebrows rose. “And below yours?” She turned away before he could answer, disappeared through the kitchen door.

Eslingen stared after her for a moment–he hadn’t expected her to defend any pointsman–then shrugged, and made his way back to his table. He doubted there would be any call for his services tonight, since the locals seemed to be staying well clear after the abortive search, but he left the beer untouched, and tilted his stool until his back rested against the wall. Monteia had handled the situation well, particularly getting that red‑faced butcher on her side, he acknowledged silently. If they got through the evening without trouble, things should be all right.

The clock struck midnight at last, its voice clear in the still air, and Devynck appeared to call time on the last customers. They left in a group, Eslingen was glad to see, Vandeale and her household in the lead, and Devynck herself walked them to the door to wish them safe home. She pulled the heavy door closed behind them, turning the key in the lock, and Loret lifted the bar into its brackets. It looked thick enough to stand at least a small battering ram, Eslingen thought, and wondered if Devynck had foreseen the necessity. He stood then, stretching, and went to help Hulet with the shutters. Each had an iron bar of its own, holding the wood firm against the glass outside; they, too, would stand a siege, and he lifted the last one into place with a distinct feeling of relief. With the tavern secured for the night, all the doors and windows locked and barred, it was unlikely that the butchers’ journeymen would find a way to make trouble. Hulet stretched and loosened the ropes that held the central candelabra in place, lowering it so that Adriana could snuff the massive candles.

“Philip.” Devynck’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Go with Loret, make sure the garden gate’s barred before we close up for the night.”

“Right.” Eslingen trailed the yawning waiter out into the sudden dark. The winter‑sun had set at midnight, and the air was distinctly chill, pleasant after the heat of the day. Loret fumbled with a candle and lantern, and Eslingen glanced up, looking for the familiar constellations, but a thin drift of cloud veiled all but the brightest stars. Then Loret had gotten his candle lit, and Eslingen followed its glow through the garden and down to the back gate. The bar was already up there, a chain and lock the size of a man’s fist holding it firmly in place, but Loret tugged at it anyway before turning back to the inn. Eslingen glanced along the walls, checking for trouble there. They were in good repair, and high, taller than himself by a good yard; he couldn’t remember if they were topped with spikes or glass, but would not have been surprised by either. In any case, they would be hard to climb without ladders: it’s good enough, he told himself, and followed Loret back to the tavern. Nonetheless, he was careful to lock the door behind him at the top of the stairs, and to bar his own door after him. The banked embers at the bottom of the stove were dead, not even warm to the touch. He considered finding flint and steel, rekindling them, but it was late, and it would be easier in the morning to borrow coals from the kitchen fire. He undressed in the dark, leaving his coat draped neatly over the chair, and crawled into the tall bed.

He woke to the sound of breaking glass, groped under his pillow for his pistol and found only the keys to his chest. He had them in his hand before he was fully awake, and flung back the covers as he heard another window break. The sound was followed by shouts, young, drunken voices, and then he heard another shout from inside the inn: Devynck, waking her people to the trouble. He dragged on his breeches as another window shattered, and stooped to his clothes chest. He hastily unlocked the lid and dragged out his pistol and the bag that held powder and balls. There was no time to load it; he jammed it instead into the waistband of his breeches, the metal cold on his skin, and caught up his knife on the way to the door.

Jasanten was ahead of him in the hall, balanced awkwardly on his crutch, a long knife in his free hand. “What in all hells–?”

“Don’t know,” Eslingen answered, and unlocked the stairway door. “Stay here, keep an eye on things.”

“Like I could go anywhere fast,” Jasanten answered, but stopped at the head of the stairs, bracing himself against the frame. Eslingen pushed past him, scanning the garden. It was still dark, and quiet; most of the noise had come from the front of the inn.

“Devynck?” he called, more to give her warning than to find her, and pushed open the tavern door.

A thick pillar candle guttered on the end of the bar, throwing uneven shadows across the wide room and the empty tables. Devynck, ghostly in shift and unbound hair, stood by the main door, a caliver in her hands as she peered cautiously through a newly opened shutter. Slow match smouldered in the lock, a bright point of red. Adriana stood at her mother’s back, a half‑pike balanced capably in her hands, her legs bare beneath the short hem of her nightshirt.

“They’re gone, the little bastards,” Devynck said, and turned away from the window. “No thanks to you, Philip.”

“No thanks to any of us, Mother,” Adriana said, and Devynck made a noise that might have been meant as apology.

“All clear out back,” Hulet said, and Eslingen jumped as the two waiters appeared behind him.

“So what happened?” he asked, cautiously.

Devynck disengaged the slow match from the lock, and set the caliver down before answering, holding the still‑lit length of match well clear of her loose nightclothes. “Someone–and I daresay we can all guess who–came down the street and broke in our front windows. Areton’s spear, what do I have to do to make a living in this city? I’ll have the points on them so fast they’ll think lightning fell on them.”

“We can’t prove it was Paas,” Adriana said. “Unless you got a better look at them than I did.”

“Who else could it have been?” Devynck demanded, but she sounded less certain.

“Do you want me to go to the station?” Eslingen asked. “Rathe– and Monteia–said we should tell them if there was trouble.”

Devynck shook her head. “No one of mine is going out on the streets tonight. I doubt we’ll have any more trouble, anyway, they got what they wanted.”

“Whatever that was,” Hulet said, and shook his head. Behind him, Loret nodded, stuffing his shirt into the waistband of his trousers.

“I could go to Point of Hopes,” he offered, and Devynck glared at him.

“I said no one, and I meant it. It’s, what, it lacks an hour to dawn, that’s time enough, once the sun’s up and there are sensible people on the streets, to send to the points.” She fixed her eyes on Eslingen’s waist. “Is that a lock, Philip–and if it is, I trust you’ve got permission to carry it in the city?”

Eslingen felt himself flush, and was grateful for the candlelight. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten Astreiant’s laws. “Well–”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Devynck said, sourly. “Well, my lad, you can come with me to Point of Hopes, then, and I’ll see if I can’t get Monteia to grant you a writ for it. After tonight, I think she’ll be willing enough.”

“How bad is the damage?” Eslingen asked.

“All our front windows smashed,” Devynck answered, “and a nice profit the glaziers’ll make off of me for it. I haven’t taken the shutters down to see how many panes were actually broken–time enough for that in the morning.” She looked around the dimly lit room. “Hulet, you and Loret stay up, keep an eye on things. If they come back, give me a shout, and you, Loret, run to Point of Hopes. But I don’t think they will.”

Eslingen shivered, suddenly aware of how cool the air was on his bare chest and back. Adriana gave him a sympathetic glance, hugging herself, the half‑pike still tucked in the crook of her arm.

“Right,” Devynck said, briskly. “Back to bed, all of you. Philip, I’ll leave for Point of Hopes at eight, and I want you with me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eslingen answered, and took himself out the garden door. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he thought, hearing the tower clock strike the half hour. At least he could get another few hours sleep before he had to face the pointsmen.

Jasanten was still waiting at the top of the stairs, the knife–longer than the city regulations, Eslingen was willing to swear–still poised in his hand. He relaxed slightly, seeing the younger man, and said, “So the alarm’s past?”

“For tonight, or so Devynck says.” Eslingen sighed, and eased the pistol from his waistband. “Some of the local youth, she thinks, broke in the front windows.”

“Not good times,” Jasanten said, and stood out of the doorway, balancing himself awkwardly on his crutch. “Not good times at all.”

And likely to get worse before they get better, Eslingen thought, remembering the diviner. “Get some sleep, Flor,” he said, and went back into his own room, locking the door behind him. He hesitated for an instant, looking at the unloaded pistol, but in the end decided not to load it. Devynck knew her neighbors, or so he would trust; still, he set it on the table in easy reach before he undressed and climbed back into bed.

He woke to the noise of someone knocking on the door, and groped blearily for the pistol before he realized that the sun was well up. He swore under his breath–he was already late, if the sun was that bright–and Adriana’s voice came from beyond the door.

“Philip? Mother says you should hurry. I brought shaving water and something for breakfast.”

“All the gods bless you,” Eslingen said, scrambling into shirt and breeches, and unlocked the door. Adriana looked remarkably awake and cheerful, considering the night, and he couldn’t repress a grimace.

She grinned, and set a bowl and plate down on the table, lifting the plate away to reveal the hot water. Eslingen took it gratefully, washed face and hands and carried it across to the circle of polished brass that he used as a mirror. In full light, and with care, he could shave, and it was cheaper than the barber’s–not to mention, he added silently, running the razor over the stone, safer, given current sentiment. “Do you think there’s any chance of my getting a dispensation, or have I lost a good pistol?” he said, and began cautiously to shave.

In the mirror, he saw Adriana shrug. “Mother’s had one for years, for the same reason she’ll give for you, to protect her property against people who don’t like Leaguers. Monteia–no, it wasn’t Monteia, it was Wetterli, he was chief point before Monteia–he gave it to her when she first came here. It wasn’t long after the League wars, people weren’t always friendly.”

“Whatever possessed her to settle here, and not in University Point?” Eslingen wiped his face, studying the sketchy job, and decided not to press his luck.

“You mean over by the Horsegate? Too much competition there.” Adriana grinned again. “As you may have noticed, Mother doesn’t like to share.”

Eslingen lifted an eyebrow at her, but decided not to pursue the comment. He reached instead into his clothes chest and pulled out his best shirt. He had managed to get it laundered, but that had done the already thinning fabric little good; he could see seams starting to give way at shoulder and cuff. There was nothing he could do about it now, however, and he was not about to make an appearance at the points station with an illegal lock in his second‑best. He stripped off the shirt he’d pulled on before, pulled on the better one more carefully, wincing as he heard stitches give somewhere. He decided to ignore it, and reached for the thick slice of bread that Adriana had brought him. It smelled of sugar and spices, the sort of heavy cakebread that was common in the League. He finished it in three bites, grateful for the sharp, sweet flavor of it, and shrugged himself into his best coat. It, too, was looking more than a little the worse for wear–not surprising, after a winter campaign and then most of a summer–but he managed to make himself look more or less presentable. Adriana nodded her approval, and collected the bowl and plate.

“Better hurry, Mother’s waiting.”

Eslingen made a face, but rewrapped the pistol in the rag that had protected it, and tucked the unwieldy package under his arm. “Let’s go.”

Devynck was waiting in the inn’s main room, the caliver slung over her shoulder. The lock was conspicuously empty of match, the barrel was sheathed in a canvas sleeve, and a badge with the royal seal swung from it, but even so Eslingen blinked, trying to imagine the locals’ response to seeing Devynck stalking the streets with that in hand.

She saw his look and scowled. “Well, I’m not going to risk drawing the ball, am I? I’ll get Monteia to let me fire it off instead.”

If she’ll let you, Eslingen added, but thought better of saying it. It was safer, of course, and he couldn’t blame Devynck for not wanting to fire it in her own back garden. He could only begin to imagine the neighbors’ response to shots, or even a single shot, coming from the Old Brown Dog.

“Are you ready?” the innkeeper demanded, and Eslingen shook himself back to reality.

“Ready enough.” He held up the wrapped pistol. “I suppose I bring this with me?”

“Of course.” Devynck’s glare softened for an instant. “You won’t lose it, Philip–and if you do, I’ll stand the cost of its replacement.”

“I appreciate that,” Eslingen answered. It would be a poor second best, and they both knew it: pistols were idiosyncratic; even the ones made by the best gunsmiths had their peculiar habits, and it was never easy to replace a lock that worked well. Still, under the circumstances and given the cost of a pistol, it was a generous offer.

Devynck nodded. “Right then. Let’s go.” She shoved open the main door, letting in the morning light and the faint scent of hay and the butchers’ halls. The doorstep and the ground beyond it glittered faintly, scattered with glass from the broken windows. There were shards of lead as well, and Eslingen grimaced, thinking of the cost. He followed Devynck out the door, and looked back to see the half‑emptied frames, the leads twisted out of true, the glass strewn across the dirt of the yard. With the shutters still barred behind them, they looked vaguely like eyes, and he was reminded, suddenly and vividly, of a dead man he’d stumbled over at the siege of Hirn. He had looked like a shopkeeper, the spectacles shattered over his closed eyes. He shook the thought away, and Loret appeared in the doorway with a broom, heading out to sweep up the debris.

To his relief, the streets were relatively quiet, and the few people who were out gave them a wide berth. They reached the Point of Hopes station without remark, and Devynck marched through the open gate without a backward glance. Eslingen followed more slowly, unable to resist the chance to look around him. He had never been inside a points station before–and had hoped never to be, he added silently–but had to admit that it wasn’t quite what he’d expected. The courtyard walls were as high and solid as any city fort’s, the gatehouse and portcullis sturdy and defensible, but the guard’s niches were drifted with dust and a few stray wisps of straw. The stable looked as though it had been unused for years; a thin girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, sat on the edge of the dry trough outside it, putting neat stitches in a cap. She looked up at their approach, alert and curious, but didn’t move. An apprentice? Eslingen wondered. Or a runner? She looked too calm to be there on any business of her own.

Devynck pushed open the main door, and Eslingen winced at the smell of cold cabbage and cheap scent that rushed out past her. Despite the pair of windows, the shutters of both open wide to let in as much light as possible, the room was dark, and the candle on the duty pointsman’s desk was still lit. He looked up at their entrance, eyes going wide, and quickly closed the daybook.

“Mistress Devynck?”

He had been one of the ones who’d searched the tavern, Eslingen remembered, but couldn’t place the man’s name.

“Where’s Monteia?” Devynck said.

“Not in yet, mistress–”

“Then you’d better send for her,” Devynck said, grimly, and one of the doors in the back wall opened.

“I’m here, if that helps, Aagte.” Rathe stepped out into the main room, the bird’s‑wing eyebrows drawing down into sharper angles as he looked from Devynck and her wrapped caliver to Eslingen. “I take it there’s been trouble.”

Devynck nodded. “No offense, Nico, but Monteia needs to hear it, too.”

“None taken,” Rathe said, equably enough, and stepped past them to the door. “Asheri! Run to the chief point’s house, tell her she’s needed here. Tell her Aagte Devynck’s come to us with a complaint.” He turned back into the main room, a scarecrow silhouette in his shapeless coat. “Come on into her workroom–but leave the artillery outside, please.”

Devynck hesitated, but, grudgingly, set the caliver into a corner. “It’s loaded,” she said. “No match, of course, but one of the things I’ve come for is to fire it off.”

“If things were bad enough to bring out the guns,” Rathe said, “why didn’t you send to us last night?”

“They were here and gone before I had the time,” Devynck answered. “And then there seemed no point in one of my people risking the streets before daylight.”

Rathe’s eyebrows flicked up at that, but he said nothing, just motioned for the others to precede him into the narrow room. It, too, was dark, and Eslingen stumbled against something, bruising his shin, before Rathe could open the shutters. This window looked onto a garden of sorts, and laundry hung from a line strung between the corner of the station and a straggling tree. Eslingen felt his eyebrows rise at that, and realized that Rathe was looking at him.

“All the comforts of home?”

Rathe shrugged, seemingly unembarrassed. “Has to get done some time, and some of the people here can’t afford their own laundresses. So Monteia makes sure one comes in once a week.”

Before Eslingen could answer, Devynck slammed her palm down on the table, making the inkstand rattle. “Areton’s balls, what do I have to do to get the points to protect my interests? Or would the two of you rather sit here and gossip about laundry?”

“I thought you wanted to wait for Monteia,” Rathe answered.

“Which I do.” Devynck glared, but Rathe went on calmly.

“And, to get to what business I can, what were you doing with that gun of yours, Aagte?”

“How could I know they would just break my windows and run–”

Rathe shook his head. “It takes time to load one of those, Aagte, I know that. If they just broke your windows and ran, you wouldn’t’ve had time to load it. So what else did they do, and why didn’t you send to us? Or were you expecting trouble, had it ready just in case?”

Eslingen kept his expression steady with an effort. He hadn’t expected the pointsman to know that much about guns, enough to have caught Devynck in the weakest part of her story. Most city folk didn’t, didn’t encounter them much in the course of their lives, or if they did, they knew the newer flintlocks, not old‑fashioned ones like Devynck’s matchlock. Flints didn’t take as long to load–were generally less temperamental than a matchlock–but he was surprised that Rathe, who didn’t seem to like soldiers much, would have bothered to find that out. Or did the points still act as militia? he wondered suddenly.

Devynck fixed Rathe with a glare, and the pointsman returned the look blandly. “As it happened,” she said, after a moment, “I’d loaded before bed, just to be on the safe side. After your lot searched us yesterday, pointsman, it seemed wise to expect a certain amount of– awkwardness.”

Rathe nodded again, apparently appeased. “Yeah, I heard about that. Huviet’s getting above herself, wants guild office, or so I hear.”

“Not through my misfortunes,” Devynck retorted.

“I agree. But, bond or no bond, Aagte, you shoot someone, and it’s manslaughter in the law’s eyes.”

“Or self‑defense.”

“If you can prove it,” Rathe said. “And with the way tempers are these days, it wouldn’t be easy.” He held up his hand, forestalling Devynck’s automatic outburst. “I’m not begging fees, Aagte, or telling you not to protect your property. But I wish you’d sent to us as soon as it happened, that’s all. I’d’ve welcomed an excuse to put Paas Huviet in cells for a night or two, think of it that way. I’m assuming he was the ringleader?”

Devynck sighed. “I think so. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I’d know the voice.”

Eslingen eyed Rathe with new respect. Not only was what he said solid common sense, it had appeased Devynck–not the easiest thing at the best of times, and this was hardly that.

Rathe looked at Eslingen. “Did you see him?”

The soldier shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I heard the shouting, but I couldn’t swear to the voice.”

Devynck made a sour face. “No, you hardly could.” She looked back at Rathe. “Does this mean you can’t do anything?”

Before he could answer, the workroom door opened, and Monteia said, “I hear there was trouble, Aagte?”

Eslingen edged back against the shelves where the station’s books were kept, and the chief point eased past him, her skirts brushing his legs, to settle herself behind the worktable. Rathe moved gracefully out of her way, leaned against the wall by the window.

“Trouble enough,” Devynck answered, and Monteia made a face.

“Sit down, for the gods’ sake, there’s a stool behind you. I’d hoped we’d nipped that in the bud.”

“I told you it wouldn’t help matters,” Devynck said, not without relish, and dragged the tall stool out from its corner. She perched on it, arms folded across her breasts, and Monteia grimaced again.

“Tell me about it.”

“We had a very slow night last night, not a single Chenedolliste from the neighborhood, and damn few of the Leaguers,” Devynck answered. “And after we’d closed up–and locked up, we’re not taking any chances these days–and were all in bed, a band of the local youth comes by and smashes in my front windows. It’s going to cost me more than a few seillings to get them repaired, that’s for certain.”

“What time was it that it happened?” Monteia asked. Rathe, Eslingen saw, without surprise, had pulled out a set of tablets and was scratching notes in the wax plates.

Devynck shrugged. “The winter‑sun was well down, and I heard the clock strike four a while after. Sometime after three, I think.”

“And you didn’t send to us.”

“As I told Nico here, I didn’t want to send my people into the streets, not when I was pretty sure they were gone.” Devynck sighed. “They were drunken journeymen, Tersennes. They weren’t going to do much more damage to my property, or so I thought, after we’d scared them off, but that sort’s more than capable of beating one of my waiters if they caught him unaware. It may have been a mistake, I admit it, but I’ve my people to think of, as well as the house.”

Monteia nodded. “I gather you didn’t recognize anyone.”

“I’m morally certain Paas Huviet was the ringleader,” Devynck answered, “but, no, I can’t swear to it.”

Monteia nodded again. She took Devynck through her story in detail, calling on Eslingen now and then for confirmation–a confirmation he was only able to provide in the negative, much to his chagrin– and finally leaned back in her chair. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Aagte. I’d hoped we’d put a stop to the rumors. I’ll send some of my people around to ask questions–”

“I’ll take charge of that, Chief,” Rathe said, and there was a note in his voice that boded ill for the local journeymen.

“Good. And we’ll do what else we can. I’ll make sure our watchmen take in the Knives Road regularly.”

Rathe stirred at that, but said nothing. Even so, Monteia gave him a minatory look, and Eslingen wondered what wasn’t being said. He knew that the points were only an occasional presence on the streets and in the markets, mostly when there was trouble expected; this didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. But then, he added silently, nothing was ordinary right now, not with the children missing.

Devynck said, “Thanks, Tersennes, I appreciate what you’re doing for us. There is one other thing, though–two, really.”

Monteia spread her hands in silent invitation, and Devynck plunged ahead. “First, my caliver out there. It’s loaded, and I don’t want to ruin the barrel trying to draw it, not to mention the other hazards. So can I fire it off in your yard?”

“Gods,” Monteia said, but nodded. “What’s the other?”

Devynck jerked her head toward Eslingen. “Philip here–being a stranger to Astreiant and obviously not fully aware of its laws–”

“Of course,” Rathe murmured, with a grin, but softly enough that the Leaguer woman could ignore him.

“–has a pistol of his own in my house. Under the circumstances, rather than give it up, I’d like to post bond for him.”

Monteia shook her head, sighing. “And I can’t say that’s unreasonable, either. It won’t come cheap, though, Aagte, not with that monster you already keep.”

“I’m prepared to pay.” Devynck reached through the slit in her outer skirt, produced a pocket that made a dull clank when she set it on the worktable. “There’s two pillars there, in silver.”

Monteia made a face, but nodded. “I’ll have the bond drawn up– Nico, fetch the scrivener, will you? And in the meantime, you can fire off that gun of yours.”

The preparations for firing the caliver were almost more elaborate than for writing the bond. Eslingen lounged against the doorpost of the station, trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin as a pointswoman brought out a red and black pennant and hung it from the staff above the gatehouse. The duty pointsman recorded the event in the station’s daybook, and Monteia and Rathe countersigned the entry, as did Devynck. Rathe looked up then.

“Eslingen? We need another witness.”

“What am I witnessing to?” Eslingen asked, but went back into the station.

“That you know Devynck, that you know the gun’s loaded, that we’ve posted the flag–the usual.” Rathe grinned. “Not like Coindarel’s Dragons, I daresay.”

“We had more of this than you’d think,” Eslingen answered, and scrawled his name below Devynck’s. It did remind him of his time in the royal regiments, actually; there had been the same insistence on signatures and countersignatures for everything from drawing powder to receiving pay. It had made it harder for the officers to cheat their men, but not impossible, and he suspected that the same was true in civilian life.

“Right, then,” Monteia said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Eslingen followed her and the others out into the yard, and saw with some amusement that the thin girl and half a dozen other children had gathered at the stable doors. Most of those would be the station’s runners–a couple even looked old enough to be genuinely apprentices–but he could see more children peering in through the gatehouse. Monteia smiled, seeing them, but nodded to the pointswoman.

“Fetch a candle.”

The woman did as she was told, and Devynck carefully lit the length of slow match she had carried under her hat. She fitted it deftly into the serpentine, tightened the screw, primed the pan, and then looked around. “I’m ready here.”

“Go ahead,” Monteia answered, and behind her Eslingen saw several of the runners cover their ears.

Devynck lifted the caliver to her shoulder, aimed directly into the sky, and pulled the trigger. There was a puff of smoke as the priming powder flashed and then, a moment later, the caliver fired, belching a cloud of smoke. One of the children outside the gatehouse shrieked, and most of the runners jumped; Devynck ignored them, lowered the caliver, and freed the match from the lock. She ground out the coal under her shoe, and only then looked at Monteia.

“That’s cleared it.”

“One would hope,” Rathe murmured, and Monteia frowned at him.

“Right. Is the bond ready?”

“I’ll see.” Rathe disappeared into the points station, to reappear a moment later in the doorway holding a sheet of paper, which he waved gently in the air to dry the ink. “Done. Just needs your signature and seal.”

Monteia nodded, and went back inside. Eslingen looked at Devynck, who was methodically checking over her weapon. Behind her, the neighborhood children were dispersing, only a few still gawking from the shelter of the gatehouse. The runners, too, had vanished back into the shelter of the stables, and he could hear voices raised in shrill debate, apparently about the power and provenance of the gun.

“Here you are,” Rathe said, from behind him. “Careful, the wax is still soft.”

Eslingen took the paper, scanning the scrivener’s tidy, impersonal hand, and Monteia’s spiky scrawl at the base. Rathe hadn’t signed it, and he was momentarily disappointed; he shook the feeling away, and folded the sheet cautiously, written side out. The seal carried the same tower and monogram that topped the pointsmen’s truncheons. “Thanks.”

“And for Astree’s sake, the next time there’s trouble, send to us.”

“Have you ever tried to go against her?” Eslingen asked, and tilted his head toward Devynck, just sliding her caliver back into its sleeve.

Rathe smiled, the expression crooked. “I understand. I’ll probably be in this afternoon, to see the damage–just so you don’t worry when you see me coming.”

“I’ll try not to,” Eslingen answered, and turned away.

They made their way back to the Old Brown Dog as uneventfully as they’d left, but as they turned down the side street that led to the inn’s door, Devynck swore under her breath. Eslingen glanced around quickly, saw nothing on the street behind them, and only then recognized that the young man sitting on the bench outside the door was wearing a butcher’s badge in his flat cap. He met Devynck’s stare defiantly, but said nothing. Devynck swore again, and stalked past him into the inn.