Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Inside, Adriana was beside the bar, Loret and Hulet to either side. She whirled as the door opened, scowling, relaxed slightly as she saw who it was.

“Mother! I thought it was that Yvor.”

“What in Areton’s name is going on?” Devynck asked, and unslung her caliver with a movement that suggested she would prefer it to be unsheathed and loaded.

“You saw Yvor outside,” Adriana answered. “He and, oh, three or four of his friends came here, said they wanted to drink. I told them we weren’t open yet, and he said he’d wait.” She shook her head, looking suddenly miserable. “I thought he was a friend, at least.”

“Areton’s balls,” Devynck said. She looked at the two waiters, then at Eslingen. “Did they say anything else?”

“They just said they wanted beer,” Adriana said. She seemed suddenly to droop, her stiff shoulders collapsing. “Maybe I’m overreacting, but after last night…”

Devynck sucked air through her teeth, frowning. “The gods know, I don’t want to give them an excuse to cause us more trouble, but I can’t think they want to drink here for good purpose.”

“You should tell Monteia,” Eslingen said.

Devynck stared at him. “Tell her what, my neighbors want to buy my beer?”

“They made Adriana nervous,” Eslingen answered. “She’s not stupid or a coward, and none of us think they’re here just to drink.” Hulet nodded at that, but said nothing.

Devynck hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed. “All right. Loret, run to Point of Hopes–go out the back–and tell the chief point or Rathe exactly what’s happened. Tell her I’m concerned, after last night, and I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Loret nodded, and headed out the garden door.

“You, Philip,” Devynck went on, “can tell young Yvor that we won’t open until second sunrise today, thanks to the damage. If he and his friends want to drink then, well, their coin is good to me. But I won’t tolerate any trouble, any more than I usually do.”

Eslingen nodded, and stepped back out into the dusty street. The young man Yvor was still sitting on the bench, but he looked up warily as the door opened.

“What’s the matter, aren’t we good enough to drink here?”

“Mistress Devynck says we won’t be open until the second sunrise,” Eslingen repeated, deliberately. “It’s the damage to the windows, you understand.”

The young man had the grace to look fleetingly abashed at that, but his wide mouth firmed almost at once into a stern pout. “And then?”

Eslingen eyed him without favor. “Then your money’s as good as any, I suppose. I take it this is your half‑day, then?”

Yvor’s hand started toward the badge in his cap, but he stopped himself almost instantly. “And if it is?”

“I was wondering how you had the leisure to drink so early,” Eslingen answered.

“That’s hardly your business, Leaguer.”

“Nothing about you is my business,” Eslingen agreed. “Until you make it so.” He went back into the inn without waiting for the younger man to answer.

Devynck opened her taps a little after noon, as she had promised, and, equally as promised, the butchers’ journeymen appeared. The first group–Yvor and a pair of younger friends–bought a pitcher of beer and drank it as slowly as they could; when they left, another trio appeared, and then a third. A pointswoman arrived as well, dusty in her leather jerkin. She bought a drink herself, watching them, but admitted there was nothing she could do as long as they didn’t make trouble.

“They’re watching me, damn them,” Devynck said, fiercely, and gestured for Eslingen to close the door of her counting room behind him. “They’re watching me, and I know it, and there’s damn all I can do about it.”

“Kick them out,” Eslingen said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Devynck snapped. “They’re just waiting for me to try it. No, I can’t be rid of them unless I close completely, not without provoking the trouble I want to prevent.”

“So maybe you should close,” Eslingen said. He held up his hand to forestall Devynck’s angry curse. “You haven’t been doing much business the last few nights, it might be safer–smarter–to close for a few days and see if it doesn’t blow over.”

Devynck shook her head. “I will see them in hell and me with them before I let them bully me.”

And that, Eslingen thought, is that. He lifted both hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said, and went back out into the main room. The journeymen–five of them, this time, and a different group– were still there, and he smiled brightly at them as he settled himself at his usual table. He reached for the stack of broadsheets, but couldn’t seem to concentrate on the printed letters. He could hear snatches of the young men’s conversations, animadversions against Leaguers and soldiers and child‑thieves, suspected he was meant to hear, and met their glares with the same blank smile. They finished their first pitcher, and, after a muttered consultation and much searching of pockets, the youngest of the group got up and went to the bar with the empty jug. Hulet refilled it, narrow‑eyed and sullen; the journeyman–he was little more than a boy, really–glared back, but had the sense to say nothing. As he returned to the table, a voice rose above the rest.

“–points searched the place, didn’t find them.”

Eslingen’s attention sharpened at that, though he didn’t move. Was someone going to make the commonsense argument at last? he wondered, and sighed almost inaudibly as a big man, fair as a Leaguer, shook his blond head.

“They were well fee’d not to find them, that’s all. They’re in it as deep as anyone–and that’s what comes of giving ordinary folk that kind of power.”

The oldest of the group leaned forward and said something, and the voices quieted again. Eslingen let himself relax, picked up another broadsheet at random, but it was no more successful than any of the others. He made himself read through it, however, all fifteen lines of obscure verse–the poet‑astrologer was obviously a Demean in her sentiments–but couldn’t tell whether the oblique intention was to blame foreigners or the city’s regents. Not that it mattered, anyway, he added silently, and set the sheet aside. What mattered was what the butchers on the Knives Road believed, and they’d made that all too clear already.

The main door opened then, letting in a wedge of the doubled afternoon sunlight, and Rathe made his way into the bar. He was barely recognizable as a pointsman, his jerkin scarred and worn, the truncheon almost out of sight under its skirts, and one of the journeyman started to smile at him before he recognized what he was. The smile vanished then, and he turned his back ostentatiously. Rathe’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing directly, and came across the room to lean on Eslingen’s table.

“I’ll want to talk with you after I’m done with Devynck,” he said, and Eslingen nodded, wondering what was going on. “There’s been a nasty bit of damage here, and to real property,” the pointsman went on, lifting his voice to carry to the young men at the other table. “That’ll be an expensive point, when we catch who did it.”

Eslingen hid a smile at that, but said nothing. The pointsman’s mouth twitched in an answering almost‑smile, and he turned away to disappear behind the bar. Eslingen leaned back in his chair again, watching the journeymen at their table, and wasn’t surprised to see them leaning heads together. Their hands were moving, too, suppressed, choppy gestures, and then the oldest‑looking stood up, shaking his head. He said something, but kept his voice low enough that Eslingen only caught two words, “hotheads” and then “Huviet.” Another young man stood with the other, and then a third; the oldest looked down at the others, his head tilted to one side in obvious inquiry. They looked away, and the first three turned and pushed their way out of the main door. A quarrel over tactics? Eslingen wondered. Damaging property seemed to be a cardinal evil in Astreiant.

The kitchen door opened again, and Rathe came out. His gaze swept over the now‑diminished table, and Eslingen almost would have sworn he smiled, but then the pointsman pointed toward the garden door. Eslingen sighed, and followed the other man out into the summer air. The garden was empty, the stools stacked on top of the tables, and he squinted toward the gate that led out into Point of Dreams, wondering if it was still locked and barred. He couldn’t see for certain, not at this distance, but would have been surprised to find it open: Devynck was not one to take unnecessary chances. Rathe leaned his hip against the nearest table, as easy and comfortable as if he were drinking in his own neighborhood, and Eslingen gave him a sour look.

Rathe met it blandly. “I take it you haven’t had any trouble with that lot in there?”

“Not yet,” Eslingen answered, and knew he sounded bitter.

Rathe nodded. “I told Aagte she should close for a day or two, let this blow over.”

“Do you really think this would go away in a day or two?” Eslingen demanded.

“No, not really. But they might find someone more likely to blame.”

“They might,” Eslingen said. “Anyway, when I suggested it, she said no.”

Rathe nodded again. “She told me no, too.” He sighed. “So how are they behaving themselves, these junior butchers?”

Eslingen made a face. “Well enough, at least today. Though I still think Aagte’s right, it was them who broke our windows. But today, they’re just sitting here. They pay for their beer politely enough, and they keep their voices down, haven’t given me an excuse to be rid of them–or the pointswoman who was here earlier.”

“That was Amerel Ghiraldy,” Rathe said. “She’s good.”

Eslingen grunted. “Aagte thinks they’re watching us, and I agree. I don’t know whether they think you didn’t find the missing children yesterday because you were bribed or because we were clever, or just because the lads weren’t here, but they–the journeymen, anyway– are convinced that we’re involved in all this, and they’re going to keep an eye on us until they find something to blame us for. And if you hadn’t given Huviet that much credence, searching our place, we might not be in this state.”

For a minute, he thought he’d gone too far, and then the corners of Rathe’s mouth turned up in a sour smile. “Monteia searched the place because she thought it’d make a difference. For you, not against you, I might add. Huviet is not universally loved, it seemed a good bet to call her bluff.” The smile widened. “But I’ll grant you it hasn’t worked the way she planned.”

“No.” Eslingen leaned against another table, looked across the kitchen garden with its patches of herbs and vegetables. He smelled basil suddenly, and saw a gargoyle run a paw across the fragrant leaves. It reached beyond them, then, into the vegetables, and he stooped quickly, found a pebble, and slung it in the creature’s direction. It lifted instantly, scolding, and he looked back at Rathe. “Instead of solving the problem of them thinking Leaguers are stealing their apprentices, they’re now thinking the points are conspiring with us.”

Rathe swore under his breath. “You’re sure–no, sorry, that was stupid.”

“It’s what I’ve overheard,” Eslingen answered.

Rathe muttered something else. The gargoyle circled the garden plot again, spiraling lower, heedless of the scarecrow, and he glanced down at the dirt beneath his feet. He found a heavier stone, and flung it with a violence that was startling. The gargoyle sheered away, barely able to dodge, and Rathe looked abashed. “Sorry. I should’ve expected it, I suppose.”

“It seems to me–” Eslingen chose his words with care. “It seems to me that you might have done, yes. Given what I’ve paid in fees, and what I know Aagte and all the others here pay in fees–” He stopped at the look on Rathe’s face, spread his hands in instant apology.

Rathe took a deep breath. “We don’t all take fees for everything,” he said, his voice ragged with temper, “and not for something like this. Gods, put the worst face on it, it’d be bad for business, making everyone hate us like this. Rather puts paid to our chance of getting more fees, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think,” Eslingen said, and let the ambiguity stand. “I don’t believe it, no. But it’s how people are thinking now.”

Rathe sighed again, visibly making himself relax. “No, I know it.” He shrugged, managed a sudden, almost genuine grin. “People are getting used to us, to the points, but it’s a slow process because it’s not precisely what most people call a natural situation. People like me–a southriver rat, I know what they say, and half of them are serious– enforcing the laws on people like them, property owners, burghers, even guildmasters? It’s not quite comfortable.”

And from the sound of it, Eslingen thought, that’s the part you like best about being a pointsman. He knew better than to say it aloud, however, after his previous gaffe, contented himself with saying, “So they’re quick to think the worst.”

Rathe nodded, the brief lightness going out of his face. “As I said, I should’ve expected it.”

Eslingen hesitated, a new thought rising in his mind. If the points were under suspicion, what better way to defuse that than to find a scapegoat, and what better scapegoat would they find, at least in Point of Hopes, than Devynck and the people at the Old Brown Dog. He opened his mouth to voice that fear, took another look at Rathe, and closed it again. Neither Rathe nor Monteia would be party to that; all he would have to worry about was the journeymen’s anger. “Is there any chance of a pointsman keeping watch here tonight? I daresay Aagte could find the extra fees, if it came to that.”

Rathe’s mouth twisted again. “She already asked. I said I’d try, but we’re stretched pretty thin, with the fair beginning tomorrow and the nightwatch already overworked. They’ll come by regularly, I’ll see to that, but I can’t promise to post anyone. I’ll speak to the masters, too, see if that helps at all.”

Eslingen sighed, but nodded. “I appreciate it, Rathe. As I’m sure Aagte does.”

Rathe smiled wryly. “Oh, I still don’t take fees, Eslingen, not even at times like these. As I said, I want to enjoy my points.” He pushed himself away from the table, stretching slightly, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. In that instant, Eslingen was aware of dark shadows under the other man’s eyes, lines that had not seemed as deeply carved bracketing his mouth. Obviously, he cared deeply about this business. And then Rathe shook himself, and the moment vanished. He lifted a hand in abstracted farewell, and went back through the inn. Eslingen followed, more slowly, hoping that the pointsman’s plan would work.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully enough, and as the first sundown approached, Eslingen began to hope that maybe the trouble would defuse itself. The knot of journeymen remained, but as the afternoon turned to evening and the sunlight faded to the silvery light of the winter‑sun, they, too, seemed to mellow, seemed more relaxed at their table. A pointsman’s clapper sounded from the street, the slow, steady beat of the wooden knot that marked the nightwatch, and he listened carefully as it moved close and then retreated. Rathe was keeping his promise there, at any rate. Jasanten appeared on his crutch, and no one said anything, or made his way more difficult than need be. Seeing that, Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief, and addressed his dinner–another of Devynck’s stews, vegetables, and meat in a broth thickened with beer and bread–with something like a normal appetite. The brewer didn’t make an appearance, but her son and a pair of his lemen, big, broad‑shouldered men like himself came in for a quick pint. They kept a scrupulous distance between themselves and the journeymen, but the one exchange of words was polite enough. Eslingen drew a slow breath as they moved apart again, and saw Adriana’s eyes on them as she brought him another pitcher of small beer.

“So far, so good,” he said softly, and immediately wished he hadn’t spoken. There was no point in tempting the gods.

She made a face, and Eslingen knew she was thinking the same thing. She set the pitcher in front of him, and then displayed her hands, fingers crossed in propitiation. “Only two more hours to second sunset. Sweet Tyrseis, I’ll be glad when we close.”

Eslingen nodded, and she turned away to answer a call from the kitchen. He poured himself another cup, but didn’t bother to taste it, his attention instead on the others in the empty room. The brewer’s son and his friends finished their drinks and the plate of bread and cheese and left, still quiet; the journeymen remained, were joined by another man who looked a little older than the rest. He, too, wore a butcher’s badge at his collar, and even from a distance Eslingen could tell that it was made of silver, not the pewter the others wore. Someone of real rank within the guild, then, he thought, and wondered if it were a good or a bad sign. The group of journeymen seemed more relaxed, at any rate; he could see more smiles among them, and once heard laughter, but he wasn’t sorry to hear the nightwatch’s clapper in the street outside.

The light was fading steadily, paling toward true night. He went out to the garden privy, glad of the cooler air–the inn held the day’s heat in its walls and floor, a benefit in winter, but uncomfortable at the height of the year–and on his way back looked west to see the diamond point of the winter‑sun almost down between the housetops, poised between two chimney pots. Even this low, it was still too bright to look at directly, and he blinked, and went back into the main room, a point of green haze dancing in the center of his vision.

Loret emerged from the kitchen in almost the same moment, began closing the shutters on the garden wall. He had to stretch to fasten the upper bolts, and in the same moment, one of the journeymen called, “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Last call,” Adriana said, from behind the bar. “It’s almost closing, so if you want another round, this is your chance.”

Eslingen moved closer to the bar, keeping an eye on the group at the table. They were the only customers, except for Jasanten, drowsing at his corner table, and there were only four of them; not bad odds, Eslingen thought, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. The journeymen exchanged glances, and then the oldest one, the one with the silver badge, stood, stretching.

“Not for us, I think. Come on, let’s pay and be gone.”

The others copied him, reaching into purses and pockets to come up with a handful of copper coins. There was only the last pitcher to pay for; they counted out the coins, and the leader, shrugging, added a last demming to bring it up to the mark. Eslingen heard Adriana release a held breath, and nodded to Loret, who came to take the coins, touching his forehead in perfunctory salute. The journeymen ignored him, as they’d been ignoring him all night, and turned in a body for the door. Eslingen pulled himself away from the bar and followed, intending to bar the door as soon as they’d gone.

Before he could reach it, however, there was a shout from outside. He stepped hastily into the doorway, blocking it completely, and looked back over his shoulder for Loret. “Go to Point of Hopes, now.”

The waiter’s eyes widened, and he darted out the garden door.

“Trouble?” Adriana called, and banged on the kitchen door, a deliberate, prearranged pattern.

Eslingen nodded, not taking his eyes from the street. A new group was moving toward him from the Knives Road, a dozen people, maybe more. The leaders, at least, carried torches, and behind them their followers’ shapes blended, in the new dark, into a single mass. The torchlight glinted from more badges at hat and coat, and Eslingen realized with a sinking feeling that at least some of these were masters, not mere journeymen. The group who had been drinking in the Old Brown Dog had stopped in the dooryard, and Eslingen could have sworn he saw confusion in the leader’s face.

“You, soldier!”

The voice was unfamiliar, sounded older than the run of journeymen, and Eslingen couldn’t suppress a grimace. If the masters were leading, this time, it would be a hell of a lot harder to get them to back down.

“Stand aside,” the voice went on, and Eslingen shook his head.

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed.”

“What in all hells do they want?” Devynck demanded, but softly.

Eslingen didn’t dare look back at her, but he could feel her presence at his elbow. “I don’t know yet,” he answered, and kept his voice equally low, “but I sent Loret to Point of Hopes.”

“Good man.” Devynck pressed something into the palm of his hand, and with a shock Eslingen recognized the butt of his own pistol. He took it, keeping it hidden behind the skirts of his coat, looked out into the street.

“Stand aside, soldier,” the voice came again, and Devynck swore under her breath.

“That’s Nigaud, I thought he was a friend.”

“We know you’ve got the children here,” a lighter voice chimed in, “and we’re not going away until we’ve found them.”

“Huviet,” Eslingen said, and didn’t bother to hide his disgust. He lifted his voice to carry to the group’s leader. “His mother made the same complaint yesterday, brought the pointsmen here and searched, and found nothing. I don’t see why we’re still suspected. There are no children here.”

“Then stand aside and let us see for ourselves,” Nigaud answered.

“Over my dead body,” Devynck muttered. “Adriana. Fetch my sword, and Philip’s.”

Eslingen didn’t move, though he heard the rustle of cloth as Adriana did as she was told. “We’ve been searched already, by those with the right to do it. If I let you in, when you find nothing, what’ll you do, break the rest of our windows?”

“If you don’t have anything to hide, why don’t you let us in?” Paas Huviet shouted, and there was a little murmur of agreement from the crowd.

“I won’t let you in because you don’t have a right to be here,” Eslingen called, “and you don’t offer me any promises that you won’t loot the place while you’re here. Gods, man, there were people from your guild drinking here all day, ask them if they saw any sign of the children.”

There was a little pause, and the leader of the last group stepped into the circle of torchlight. “I didn’t see anything, I admit. But they could be somewhere else in the building.”

“See?” Huviet shouted.

“They’re going to come in,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and heard Devynck’s grunt of agreement.

“Loret’s gone for the points, see if we can at least get them to agree to that.”

Eslingen nodded. “Masters,” he called, “we understand your concerns for the children–we’re worried, too, we all know someone who’s lost a child.” That was an exaggeration, but he hoped it would pass in the dark and the excitement. “But I’ve a responsibility to this house and to Mistress Devynck. Send someone to the points, Point of Hopes or Point of Dreams, it doesn’t matter, but send to them. Let one of them come with you, keep everything on the right side of the law, and I’ll gladly let you pass.”

There was a murmur at that, half approving, half uncertain, and Paas’s voice rose over the general noise. “They fee’d the points not to find them, why should we trust them?”

“Be quiet,” Nigaud snapped.

At his side, Eslingen felt Adriana’s sudden presence, glanced down to see her holding his sword at the ready. Behind her, Jasanten perched on a table, Devynck’s caliver and another pistol in his lap, busy loading them with powder and ball. Hulet stood in the garden door, half‑pike in hand.

“Even if the points are fee’d in this,” Nigaud went on, “which I’m not convinced of, Paas, for all your talk, they still can’t stop us from searching where we please. I’m prepared to send for a pointsman, soldier–unless you’ve already done so?”

“Go ahead,” Eslingen answered, and Nigaud nodded to one of the younger journeymen.

“Go on, then, go to Point of Hopes.”

Eslingen held his breath, not moving from the inn’s doorway. The longer they could postpone this, the more time the butchers had to think about what they were doing and about what they might do. The masters, at least, were property owners; the more time they had to think about the precedent they were setting, the better for Devynck. The more time they waited, without hostilities, without provocation, the more time there was for the blood to cool, and it was a rare man who, untrained, could order an attack in cold blood. The group’s leaders, Nigaud and another man in a full‑skirted coat, a master’s badge in his hat, were talking again, their voices too low to be heard more than a few feet away. After a moment, the leader of the last group of journeymen moved to join them, and Eslingen saw him spread his hands in an expressive shrug.

Then he heard the sound of the nightwatch’s wooden clapper again, faster now, as though its holder was running, coming from the western end of the Knives Road. About half the gathered journeymen turned to look, and one of the torchbearers turned with them, lifting her torch to send its light further down the dark street. A pointsman appeared at the end of the street, his lantern swinging with the beat of the clapper; the young journeyman trailed breathlessly at his heels.

“What’s all this, then?” the pointsman asked, and put his free hand on his truncheon. Eslingen swore under his breath, and heard Devynck curse.

“What do that stars have against me, that it should be Ranazy?” she muttered. “We’re in trouble now, Philip.”

“This is an illegal gathering,” the pointsman went on, lifting his voice to carry over the angry murmur that answered his first words. “I’ll have to tell you to disperse, or face the point.”

“Like hell we will,” someone shouted, and Nigaud waved his arms for silence.

“Pointsman, we have cause to think that the missing children–our missing children, anyway–are being held at the Old Brown Dog. I, and Master Estienes, and Master Follet, are all willing to swear the complaint, and anything else you like, but we won’t leave here until that place has been searched from top to bottom.”

Ranazy stopped in the middle of the street, seemed for the first time to become aware of the crowd’s temper. “Master–Nigaud, isn’t it?”

Nigaud nodded. Obviously, Eslingen thought, the man was well known, a man of real importance in Point of Hopes–and not the person we want standing against us.

“Master, this house was searched yesterday, and we found nothing. The children aren’t here.” Ranazy spread his hands, the lantern and the clapper jangling.

“Ranazy!” The shout came from the end of the street. Rathe’s voice, Eslingen realized, with real relief, and in the same instant saw a tight knot of pointsmen, maybe ten in all, turn the corner. They, too, carried lanterns, and in their light Eslingen could see the dull gleam of armor under the leather jerkins. They carried calivers as well, new‑fashioned flintlocks, as well as half‑pikes and halberds: Rathe and his people had come prepared for serious trouble.

“I searched it myself,” Ranazy went on, and Paas Huviet’s voice rose above the angry murmuring.

“You see? I told you they were fee’d to let them go. Search the inn ourselves, we won’t get the kids back any other way.”

“Hold it,” Rathe shouted again, but his voice was drowned in the roar of agreement.

“Break in the door,” another voice shouted. “Save the children.”

The journeymen surged toward the inn’s door. Eslingen took a deep breath, and brought the pistol out from behind his coat. “Stop there,” he called, and leveled the barrel at the knot of young men. At this distance he could hardly miss hitting one of them, but he doubted they were cool enough to realize it. Adriana pressed the hilt of his sword into his left hand, and he took it, already bracing himself for the rush that would follow the first shot.

“We’re willing to let the points in,” he tried again, and Paas’s voice rose in answer.

“Because you paid them. Get him!”

“I’ll fire,” Eslingen warned, and promised Areton an incense cake if the lock did not misfire. The pointsmen were hurrying toward him, half‑pikes held across their bodies, but the bulk of the journeymen were between them and the inn, and showed no sign of giving way.

“Cowards!” Paas shouted. “Get the Leaguer bastard!” He lunged for the door, drawing his knife, and there were half a dozen men behind him. Eslingen swore again, and pulled the trigger. The lock fired, the flash and bang of the powder momentarily blinding everyone, and then he’d slung the pistol behind him onto the inn’s floor and drew his sword right‑handed. Paas staggered back, clutching his chest–the shot was mortal, Eslingen knew instantly, and didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry–and collapsed in the arms of the journeymen behind him.

“Hold it!” Rathe shouted again, and he and his troop shoved their way through the crowd that seemed abruptly chastened by the violence. “Nigaud, get your boys in hand, or I’ll call points on the lot of you.”

“He shot Paas,” one of the journeymen called, and his voice broke painfully.

“I saw it,” Rathe answered, “and I saw Paas charge the door, too.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s the nearest physician, Clock Street?” He seemed to get an answer from one of the pointsmen, and nodded. “Fetch her, quick, then, see what can be done for the boy. Now, Nigaud, what in Astree’s name is going on here?”

“They’re hiding the children,” Nigaud said, and Eslingen let himself relax at last. Somehow, exactly how he didn’t know, Rathe had gotten control of the situation again. Astreiant’s common folk might not like giving one of their own authority, but in a crisis, it seemed it was better than nothing.

Rathe said, “The chief point herself searched this house yesterday, and nothing was found. You’ve seen something that makes you think they’re here now? I know you had people watching this house, I saw them here this afternoon.”

Nigaud’s gaze faltered, but he rallied quickly enough. “The chief point may have been here, but none of us were, and the rest of the points were people like him.” He pointed to Ranazy. “We know how much his fees are, we all pay them. The Leaguer has money enough to buy his silence.”