Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Eslingen jumped as Devynck touched his shoulder.

“Let me out,” she said, and he stepped sideways to let her edge past him. “Rathe! I’m willing to let the masters search my house this time, if only you’ll supervise them, and I told them that all along.”

Rathe nodded, looked at Nigaud. “That’s more than you have a right to, Master Nigaud, but I’m willing to go with you, and the other masters here.”

Nigaud nodded back, but the well‑dressed master–Follet, Eslingen thought–said, “And what about Paas? He was a hothead, but he was my journeyman.”

The physician had arrived from Clock Street, an apprentice, barefoot and tousled, lugging her case of instruments. She knelt beside the injured man, her movements brisk and certain, but she looked up at that, and shook her head. “I’ve done what I can. It’s in Demis’s hands now.”

In translation, Eslingen thought, he’s a dead man. Why in Areton’s name didn’t I aim for something less mortal? The damned astrologer got it all wrong. He shook the thought away–he’d had no choice, if he’d missed Paas he would almost certainly have hit one of the others in as deadly a spot–and looked at Rathe, wondering what would happen now. Rathe looked back at him, his face expressionless in the uncertain light of the lanterns and the dying torches.

“It’s manslaughter at the least, though there’s an argument for self‑defense. Eslingen, I’m calling a point on you. Hand over your weapons and go quietly.”

Eslingen drew breath to protest, but swallowed the words unspoken. The situation was still delicate, even he could see that much, and surely Rathe was right when he hinted that he could claim self‑defense. “Very well,” he said shortly, and extended his sword, hilt first, toward the pointsman.

Rathe took it, unsurprised by the weight and balance, rested its point cautiously on the top of his boot. “And the pistol?”

Eslingen jerked his head toward the inn door. “Inside, on the floor somewhere.”

“Adriana!” Rathe called, and a moment later the woman appeared warily in the doorway, “Bring me Eslingen’s pistol, please.”

For an instant, Eslingen thought she was going to refuse, but she only tossed her head, and vanished back into the shadows. She reappeared a moment later carrying the pistol, and crossed the dooryard without looking at the butchers. Rathe took the gun, slipping it into his belt beside his truncheon; Adriana turned on her heel, and went to join her mother. The pointsman looked back at Eslingen, who braced himself to hear the sentence.

“Benech and Savine will take you to Point of Sighs.” He lifted his voice to carry to the crowd. “The cells there are more secure than at Point of Hopes.” Eslingen thought he saw a fugitive smile cross Rathe’s face. “And a bit more comfortable than a stall, which is what ours are. Do you give me your word you’ll go quietly, lieutenant?”

Eslingen hesitated, wondering if he shouldn’t run–he could take the two pointsmen, of that he felt certain, and he had killed the journeyman, not to mention being a Leaguer in the wrong place at the wrong time–but then put the thought away. He hadn’t stolen the children, and neither had Devynck; and if he ran, he would only put her further in the wrong. “You have my word on it,” he said, stiffly, and Rathe nodded.

“Right, then. See that he gets there safely.”

“Thank you for that,” Eslingen said, not entirely sarcastically, and turned to face the two pointsmen. “Lead on.”

6

« ^ »

it took the better part of the next two hours to lead Nigaud and a handful of his journeymen through the Old Brown Dog. Rathe was careful to stand aside and let them do most of the work, intervening only when Devynck’s stores seemed threatened, and at the end of it Nigaud faced him with visible embarrassment.

“There’s no one here,” he said, at last, and Rathe barely stopped himself from nodding.

“No,” he said, instead, and kept his tone and face impassive. “Will you say as much to your people, Master Nigaud, you and Master Follet?”

“We will,” Nigaud said shortly, and Follet cleared his throat.

“And how much of a difference does this make in terms of a point?”

Rathe cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

Follet took a deep breath. “People of mine are liable for riot, I can see that, just as that knife of Devynck’s is liable for manslaughter. So where do we stand with that, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe studied him for a long moment, torn between anger and a grudging respect for the man. Follet’s journeymen–and Nigaud’s and probably a few others’–could indeed be taken up for provoking trouble and assault, especially after they’d all been warned the day before; at least he was acknowledging it, even if he was also angling for a fee. “Given the circumstances, Master Follet–I’ve been working on the business of Mailet’s missing apprentice myself, along with a dozen others, I know how frantic we all are. Given the circumstances, I’m prepared to overlook the formal point on your journeymen. Paas Huviet’s hurt, maybe dying, that’s enough for me. However, we will require two things from you, masters. First, I want you to post a bond for good behavior for the ringleaders among the journeymen–you know who they are as well as I do, and I’ll give you the names in the morning.” He held up his hand to forestall the automatic protest. “This is a bond, not a fee, you’ll get it back when they make their appearance at the fall assizes as long as there’s no more trouble from them. I don’t want fees from you, or from anyone right now. I want to be free to chase these child‑thieves where or whoever they are. Is that clear?”

He could hear himself on the verge of anger, was not surprised to see Follet’s matching frown, but Nigaud lifted both hands in surrender. “The guild will pay the bonds, Adjunct Point.”

Follet nodded. “You said two things?”

“That’s right.” Rathe did his best to moderate his tone. “Devynck’s knife, Eslingen–I don’t expect you to press the point. It was self‑defense and defense of property, and that’s where it will stand.”

Nigaud looked at Follet. “He was your journeyman.”

Follet made a face, as though he’d bitten into something sour. “And he was at fault, I admit it. All right. I won’t press the point.”

“Good.” Rathe sighed, suddenly aware of how late it was, and in the same moment heard the tower clock strike three. “Then let’s get your people home.”

He made it back to his own lodgings in time to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but dragged himself out of bed as the local clock sounded eight. Someone from the Butchers’ Guild would be coming to pay the journeymen’s bond, and he wanted to be there personally to oversee the process. Still, he was later than usual as he entered the gate at Point of Hopes, and glanced around to see if the guild’s representative had somehow gotten there ahead of him. There was no sign of him or her, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“We’re sent for,” Monteia said.

Rathe paused in the station doorway, coat already halfway off his shoulders. He looked at her, seeing the unexpected tidiness of her clothes–her best skirt, unmistakably, and probably her best bodice beneath the polished leather of her jerkin–and the truncheon slung neatly at her waist. “The sur?” he asked, and Monteia gave a grim smile.

“The city.“ She nodded to the table where the duty recorder sat, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t all ears. A half sheet of good paper lay among the clutter of slates and reused broadsheets, the city seal at its foot visible from across the room.

Rathe’s eyebrows rose at that, and he shrugged himself back into his coat, crossed to the table to pick up the summons. It was from the Council of Regents, all right, signed by the grande bourgeoise herself, and her seal lay just above the more massive slab of wax that was the city’s.

“The sur will be there, of course,” Monteia went on, “but it’s for us–me, primarily. Madame Gausaron dislikes disorder.”

Rathe nodded absently, skimming through the neat lines of secretarial hand. “All right,” he said, “but I don’t know what she thinks we should have done.”

“Nor I.” Monteia studied him thoughtfully. “Houssaye! I won’t have you, Nico, appearing before the regents like that. It won’t help us any if you look hungry.”

“Chief Point–”

“Ma’am?” That was Houssaye, the station’s junior pointsman, coming in from the garden belting his trousers. He finished that and reached for the buttons of his coat, but Monteia shook her head at him.

“Don’t bother. You’re loaning that to Nico–we’ve business with the regents.”

Houssaye blinked, but slipped obediently out of the coat. “Yes, Chief.”

“I have clothes of my own,” Rathe said.

“And no time to fetch them,” Monteia answered. “This is important, Nico.”

Rathe started to bridle, but she was right, of course, it mattered how one looked, prosperous but sober, particularly when one was dealing with the women of the Council of Regents, but he had dressed for the work he expected, not for a council visit. Not that his best clothes were anything out of the ordinary–he was hard on clothes, and knew it, had learned to buy good plain materials that stood the wear–but it stung to be dressed like a child in someone else’s best. Still, Houssaye was his size and build and coloring; as he pulled the light wool over his shoulders, he had to admit that it wasn’t too far from something he might have bought himself. He fastened the waist buttons–loose; Houssaye had an inch or three on him there–and hastily rewound the stock that fastened the neck of his shirt. “We’ve got people from the Butchers’ Guild coming to post bond, and I wanted to be there,” he muttered, a last protest, and reached for his jerkin and the truncheon that hung beneath it.

“Oh, you can still have that one,” Monteia answered, and looked at Houssaye. “You’re in charge until Salineis gets in or we get back–I told her she could sleep in, after last night. The release order is in my office, get a fair copy made and send it off to Point of Sighs as soon as you can. Use the station seal. When the guildmasters show up, tell them they’ll have to wait–and you can tell them why.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“What’s going to happen to Eslingen?” Rathe said. “It wasn’t exactly fair, calling the point on him, no matter how necessary it was.” He still felt obscurely guilty for calling a point on the Leaguer, couldn’t quite work up much indignation for Paas Huviet, even if he had been shot. His eye fell on the daybook, and the most recent entry: Paas Huviet had died close to first sunrise, according to the physician who’d tended him. He considered it, but even the death didn’t make much difference. Huviet had been a troublemaker, Eslingen had been doing his job, and that, he hoped, would be an end to it.

“It’s technically manslaughter,” Monteia said, and jammed her hat onto her piled hair. Rathe looked at her, and she sighed. “But I’ve ordered his release, you heard me do it, and I won’t be pressing charges unless and until someone’s stupid enough to force me to it. Does that meet with your approval, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe nodded. “He did the best he could–better than I’d’ve expected, frankly, it was a nasty situation. And it wasn’t him who started it.”

“I know,” Monteia said. “And you know why you had to do it. Now, come on.” She swept through the door without waiting for an answer.

Rathe followed, aware of the unfamiliar weight of the coat’s skirts around his legs. They hampered his knife hand, got in the way of his reach either for purse or tablets, but he had to admit that the beer brown wool looked good against his skin, and against the decent linen of his shirts. It might be nice to have a coat like this, for best–he put the thought firmly aside. The coat might look well enough now, but after a month of his wearing, it would be as shapeless as any other he owned. Monteia had a nice eye for clothes on a man–but then, she had a son just reaching apprenticeship, and the vanities that went with it.

They crossed the Hopes‑point Bridge, squinting in the morning light that glinted from the river. The sun was still low in the sky, the shadows long, the winter‑sun not yet risen, and there was dew on the grass as they crossed the gardens of the Maternite. It would be hot later, Rathe thought, and made a face at the irrelevance of the concern.

The only heat he needed to worry about would come from the council.

The regents met at All‑Guilds at the heart of the Mercandry. The massive building dominated the little square, four stories high, new halls built against the walls of the original until the walls rose like stairsteps to the point of the roof. The old‑style carvings above the arch of the main entrance showed Heira presiding over a banquet of the various craft deities. Rathe recognized Didonae and Hesion and a few of the deities invoked by the lesser guilds, but there were a good half dozen he couldn’t place at once. Which wasn’t that surprising, he added silently: each craft was its own mystery, and had its own rites and special patrons. No one could know them all, not even the university specialists. Only Bonfortune was missing: the god of the longdistance traders had no place in this gathering of Merchants Resident.

One of the four doors was open, and Monteia led the way into the sudden shadow. Inside, the hall was startlingly cool, the heavy stones still holding a faint chill from the winter’s cold. The people hurrying past–young women, mostly, the long blue robes of guild affiliation thrown casually over brighter skirts and bodices, clutching ledgers and tablets–barely seemed to notice their existence, or no more than was necessary to avoid running into them. Rathe made a face, but knew enough to keep his mouth shut, and followed Monteia to the foot of the main staircase. There was a guard there, a greying man in council livery and polished back‑and‑breast, half‑pike in hand: more symbolic than anything, Rathe thought, but it wasn’t a symbol he much liked.

“Chief Point Monteia, Point of Hopes,” Monteia said. “And Adjunct Point Rathe.”

The soldier nodded gravely. “Down the hall to your left, Chief Point. Madame Gausaron is waiting.”

Monteia nodded back, and turned away. Sunlight striped the stones of the hall, falling through windows cut into the wall above the roof of the building’s latest addition, and Rathe was grateful for its intermittent warmth. Another young woman in the blue guilds’‑coat was waiting by a carved door; as they got closer, he could see the council’s badge, a stylized version of Heira’s Banquet, embroidered above her left breast. She bowed her head slightly at their approach, and said, “Chief Point. Monteia?”

“Yes.” Only the twitch of Monteia’s lips betrayed any emotion at all. “And Adjunct Point Rathe. For the grande bourgeoise.”

The woman nodded again, and swung the door open for them. “Chief Point Monteia and Adjunct Point Rathe.”

The room was very bright, startlingly so after the shadows of the entrance and the intermittent sunlight of the hallway. Two of the four walls were fretted stone, a pattern of flowers filled in with orbs of colored glass, so that they looked out into the garden behind All‑Guilds through another garden made of light and shade. Rathe blinked, dazzled, and brought himself to attention at Monteia’s side. He had never been this far into All‑Guilds–never been this close to any of the guild mistresses who controlled the city’s day‑to‑day government–but he refused to show his ignorance.

“So. What the devil is going on southriver, Surintendant, that your people can’t keep control of a tavern fight?” The speaker was a tall woman in the expensive respectable black of a merchant whose family had kept shop on the Mercandry for a hundred years. There was fine lace at her collar and cuffs, and on her cap, forming a incongruously delicate frame for her long, heavy‑fleshed face. She looked, Rathe thought, with sudden, inward delight, rather like Monteia would, if the chief point were fattened for a season or three.

“Madame, the situation is hardly normal,” the surintendant began, and Gausaron waved a hand that glinted with gold leaf.

“No, Surintendant, it’s all too normal. The points do nothing–for what reason I don’t know, and make no judgment, yet–until the situation is past bearing. And then a man, an honest journeyman‑butcher, is shot dead in the street.”

“This is not a question of fees–” Monteia began, and the surintendant cut in hastily.

“Madame, the people who attacked the tavern were and are concerned for their missing children, but they were still outside the law.”

“We’re all concerned about the missing children.” The voice came from the shadows behind the grande bourgeoise’s desk, a cool, pleasant voice that somehow suggested a smile. The speaker–she had been sitting in the shadows all the while, Rathe realized–rose slowly and came around the edge of the desk, skirts rustling with the unmistakable sound of silk. The metropolitan of Astreiant, the queen’s half‑niece and one of the stronger candidates for the throne, leaned back against the desk, and smiled benevolently over the gathering. “And I know some of the actions the points have already taken, thanks to you, Surintendant. But I’d like to hear from you, Chief Point, what happened last night. And from the beginning, if you please.”

“Your Grace.” Monteia took a deep breath, and launched into an account of the trouble, beginning with the Old Brown Dog and its history, through the complaints that Devynck was hiding the missing children and her own search of the premises, to the violence of the night before. Her voice was remote, almost stilted, faltering only slightly when she came to Paas’s death. Rathe, who had heard her speak a hundred times before, watched Astreiant instead. She looked no older than himself, tall and strongly built, with the body of someone who faced active sports and the table with equal pleasure. She wore her hair loose, the thick tarnished‑brass curls caught back under a brimless cap. The style flattered her handsome features–lucky for her that’s the latest fashion, Rathe thought, and only then thought to wonder if she’d started it.

“And you’re certain this Devynck has nothing to do with these missing children,” Astreiant said, and Rathe recalled himself to the business at hand.

“Absolutely certain, Your Grace,” Monteia answered.

The grande bourgeoise made a soft noise through her teeth, and Astreiant darted an amused glance in her direction. “I think what Madame is too polite to say is that you’ve taken Devynck’s fees.”

“I have,” Monteia answered. “And I’ve taken fees from every other shopkeeper and guildmistress and tavernkeeper in Point of Hopes, too. It’d be more to the point, Madame, Your Grace, to say I’m Aagte Devynck’s friend, because I am, and I make no secret of it. But it’s because I know her, because I’m her friend and I know what she will and won’t sell, that I can tell you she would never be involved in something like this. I’m as sure of that as I’m sure of my own stars.”

Astreiant nodded gravely. “Will the rest of Point of Hopes believe it, though? I’m as concerned as Madame Gausaron with keeping the peace southriver.”

Monteia looked away, looked toward the surintendant as though for reassurance, then back at Astreiant. “Your Grace, I think so. It’s morning, they’re chastened by what they did.” She darted a glance at the grande bourgeoise. “As Madame said, there was a death to no purpose. I think it’s sobered them all down.”

“Yes, the journeyman‑butcher,” Astreiant said. She looked at Gausaron. “I must say, Madame, I think he got what he deserved. Threatening a woman’s property–the knife, what’s‑his‑name, seems to have been within his right.”

“What’s being done with the knife?” Gausaron asked.

“Madame, he was taken to the cells at Point of Sighs,” Monteia answered.

“He’ll be released today,” Rathe said, and heard the challenge in his voice too late. “The point’s bound to be disallowed–it was self‑defense, not just defense of property.”

Astreiant fixed her gaze on him for the first time. Her eyes were very pale, a color between blue and grey, and tilted slightly downward at the outer corners. “It seems a reasonable interpretation,” she said, after a moment, and Rathe wondered what she had been going to say. She looked at Gausaron. “Madame, it’s a dangerous time, and you’re right to be concerned, but I have to say, I think the chief point handled this as well as anyone could have.”

The grand bourgeoise nodded, rather grudgingly. “Though there’d be less to worry about if they’d find out who’s stealing our children.”

“Madame, we are trying,” the surintendant said, through clenched teeth.

“And I would appreciate your keeping me informed of your progress,” Astreiant said, and pushed herself away from Gausaron’s desk. “And in the meantime, I know we’ve taken enough of your time.”

It was unmistakably a dismissal. Rathe bowed, not as reluctantly as sometimes, and followed the other pointsmen from the room. As the door closed behind them, the surintendant touched his shoulder.

“That was well handled, Monteia. I want to borrow Rathe, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m glad Astreiant was there,” Monteia said, and only then seemed to hear the rest of the surintendant’s words. “I’ll need him back, sir, and soon.”

“Only for a moment,” the surintendant answered, and Monteia shook her head, lips tightening.

“Very well, sir. Rathe, I’ll want to talk to you when you get back.” She turned, skirts swirling, walked away down the hall, her low heels ringing on the stones.

“Yes, Chief,” Rathe said, to her departing back, and wondered what was going to happen now. He knew Monteia distrusted Fourie– he shared the feeling himself at times–and found himself, not for the first time, reviewing the list of his most recent behavior.

Fourie’s thin lips were twisted into an ironic smile, as though he’d read the thought. “I may have just made more trouble for you, Rathe. Sorry.”

And if you are, that’s the first time, Rathe thought, but couldn’t muster real resentment. This was the way the surintendant worked; he could accept it or not, but live with it he had to. “What was it you wanted, sir?”

Fourie shook his head, looking around the busy hall. “This is no place to talk. Come with me.”

Rathe followed him through the Clockmakers’ Square and then along the arcaded walk that ran along the southern edge of the Temple Fair, feeling if anything rather like a dog of somewhat dubious breed. Fourie made no comment, never even looked back, until at last he stopped by one of the tall casements that looked out across the dust‑drifted paving. The ballad‑sellers and the printers seemed to be doing their usual brisk business, but there were fewer children than usual among the crowd. Rathe looked again, but saw no sign of black robes or grey, freelance astrologers or students.

“They’re only interested because it’s bad for business,” Fourie said. His tone was conversational, but Rathe wasn’t fooled. The surintendant was angrier than he had let on in the grande bourgeoise’s presence–in Astreiant’s presence–angry that two of his people had been questioned by the regents’s representative, angry that none of them had done anything to find the missing children, angriest of all that he didn’t have any more likely course of action than he had the day the first child had disappeared. And don’t we all feel that way, Rathe thought, but I wish I were elsewhere just now.

“If it weren’t for the fair,” Fourie went on, “they wouldn’t be quite so concerned. Of course, if it were just southriver brats going missing, they wouldn’t even have noticed. Makes me sick. Do your jobs, but expect us to interfere every chance we got, and don’t, whatever you do, let doing your jobs disturb us.”

“Astreiant seems a bit more–reasonable,” Rathe ventured, wondering where this was leading.

The surintendant seemed on the verge of a snort, then shook his head. “No, you’re right about that. Astreiant seems to have a finer understanding of what’s involved in the enforcement of the queen’s law. Gods only know where she got it. It doesn’t seem to run in the nobility.”

“Or the haut bourgeoisie,” Rathe said, unable to stop himself, and Fourie responded with another thin smile.

“Oh, they’re worse. And I daresay you and I could go on like this all day with our grievances, but that would get nothing done. So, Rathe. What have you done about Caiazzo?”

Not precisely the haut bourgeoisie, no longdistance trader is, but close enough, Rathe thought. I might have known where this was leading. “I wasn’t aware, sir, that you precisely wanted me to do anything. I thought my writ was to keep an eye on him, for any possible involvement in these disappearances, and that I’ve done. I’ve spoken with him, mostly on the matter of his printers. And that knife of his I made the point on at the end of the Dog Moon.” He shook his head. “But–I’m sorry, sir–I just don’t see that this is anything Caiazzo would get himself involved in. Where’s the reason behind it, sir? And, more to the point, where’s the profit? Oh, I know what you said about political profit, but that’s never been his style, it’s too–too far down the road. Caiazzo always wants results he can see now as well as make use of later. Sure, he could make use of a political profit later, but where’s the immediate profit?”

Fourie shrugged, a faint frown creasing the space between his eyebrows, and Rathe realized he’d let himself get carried away by his own argument. “Have your investigations turned up something more likely, Adjunct Point?”

“I’ll agree it’s likely the starchange is involved,” Rathe said, stung, and remembered b’Estorr’s account of the rumors circulating at the university. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering about these hedge‑astrologers the Three Nations were complaining about.” He hadn’t meant it, had just been looking for an alternative, but as his own words sank in, he pursued the thought. “Think of it–where have they come from? They don’t claim association with any of the altars, or with the university–and they’ve pissed off the students as a body, which sensible people don’t do–and ostensibly claim no political affiliation. And if you’re not buying that bill of goods for Caiazzo, sir, you can’t buy it from these.”

The surintendant studied him with a jaundiced gaze. “Then I trust the arbiters of the fair, or Fairs’ Point, or University Point, are looking into it, as well as you. But at the same time, I don’t want you ignoring the possibility of Caiazzo’s involvement in favor of your own theories– I very carefully don’t say because you like him. This is too important, Nico. Whatever you think of my feelings toward him, I wouldn’t order you do to something like this if I didn’t think–feel–there was good reason. But I want it done.”

Rathe took a deep breath, held it until his own temper subsided. Fourie had spent more time in the company–the presence–of the grande bourgeoise. If Gausaron had left Monteia, and Rathe himself, a little short‑tempered, it was astonishing that the surintendant had kept his notoriously short temper in check for so long. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir, though I won’t pretend it’ll be easy.”

Fourie smiled, a bloodless expression, without humor. “If it were easy, Nico, I wouldn’t have insisted on your doing it.”

And that, Rathe thought, was as close to a commendation as anyone got from the sur, short of a eulogy.

When he got back to the station, the hour‑stick was just showing midday, and he made a face at it: it had already been a long day, and didn’t look to get any shorter. He found Houssaye, returned his coat to him, and shrugged gratefully back into his own, welcoming its familiarity. He had just settled in at his worktable when Salineis poked her head in the door.

“Lieutenant Eslingen to see you, Nico.”

Rathe bit back a groan–he doubted the Leaguer was there to thank him for anything–but nodded. “All right, send him in.”

Eslingen had clearly found–or taken–the time to tidy himself up from the depredations of a night spent in one of Sighs’ cells. His hair was caught neatly back, though the ribbon no longer matched the color of his coat, his hat was brushed, its plume uncrushed, and his linen was bright. Rathe wished for a moment that he hadn’t been in such a hurry to return Houssaye’s coat, then put the thought aside with impatience. The Eslingens of this world would always seek to gain advantage through appearance, and the Rathes could never hope to match them. What did surprise Rathe was the lack of resentment he felt toward the soldier.

“Adjunct Point.” Eslingen’s voice was icy, and Rathe’s heart sank. Clearly, Eslingen felt rather differently about the whole thing.

“Eslingen, look, I’m sorry about what happened, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“It wasn’t me who started this–Seidos’s Horse, you ought to thank me for ridding you of a troublemaker.”

“We don’t generally shoot them dead,” Rathe shot back, and, hearing his voice rise, got up to close the door of the narrow anteroom. He shook his head. “Forget it, it’s not worth arguing about.”

“I’m inclined to disagree with you, Adjunct Point, seeing as it’s lost me my job.”

Rathe turned to stare at Eslingen. “You’re joking. No, no–sorry, forget I said that. She let you go?”

“Can you blame her? In times like these, does she want a Leaguer who, even in self‑defense, and–what was it the magistrate said the release said–defense of property, was seen to kill a member of one of the most influential guilds in the city? I’d say that would be bad for business in a bad time, wouldn’t you, Adjunct Point? So now I’m in your city without employment or a roof over my head. All because I did what you told me to, Rathe, and that’s send for the points if there was any trouble. I did, and look what happened.” He gestured widely, and for the first time Rathe noticed the heavy saddlebags on the floor at the other man’s feet. “Hells, I thought we Leaguers were looked on with disfavor, I didn’t realize the extent of the loathing people have for your lot.”

“That was Ranazy,” Rathe said, and didn’t add, and you know it. “He’s a bully and not a cheap one. And he makes us all look bad. You know how Devynck feels about Monteia–for that matter, you know how Devynck feels about me. So you can tar us all with the same brush, fine, everyone else does, or you can see that it’s the truth. We’re all blamed for the actions of a few. Sound familiar?”