Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

He glanced around the room again, his own meager belongings looking small and rather shabby by contrast, and hoped he was doing the right thing. At worst, it would be for a week, and at the end of it he’d have two heirats–not much, he thought, but not nothing, either. And, at best, it would be work he could do, and decent pay, and conditions a good deal better than the Old Brown Dog had offered.

There was a knock at the door, and a woman came in without waiting for his word. She was thin and stern‑faced, and carried a tray piled high with covered dishes. “Magist Denizard said you hadn’t eaten,” she said, by way of greeting. “You can set the tray outside when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said, and gave her his best smile, but she set the tray on the table and disappeared without responding. He raised an eyebrow at the closing door–nothing could have made his status more clear, on trial, not yet of the household–but lifted the covers from the dishes. The food smelled good, onions and wine and the ubiquitous Astreianter noodles, these long and thin and drenched in a sauce of oil and a melange of herbs, and he realized suddenly that he was hungry. He ate eagerly–Caiazzo’s cook was a woman of real talent–but when he’d finished, found himself at something of a loss. For a single bleak moment, he would have given most of his savings to be back at Devynck’s arguing with Adriana over the latest broadsheet, but made himself put that thought firmly aside. That option had been closed to him since he’d shot Paas Huviet–since the moment Devynck had put the pistol into his hand, really, and there was no turning back. He carried the tray to the door, and set it carefully outside, close to the wall.

As he straightened, he heard a clock strike, and frowned, startled that it was so late. An instant later, a second clock sounded, this one within the house, its two‑note chime oddly syncopated against the rhythm of the distant tower clock. Other clocks were striking now, too, and kept sounding, past what was reasonable. He counted eleven, twelve, then thirteen and fourteen, and heard a voice shrill from the end of the hall.

“What in the name of all the gods–?”

A second voice–Denizard’s, he thought–answered, “Be quiet, and keep the others quiet, too.” The chiming stopped then, on a last sour note as though a bell had cracked under the steady blows, and the magist went on, “It’s over. Get back to the kitchen and keep everybody calm, there’s no need to panic yet.”

Eslingen saw the first woman drop a shaky curtsey, and Denizard looked at him. “Good. Come on, Eslingen, Hanse will be wanting us.”

Eslingen reached behind him for his coat, and the long knife on its narrow belt, and followed the magist down the long hall, shrugging into his clothes as he went. Caiazzo himself was standing at the top of the main stairway, scowling up at the house clock that stood against the wall behind him. The hands, Eslingen saw, declared it to be half past six, and he shivered in spite of himself.

“What in all hells was that?” the trader demanded, and Denizard spread her hands. She had flung her gown over chemise and skirts, and Eslingen could see the hard line of her stays as the gown swung open. Her grey‑streaked hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she shook it back impatiently.

“I don’t know,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “Not an earthquake, or lightning–”

“That’s obvious,” Caiazzo snapped.

“–which means some other sort of natural disturbance,” the magist went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. “The starchange means things are unsettled, but I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

“Wonderful,” Caiazzo said, and looked up at the clock. “So what do we do now, magist?”

Denizard sighed, drawing her gown closed around her. “Reassure your people first, I think. Then send someone to the university, the Great Clock there is unlikely to have gone out of tune, and even if it has, they’ll be able to reset it from the stars. And then–I don’t know, Hanse. Try to find out what happened, I suppose.”

“And what do you think happened?” Caiazzo asked. His voice was calmer now, and Denizard sighed again.

“I’m only guessing, mind, my speciality isn’t astrology. But the starchange means that the Starsmith is coming closer and closer to the normal stars, and that means it has more and more influence on them. It’s possible that its approach could upset the clocks–they’re set to the ordinary stars, not the Starsmith.”

“But if that’s what happened,” Caiazzo said, “why haven’t I heard of anything like this before? The last starchange was in living memory, surely something like this would’ve started stories.”

“I don’t know,” Denizard said again. “The Starsmith will be moving into the Charioteer, that’s a shared sign, one of the moon’s signs, and it hasn’t done that for, oh, six hundred years. I don’t think even the university has good records for that long ago.”

Caiazzo muttered something under his breath. Eslingen smelled smoke suddenly, strong and close at hand, and turned instantly to the main door. Before he could reach it, however, it opened, and the stocky man who’d been introduced as the household steward came into the hall.

“Sir. The neighbors are lighting balefires, and with your permission, I’d like to have our people do the same. And there’s a crier saying that the university is checking the proper time.”

Caiazzo’s eyes flicked to Denizard, who shrugged, and then back to the steward. “Go ahead. It’ll give them something to do besides worry.”

“Sir,” the steward said again, and started toward the kitchen.

Caiazzo looked back at the magist. “As for you, Aice, take Eslingen here and get over to the university. Take my travel clock, and make sure we get the right time.”

Denizard nodded. “You’ll want a clocksmith in for the big one, though.”

“Another damned expense,” Caiazzo muttered, and turned on his heel and stalked away.

Denizard looked at Eslingen, the corners of her mouth turning up in a wry smile. “Well. You heard our orders. Let me dress, and we’ll be on our way.”

The streets were crowded, every crossroads filled with a smouldering balefire, and the Manufactory Bridge was filled with people heading northriver. Toward the university, Eslingen guessed, and wasn’t surprised to see a bigger crowd gathered outside the university gate. A number of them, he saw, carried clocks of one kind or another: not surprising, he thought, and did his best to help Denizard elbow her way to the gate. Most people gave way before her magist’s gown, but the guard on duty at the gate shook his head apologetically.

“I’m sorry, magist, but you’ve come too late. The ceremony’s started–almost finished, by the sound of it.”

Even as he spoke, a bell sounded from inside the compound, a high, sweet sound, and a voice called something. There was a noise like a great sigh of relief, and another voice repeated the words.

“Quarter past one!”

“Quarter past one,” Denizard said, and nodded to the guard. She turned away, shielding Caiazzo’s clock against her body, and adjusted the mechanism. “Well, that finishes that.”

“Does it?” Eslingen asked, involuntarily, and the magist gave him a wry smile.

“Probably not. But that’s all we can do about it now.”

“I suppose.”

“You have a better idea?” Denizard asked, but her smile cut the hardness of her words.

Eslingen smiled back, and shook his head. “No, I admit. But–I just can’t say it feels right.”

“No,” Denizard agreed. “We–you and I in particular, Eslingen– will need to keep a careful eye on things for the next few days, I’d say. This can’t be a good omen.”

Eslingen nodded back, wondering again if he should ever have accepted Rathe’s advice, and fell into step beside her, heading back to Customs Point and Caiazzo’s house.

Another servant, rounder‑faced and more cheerful than the woman who’d served him the night before, woke him with breakfast and shaving water the next morning, and the news that Caiazzo would want to see him sometime before noon. “He’ll send for you, though,” she added, “so be ready.”

“Do you know when–?” Eslingen asked, and left a suggestive pause, hoping she’d fill in her name.

The woman shook her head, as much to refuse the unspoken question as in answer. “I’ve no idea, sir.”

“Crushed again,” Eslingen murmured, just loud enough to be heard, and thought her smile widened briefly. But then she was gone, and he turned his attention to the business at hand. He was still on sufferance, obviously, and would be for some time, especially after the events of the night before; the household would be closing ranks against outsiders. All he could do was tolerate the snubs, and look for some way of proving his usefulness.

One of the junior servants–a boy who could have been from either the counting house or the kitchen; there was nothing to betray his rank in the neat breeches and dull jerkin–came for him as the house clock was striking ten. Eslingen, who had been listening to the distant, musical notes, dragged himself away from that further evidence of Caiazzo’s status, and gave his stock a last quick tug before he followed the boy from the room. He was aware of more signs of Caiazzo’s wealth as they moved from the servants’ quarters into the main house– panelling with spare, geometric carvings, glass and silver on the sideboards in the main hall, wax candles in every room–but schooled himself to impassivity. He would lose nothing by seeming familiar with the trappings of wealth, and gain nothing by sneering. Not, he added silently, that there was much to sneer at. Caiazzo’s taste, at least in the public rooms, was impeccable, even a little severe for a man who’d been born a southriver bookbinder’s son.

The boy led him up the front staircase, past a knot of clerks with ledgers and a neatly dressed matron who looked torn between anger and nervousness. The edges of her fingernails were rimmed in black; the remains of paint, he thought at first, and then realized it was ink. One of the printers Rathe had mentioned? he wondered, but knew better than even to think of asking. Caiazzo’s workroom was at the end of the gallery, overlooking the side alley and the next‑door garden, and as the boy tapped on the door and announced him, Eslingen took that chance to make a brief survey of the room. It was large, and well lit– only to be expected, for a man who made a sizeable part of his living on paper–and the clerk’s counter that ran the length of one wall was drifted with papers. There was a worktable as well, neater, and a thin woman in a shade of red that didn’t flatter her sallow complexion was flicking the last coins into the hollows of a tallyboard. A status of Bonfortune stood in a niche in the wall behind her, fresh flowers at its feet–propitiation, Eslingen wondered, or just common caution? The magist Denizard leaned against the opposite end of that table, her robe open over a sharply cut skirt and bodice, and Caiazzo himself stood by the tall windows, staring toward the masts that soared above the housetops. He turned at the boy’s appearance, and nodded to the woman in red.

“All right, Vianey, that’s all for now. Bring me the full accounting as soon as you have it.”

“Of course,” the woman answered, sounding vaguely affronted, but covered the board and swept out with it clutched to her breast.

“So, Lieutenant Eslingen,” Caiazzo said, and took his place in the carved chair behind the worktable. Eslingen, with a sudden rush of insight, guessed that the trader rarely used it for work, but often for interviews. “Devynck speaks well of you.”

Decent, under the circumstances, Eslingen thought, but said nothing, managed a half bow instead.

“But you didn’t tell me you know one of my people,” Caiazzo went on. “Dausset Cijntien works for one of my caravan‑masters.”

“Does he?” For a moment, Eslingen’s mind was as blank as his face. “I knew he worked for a caravan, but not whose.”

Caiazzo fixed black eyes on him for a moment longer, as though wondering what else he would say, but Eslingen met his stare squarely. He thought he saw the hint of a smile, of approval, flicker across the trader’s face, but then it was gone. “Aice says the other names you gave me speak well of you, too. I’m prepared, despite the otherwise questionable provenance–”Caiazzo lifted a hand, forestalling a comment Eslingen had not been about to make. “–a recommendation from the points, and especially Adjunct Point Rathe, isn’t always the best thing for a member of my household–to put you on my books.” He smiled again, this time more openly. “As I told you yesterday, I do need a knife, and one who looks like a gentleman can only be an improvement over one who thought he was.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said, though he wasn’t at all sure it was a compliment.

Caiazzo’s smile widened slightly, as though he’d guessed the thought and rather enjoyed it. “Right, then–”

He broke off as the door opened, and a harrassed‑looking clerk came in. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir, but Rouvalles is here, and he insists on seeing you.”

Caiazzo gave the statue of Bonfortune a reproachful glance, but sighed. “Eslingen, you’ll stay. Show him in, Pradon.”

The clerk bowed, and hurried away, closing the door again behind her.

“I’m not armed,” Eslingen said hastily, “bar my knife–”

Caiazzo waved a dismissive hand. “It won’t come to that.” He looked at Denizard, who straightened, hauling herself off the end of the table. Eslingen hesitated, then took his place at Gaiazzo’s right. The longdistance trader didn’t say anything, but Eslingen saw the flicker of eyes that acknowledged his presence.

The door opened again, and the clerk stood aside to let a tall, neatly dressed man into the room. He was young, Eslingen realized with some surprise, or at least young to be running Caiazzo’s Silklands caravan, didn’t look any older than Eslingen himself. And he was handsome, too, in a genial, good‑fellow sort of way, an open face and an easy smile beneath a ragged mane of wavy hair that was just the color of bronze, but there was something in his pale eyes than belied the easy manner. He checked slightly, seeing Caiazzo in his chair, and Eslingen saw the blue eyes flick left and right, taking in first Denizard and then himself.

“Standing on ceremony, Hanse? You don’t need your knife against me.”

“I was in the process of hiring a new one,” Caiazzo answered, “and I figured he might as well start now.” He nodded toward the soldier. “This is Eslingen, served with Coindarel, and now of my household. I understand one of your own men speaks highly of him.”

The caravan‑master–Rouvalles, the clerk had called him, Eslingen remembered–blinked. “One of them may, for all I know. Who?”

“Dausset Cijntien,” Denizard said.

“Then you can ask him yourself, he’s below.”

Caiazzo nodded thoughtfully. “So what was it you wanted, Rouvalles?”

The caravan‑master took a deep breath. “Look, I wouldn’t have come myself, except it’s getting late. We need to leave within the week to make this season work, and I still have goods and supplies to buy. I need coin, Hanse, and soon.”

His voice had just the hint of a Chadroni accent, Eslingen realized. He glanced at Caiazzo, but the longdistance trader’s expression was little more than a mask.

“You’ll have to wait,” he said, without inflection.

Rouvalles’s eyes narrowed, and Eslingen caught a glimpse of the cold steel beneath the good humor. Not surprising, he thought, and I’d bet it serves him well both trading and on the road, but he’s not a man I’d like to cross.

“How long?” The caravan‑master matched Caiazzo’s tone.

“Two days.”

Eslingen thought he heard a hint of relief beneath the projected boredom, and glanced again at Caiazzo. Rathe had hinted that not all of the longdistance trader’s businesses were legitimate, but the caravan was public enough that it surely had to be–unless it was the source of the coin that was problematic? There had been talk in the kitchen the night before about a ship that had just come in… He shook himself away from that line of thought, and concentrated on the conversation at hand.

Rouvalles hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, showing his easy grin. “Right, we can wait that long, but we’re cutting it very close this year, Hanse.”

“I know it,” Caiazzo answered. “There’ve been some–unexpected events.”

“Like last night?”

“Not like that.”

“What I might call problems, then?” Rouvalles asked, almost cheerfully, but his eyes didn’t match his tone.

Caiazzo nodded once. “You probably would. But it’s nothing that’ll affect you.”

“No more than it already has,” Rouvalles answered.

“Not seriously,” Caiazzo corrected. It looked for a moment as though Rouvalles might protest, but Caiazzo fixed him with a stare, and the younger man spread his hands in silent acceptance.

“There’s one other thing,” Caiazzo went on. “Your troop‑master, Cijntien, you said he was here?”

Rouvalles nodded, looking wary.

“You said I could ask him myself,” Caiazzo said. “About Eslingen here. Well, I want to.”

“I’ll send him up,” Rouvalles answered, but Caiazzo shook his head.

“Aice can go.”

The magist showed no sign of annoyance at being asked to do a servant’s job, but slipped almost silently out the door. She returned a few minutes later, Cijntien in tow. The troop‑master looked uneasy at being brought upstairs, Eslingen thought, with some sympathy, but kept his own face expressionless.

Caiazzo leaned back in his chair. “I understand you know someone I’ve taken into my household.”

Cijntien glanced toward Eslingen. “Philip?” he asked, and then looked as though he wanted to recall the word. He looked instead at Rouvalles, who nodded.

“I guess you do, then. Go ahead.”

The troop‑master relaxed slightly. “I know Eslingen, yes, sir. I served with him, oh, seven, eight years. He was a corporal, then a sergeant under me.” He glanced again at Eslingen, then back at Caiazzo. “He’s a good man.”

“Reliable, or clever?” Caiazzo asked. He enjoyed the awkwardness of the situation, Eslingen realized suddenly, not quite out of malice, but more out of temper. Rouvalles had made him uncomfortable; he was perfectly happy to visit the same discomfort on everyone else in reach.

“Both.” This time, Cijntien refused to look at his former subordinate. “Clever enough to lead raiding parties–hells, he was the man I’d pick first for that, over anyone else–but I’d trust him at my side. Or myback.”

“And that’s where it really counts,” Caiazzo murmured, and looked at Rouvalles.

“If Cijntien speaks well of him, you’re safe enough.” Rouvalles smiled again, suddenly, with more than a hint of mischief in his eyes. “After all, I’ve been trusting him with your business for two years now.”

And that, Eslingen thought, is a score for the Chadroni.

“Right, then,” Caiazzo said. “Thank you, Cijntien. Rouvalles, I’ll send word as soon as the coin is ready.”

“I’ll expect to hear from you,” Rouvalles answered, with a nod, and turned away before Caiazzo could dismiss him more explicitly. The door closed again behind him and Cijntien, and Caiazzo looked at Eslingen.

“As you will have gathered, things are–complicated–for me at the moment. I can’t afford not to investigate all the possibilities, especially where my knife’s concerned.”

It was, Eslingen realized with some surprise, a sort of apology. He gave another half bow, and said, in his most neutral voice, “Of course, sir.”

Caiazzo studied him for a moment longer, as though wondering what lay behind those words, then looked at Denizard. “Aice, get him settled–find him decent rooms, some better clothes, make sure he knows what’s expected of him. And send Vianey back in.”

“Right,” Denizard answered, and gestured for Eslingen to precede her from the room. He obeyed, wondering again just what Rathe had landed him in.

Over the next few days, he began to find a place for himself in the household. No one mentioned the night of the clocks, not even in whispers, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or nervous. The university published an official explanation–the approach of the Starsmith, it said, had caused the clocks, more attuned to the ordinary stars, to slip momentarily out of gear–but few of Caiazzo’s people seemed convinced. Nor, for that matter, were most Astreianters, if the broadsheets were anything to go by, Eslingen thought. They blamed evil magists–foreign, of course–and the changes in society since the old queen’s day, and in general anything else they could think of. One or two blamed whoever it was who was stealing the children, or at least called it a punishment or a warning to find the missing ones before worse happened. That was something Eslingen could agree with wholeheartedly, but he had little time for such matters. Caiazzo required his presence at most meetings, including a second encounter with the Chadroni caravan‑master. There was no money for him this time, either, and Eslingen was beginning to be certain there was something very wrong. Clearly, Caiazzo had expected to have cash in hand by now–even had the trader been inclined to take that kind of advantage of his business partners, Rouvalles was not the sort to put up with these delays for more than one season–and Eslingen found himself wondering if Rathe had been wrong after all, if the trader was involved with the child‑thief. But he could see no connection between a lack of funds and vanishing children: if Caiazzo was involved, he decided finally, he would be more likely to have coin in hand, not to be short of money. Still, he found himself listening carefully to the dinner gossip–he was eating with the rest of the middle servants now, the cook and the steward and the chief clerk Vianey, though not Denizard– and equally carefully to the sessions in Caiazzo’s counting room.

On the fifth day of his employment, he was leaning against the casement while Vianey droned through a list of expenses–mostly relating to the upkeep of the house and boat–when a knock came at the door. Caiazzo stopped pacing to glare in the direction of the sound, and Denizard said, “Come in.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” That was one of the male servants, a tall man Eslingen knew only by sight. “But he insisted on seeing you.”

He had a boy by the collar of a thoroughly disreputable jacket, Eslingen realized, and the boy himself was even less prepossessing than the clothes, a thin creature with a missing eye‑tooth and the first scattering of what promised to be a bumper crop of adolescent pimples. Caiazzo eyed him with disfavor, but, to Eslingen’s surprise, didn’t explode immediately.

“I’ve a message for you, sir,” the boy said, and held out a much‑folded sheet of paper.

Caiazzo crossed to him in a single stride, took the paper from him and scanned it quickly, his frown deepening as he read. “Right. Take him down to the kitchen, see if he wants anything to eat. Aice, Eslingen, come with me.”

The servant bowed–he had never loosed his hold on the boy– and backed away, dragging the boy with him. Denizard frowned too, looking more worried than Eslingen had ever seen, and reached for the coat she had left over the back of a chair.

“Where are we going?” Eslingen asked, and Caiazzo swung to face him.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Eslingen spread empty hands. “Your safety’s my business; if you want me to do my job, I need to know where we’re going. You’re not happy, but that could mean anything–we could be going to your factor, or anywhere.”

Reluctantly, Caiazzo smiled. “We’re not going to my factor, no. I– have business, in the Court.”

Eslingen blinked, but then managed the translation. Even in the few weeks he’d spent in Astreiant, and especially these last few days in Caiazzo’s house, he’d learned the difference between business at court, business in the courts, and business in the Court. And if it was the last… no wonder Caiazzo wanted his bodyguard along, if he was visiting the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives. He had wheedled the story behind the name out of one of the maids–it had been the base of a band of knives who had controlled most of the southriver neighborhoods a century ago, and it had taken three regiments of Royal Dragons to bring them down–and if even half the stories about their descendants were true, Rathe’s and Devynck’s warnings had been restrained. “I’ll fetch my pistol, then,” he said aloud, and Caiazzo nodded.

“Do that.”

Denizard looked up sharply. “She won’t like that.”

“Then she can come here, next time,” Caiazzo answered. “Get your pistol, Eslingen, and hurry.”

They went by river, for all it was a short journey, just to the public landing north of Point of Graves. The city gallows stood there, Eslingen knew, and wondered if it was for the pointsmen’s convenience. He followed Caiazzo and Denizard through the narrowing streets, aware of the curious and covetous looks, aware, too, of the way women and men melted out of sight into doorways and alley mouths. Warning someone? he wondered. Or themselves warned off by Caiazzo’s presence? Caiazzo didn’t seem to see, but when Eslingen looked closer, he could see a small line like a scar twitching to the left of the trader’s mouth. He was still angry, and Eslingen wondered again just what he was getting into.

The streets narrowed further, walls springing up between the buildings themselves, and Eslingen realized with a small shock that they were in the Court proper. Once, generations ago, it might have been some noble’s country house, back when the landames kept their country houses on the south bank of the river, but it had long since been broken up, first into merchants’ houses, and then into tenements, until the shells of the once‑elegant building had acquired odd accretions, and rickety lean‑tos propped up the tottering stones of the walls. It would have been a bad place to attack, Eslingen though, thinking of the other Royal Dragons, would still be a bad place to attack, or to be attacked. He could feel the weight of the pistol in the pocket of his coat, balanced by the familiar drag of his sword, and was not fully reassured. They were being watched, more closely than before, and he risked another glance at Caiazzo. The trader’s mouth was set, but the scar was no longer twitching, and Eslingen hoped that was a good sign.

Caiazzo stopped at last in front of a low shopfront, low enough that he had to bend his head to pass under the broad lintel. Denizard followed without a backward glance, and Eslingen went in after her, the skin between his shoulder blades prickling. If they were attacked inside, the low doorway would make it very hard to escape. To his surprise, however, the only visible occupant of the shop was an old woman, neat in a black skirt and bodice, an embroidered cap covering her grey hair. She sat on a high stool in front of a writing board, ledger open in front of her, her feet not quite touching the ground, fixed Caiazzo with an unblinking stare. There were no goods on the counter, Eslingen realized, no indication of what–if anything–this shop sold.

“How’s business, dame?” Caiazzo asked, and tipped his head in what was almost a bow.

The old woman shook her head, closing the ledger, and hopped down off her stool. Standing, her head barely reached to the trader’s armpit, but Eslingen was not deceived. There would be a bravo, probably more than one, within easy call, and the gods only knew what other protection.

“Well enough,” she said. “My business. But what about yours, Hanselin? That’s less well, by all accounts. You bring not only your left hand, you bring a new dagger with you, whom I’ve never seen before. Do you feel the need of a dagger?”

Caiazzo shrugged, the movement elegant beneath his dark coat. “Times are uncertain.”

The old woman looked far from convinced, but she nodded. “Inside.” She turned without waiting for an answer, and pushed through a door that had been almost invisible in the paneling. Caiazzo made a face, but moved to follow. Eslingen put a hand on his arm, all his nerves tingling now.

“Permit me,” he said, and stepped in front of the trader to go through the door behind the old woman. There was no shot, no hiss of drawn steel, and he glanced around the narrow room, allowing himself a small sigh of relief as he realized it was empty except for a table and chairs.

The old woman took her place at the head of the table, fixed Eslingen with a dark stare. “Not what you expected, eh, knife? Thought it would be more dangerous?”

Eslingen blinked once, decided to risk an answer. “I see enough danger right here, ma’am. I’ve been a soldier, I know what old women can do.”

Caiazzo shot him a warning glance, but the woman laughed. “I dare say you do, soldier. I knew you were one, from your boots.”

Caiazzo said, “No hurry, dame, but you said it was important.”

The old woman looked at him. “That’s rude, Hanselin, and not like you. Business must be bad.”

“Business, in general, is well enough,” Caiazzo said, through clenched teeth, “except for the one small thing that you know about. Somewhere between here and the Ile’nord something’s breaking down. If it’s here, dame, you’ve got problems.”

The woman’s stare didn’t waver. “We both have the same problem, Hanselin. Nothing has come in from the Ile’nord. Nothing. Not coin, not goods, not word.”

Caiazzo flung himself into the chair opposite her, swallowing an oath. “It’s your business, too, dame. What’re you doing about it?”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly getting close to the end of her patience, and Eslingen saw Denizard tense fractionally. The old woman merely folded her hands on the table top, and said, “The same as you. I sent men north, a few weeks back, when you first mentioned the problem to me. Yours or mine, one of them will find out what’s keeping her, Hanselin. She owes us–forgive me, owes you too much to be playing us foul like this. I expect one or both of mine back within the next few days.”

“Mine should be in soon, too,” Caiazzo said. “But the fair is well underway. I have two seasons of trade to underwrite. Without that gold, it could be a very cold winter, and I won’t be the only one feeling the chill.”

The old woman leaned forward, her hands flattening, palms down, on the smooth wood. “Your knife is new, untested, and you trust him with knowledge like this?”