Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Eslingen felt his shoulder blades twitch again, wondering if Caiazzo had blundered, and if he, Eslingen, was going to be the one to answer for it. The trader barely glanced his way.

“Oh, and am I so poor a judge of character? A fool who’s useful for channeling the gold–forgive me, goods–we both need, but not to be trusted in matters of my own business, my own household?” With a single fluid movement, Caiazzo pulled a short, wide‑bladed knife from beneath his coat, and drove it into the table between him and the old woman. She didn’t move, her eyes going first to the knife and the new cut, the first, it made in the polished wood, and then back to Caiazzo. “I know you, dame,” Caiazzo went on. “You’ve still got the arm for it. If you can’t trust me, or worse, think I’m too fatally stupid to be your associate in this, then do something about it. Otherwise–”

He let the word hang, and the old woman looked back at him, cold eyes unchanging. Gods, the man’s mad, Eslingen thought, and if it’s on his challenge, there’s damn all I can do. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, wrapping his fingers cautiously around the butt of his pistol, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Denizard’s hand close on the back of Caiazzo’s chair, the knuckles white beneath the skin.

The old woman reached out, jerked the knife free with an expert’s hand, her expression still the same, and Eslingen thought, gods, if she goes for his heart, I’ll go for hers, and we can sort it out later. He tilted the pistol, still in his pocket, hoping the flint would work in the confined space. It would be more likely to set his coat on fire, if it fired at all, but there wasn’t room to draw his sword, and his knife was no good at this range.

“I’d forgotten,” she said at last, “that your mother was a binder.” She laid the knife down flat on the table, and pushed it back across to Caiazzo. “You’ve kept it well. She’d be pleased.” She looked at Eslingen, and he let the pistol ease back into its place. “My apologies if I touched your honor.” She leaned forward as Caiazzo reached for his knife, placed her hand on his. “I do trust you, Hanselin, as I would my own child. This business with the Ile’nord…” She shook her head. “If I didn’t trust you, if I didn’t trust your judgment and acumen–well, as you say, we wouldn’t be doing business together. I’ll send word to you as soon as I hear anything.”

It was clearly a dismissal, and Eslingen glanced curiously at Caiazzo. The trader rose, nodding. “And I’ll do the same. But you know that’s of use only if they bring the gold.”

“If they bring word only, Hanselin, your autumn ventures are still safe. Your reputation is still more than sound. One way or another, the money will be there for you.”

“Yes, but…” Caiazzo gave a grim smile. “Then where will my reputation be? I appreciate it, dame. I don’t want to take you up on your offer.”

“Nevertheless, it stands.” The old woman smiled back, widely this time, and Eslingen shivered. The implication was clear enough even to him: if Caiazzo failed, she would provide the capital, but at a price.

Caiazzo bowed again, his temper barely in check, and stalked from the room. Eslingen followed hastily, and heard Denizard shut the door again behind them. Caiazzo said nothing until they were well clear of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and had turned onto the street that sloped down to the landing.

“I bet it stands,” he said at last. “Nothing she’d like better than to get that far inside my business. Well, it’s not going to happen–” He broke off, head going back like a startled horse, black eyes fixing on something beyond the landing. Eslingen reached automatically for his pistol, and Caiazzo laughed aloud, looked up to the sky. “Gods, Bonfortune, it’s about time the stars turned my way.”

Eslingen looked again, and saw another caravel, larger than the one he’d seen before, making its way cautiously up the river. Caiazzo’s red and gold pennant flew from its mast, and the deck was piled high with cargo.

“Aurien, by the Good Counsellor,” Denizard said, sounding as startled as the trader, and Caiazzo laughed again.

“A half month early, thank Bonfortune, and heavy laden. We’ll meet him, Aice, see what he’s brought me. You, Eslingen–” He turned to face his knife, his whole expression suddenly alive and excited. “Go to my counting house–do you know where it is? Tailors’ Row, by the Red Style–tell Siramy and Noan to meet me at the wharf. Then–” he grinned, gestured expansively, “take the afternoon off.”

“Yes, sir,” Eslingen said, and the trader hurried toward the waiting boat.

Eslingen watched him go, suddenly aware that he had been left on his own at the edges of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and then, impatient, shook the thought away. The Tailors’ Row was well clear of the Court, back toward Point of Sighs; he lifted a hand to the boat, saw Denizard wave in return, and then turned west toward the Tailors’ Row.

It wasn’t a long walk to the counting house, a narrow, three‑story building tucked between two much larger warehouses. He delivered his message to a clerk and then to Siramy herself, watching her expression change from uncertainty to a delight that hid–relief? He couldn’t be sure, and hid his own misgivings behind an impassive face. Caiazzo was definitely short of coin, that much was obvious, but why and what it meant was anybody’s guess–except that it probably meant that the longdistance trader was not involved with the missing children. Rathe had been right about one thing: Caiazzo didn’t get involved with anything that didn’t promise a hefty profit, and this venture with the old woman, whatever it was, had certainly been intended to provide decent funds. Except, of course, that it had clearly gone wrong. Eslingen sighed, wondering if he should use his unexpected freedom to find Rathe and let the pointsman know what had happened. There would be less risk now than any other time, but he found himself suddenly reluctant to betray Caiazzo’s interests. The man was having enough troubles; the last thing Eslingen wanted to do was to add to them. The two factors–and a harassed‑looking clerk, arms filled with tablets and a bound ledger–hurried past him toward the river, and Eslingen turned toward the Rivermarket. Whatever else he did, whether he contacted Rathe or not, he did have to buy some new shirts. He could make his decision after he’d searched the market for something decent.

The Rivermarket was less crowded than it had been the other times he’d ventured into its confines. Probably most people were shopping at the Midsummer Fair, he thought, and hoped that would mean he would be able to strike a few bargains with the secondhand clothes dealers. There was a woman who claimed contacts at the queen’s court, who swore that she had the pickings of the landames’ cast‑offs, and he threaded his way through the confusion until he found her stall. The clothes, some good, some much‑mended or threadbare, good only for a seamstress to take a pattern from it, were piled every which way on a crude trestle table, watched by the woman and a beetle‑browed man whose knife was easily at the legal limit. He was dividing his attention between the stock and a thin girl a little younger than apprentice‑age, and Eslingen wondered just which one he’d been hired to watch. The man saw him looking, and frowned; Eslingen met the stare with a bland smile, and began sorting through the piled clothes, pulling out shirts. Most were too worn to be of use, though one still had a modest band of lace at the collar and cuffs, and he set that one aside to examine more closely later. The lace was good quality; maybe, he thought, he could pick it loose and find a seamstress to attach it to a different garment. He dug deeper into the pile, found another shirt that looked almost new, and spread it out to check for damage. The linen was barely worn, the only sign of its provenance a ripped hem–and that, he thought, holding it up to gauge the size, he could even mend himself. It would be large, but not unwearable, and he bundled it with the other, bracing himself to haggle.

“Eslingen!”

It was Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen turned, not knowing whether he was glad or sorry that the decision was taken out of his hands. The pointsman had abandoned his jerkin and truncheon, was wearing a plain half‑coat open over shirt and trousers, and he carried a basket loaded with what looked like the makings of a decent dinner. Eslingen blinked at that–he had somehow assumed that Rathe would have someone to do his housekeeping–and nodded a greeting. “Rathe.”

“I hope you’re doing well in your new employment,” Rathe went on, the grey green eyes sweeping over the other man’s clothes and the shirts he held in his hands.

“Well enough,” Eslingen answered, and took a deep breath as the stall‑keeper moved toward them. “I need to talk to you, if you’ve got the time.”

Rathe nodded, without surprise. “Always. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’m not sure that would be fully politic,” Eslingen said, grimly, and Rathe grinned.

“Maybe not, at that. New clothes?”

Eslingen nodded, and the stall‑keeper said, “Those are from Her Majesty’s own court, good clothes that’ll stand a second owner. And they don’t come cheap.”

Eslingen took a breath, irritated by the assumption, and Rathe said, “From Her Majesty’s court, maybe, but by way of the other Court.” He looked at Eslingen. “You wouldn’t credit the trouble we have with laundry thieves.”

Eslingen grinned, and the woman said, “That’s not true, or fair, I get my goods legitimately and you know it.”

“And charge court prices for clothes you bought from northriver merchants,” Rathe answered.

It seemed to be a standing argument. Eslingen said hastily, “How much?”

The woman darted a look at Rathe, then resolutely turned her shoulder to him. “A snake and two seillings–and the lace alone is worth that much.”

It probably was, Eslingen admitted, but pretended to study the shirts a second time.

The woman crossed her arms. “That’s my only price, Leaguer. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Eslingen said, and fumbled in his pocket for the necessary coins. The woman took them, and Eslingen folded the shirts into a relatively discreet package. “Shall we?”

Rathe nodded. “Where are you bound?”

“I hadn’t decided. I was told to take the afternoon off.”

“You should see the fair, then,” Rathe answered.

“Actually, I had some business at Temple Fair,” Eslingen said. “I’d like to see what the latest word is on the clocks.”

“Bad, that.”

“And what do the points say it was?” Eslingen asked.

“The same as the university,” Rathe answered. “I’ll walk you to the Hopes‑point Bridge.”

“Good enough,” Eslingen said, accepting the rebuff.

They made their way through the market and climbed the gentle slope to the Factors’ Walk in a surprisingly companionable silence. At the base of the bridge, the Factors’ Walk ended in a paved square where the low‑flyers gathered between fares. In the summer heat, the air smelled richly of manure and the sour tang of old feed, but the fountain and trough at the center of the space was surprisingly clean. Eslingen paused to scoop up a drink in his cupped hands, disdaining the cup chained above the spigot, and Rathe said, “So. You wanted to talk to me, you said.”

Eslingen stopped himself from glancing around–there would have been nothing more suspicious–and shook the water from his palms. “Yes. I suppose so, anyway.”

He stopped there, not knowing where to begin, and Rathe said, “Anything on the children?”

“No. And I doubt there will be.” Eslingen hesitated, resettling the shirts under his arm. “Caiazzo’s having troubles, yes, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the children–the opposite, in fact.” Quickly, he went through the events of the past few days, from the caravan‑master’s visit to the meeting with the old woman to Caiazzo’s relief at the arrival of the ship. “It seems to me,” he finished, “that if Caiazzo was involved in all this, he’d have money in hand, not be seeking it.”

Rathe tipped his head to one side, eyes fixed on something in the middle distance. “Unless the business, whatever it was, had gone wrong somehow.” He broke off, shaking his head.

Eslingen said, “If he’s acting for someone else, which I think he’d have to be, from what I’ve heard, well, that someone would have to be a fool, to keep Caiazzo short of coin. If nothing else, it draws suspicion–as witness our conversation, pointsman.”

Rathe grinned at that. “No, I daresay you’re right, Eslingen. I wish to Sofia I knew what he was up to, though.”

Eslingen shook his head in turn. “Oh, no, that’s not part of the bargain. The children only, thank you, Rathe.” He smiled then. “I’m starting to enjoy my work.”

“I was afraid you would,” Rathe answered. “But, thanks, Eslingen. I appreciate this much.”

Eslingen shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. “It matters,” he said. “These lads–” He broke off, shaking his head. “It matters,” he said again, and turned away before the pointsman could say anything more. He could feel Rathe’s gaze on him as he climbed the steps to the bridge, but refused to look back. He had done as much as he’d agreed to do; Rathe was repaid for his favor, and that was an end to it.

Rathe watched him go, the blue coat soon lost among the brightly dressed crowd on the bridge. He hoped the soldier was right–and logically, he should be; if Caiazzo were involved, he should have coin to spare, not be scrambling to outfit his caravans, or forced into dealings with mysterious old women. Rathe had a shrewd idea of who she was–Catarin Isart was a blood descendant of the Chief of the Thirty‑two Knives, and had long been rumored to have dealings with Caiazzo–and he didn’t envy the longdistance trader if ever she did get a finger into his business. But Isart would deal in children if the price was right, and that meant, he acknowledged silently, that a trip of his own to the court was in order. He had contacts there, people he couldn’t quite call friends, but on whom he could rely, at least up to a point. And for once the job in hand would work to his advantage: no one, not even the sharpest of knives, would dare, or want, to protect the child‑thief. But first, he decided, he would go back by Point of Hopes, and tell Monteia where he was going. There was no point in taking chances with the court and its denizens.

It was late in the afternoon by the time he reached the court, crossing the rickety bridge that spanned one of the nastier gutters running down to the Sier. He let his blade show under his open half‑coat, knowing he was being watched, and knowing, too, that the watchers would assume a second, hidden weapon, or maybe more than one. He followed the main path through the warrens, counting intersections, turned at the fifth, beneath a sign that had once been a purple fish, but was now fading to an unlovely puce. The building he was looking for stood three doors further on, its door sagging from rusting hinges. It had been part of the original mansion, but the stones were beginning to sag, the mortar crumbling from between them, the frames of the windows and the wooden sill starting to rot. He grimaced, thinking of the floor beams, and stepped back to glance up to the second story windows. A lantern stood in the center of the three, unlit but very visible, and he smiled, and pushed open the main door. The stairs looked as rotten as the window frames, though he knew at least some of the dilapidation was designed to trap the unwary, and he stepped carefully, testing each step before committing his weight to it. Several of the boards creaked alarmingly, and one cracked sharply, but he reached the second floor without mishap, and stepped onto a landing that looked a good deal sturdier than anything else in the building. There was only one door, but before he could raise his hand to knock, it was pulled open. A woman stood there, leather bodice laced over a sleeveless shift, skirts kilted to her knees. She was holding a knife several inches longer than the one Rathe carried, and he lifted his hands away from his side.

“That’s not legal, that is,” he said. “How’s business, Mariell?”

“You don’t want to know, pointsman, trust me.”

“That good,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded bitter. “Is Mikael in?”

“Why?” Mariell’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not been working, you know. Or have you come on a hire?”

“I try to do my own dirty work,” Rathe said, mildly. “And I know he hasn’t been working, but even if he had been, that’s not what I’m here about.”

“It’s all right, Mariell, let him in.”

The speaker was a dark giant of a man, his face unexpectedly ruddy under a thatch of coarse black hair, only his beard showing a sprinkling of grey. Mariell stepped back, still frowning lightly, and Rathe edged past her. The door was narrow, had had slats added to it to make it narrower, and he couldn’t help wondering how Mikael himself got in and out of it.

Mikael smiled, genial, looking for all the world like a guildmaster well satisfied with life–as well he might, Rathe thought. Mikael was at the top of his profession, and Rathe was irresistibly reminded of Mailet. The butcher was clearly a man of choleric nature who was good with a knife, whose stars had steered him to a peaceable profession. Mikael was a good‑natured man who also happened to be very good with a knife, whose stars had led him to a less peaceful life, sometimes as bodyguard or bravo, sometimes as a killer.

“So, Nico. What brings you this far in? Business?” Mikael seated himself in a barrel chair by the open window, gestured for Rathe to take the stool opposite. The air was a little fresher up here, and there were herbs scattered along the floor and hanging from the rafters. Rathe recognized one of the hanging bunches as woundwort, and for a moment was dizzied by the thought of Mikael as physician as well as executioner. Well, he thought, why not. In the Court, it made as much sense as anything.

“Business of a sort,” he answered.

“Blaming us for the clock‑night, probably,” Mariell said.

Mikael ignored her and held up a sweating stone pitcher in silent offer. Rathe nodded. Mariell made a disgusted noise, and disappeared into an inner room, slamming the door behind her.

Mikael shook his head, but said nothing, picked up a mug and filled it, handing it to Rathe.

Rathe decided not to pursue the issue. “Who’s good these days?” he asked, and nodded toward the wine jug.

Mikael made a face. “Piss poor most of it is, I tell you, but Harin has gotten in a couple hogsheads that I’m not embarrassed to drink, and she’s not embarrassed to sell. It’s all been piss poor even since old Grien died.”

“Did Grien die?” Rathe asked, all innocence. “All I’d heard was that she’d disappeared, and young Grien took off for parts unknown. Good thing Harin stepped into the breach.”

“Yes, wasn’t it?” Mikael replied, equally bland. “So, what sort of business?”

Which meant Mikael had had enough of that topic. Rathe leaned back, balancing awkwardly on the stool, not particularly reassured by the weight of the knife at his side. “The city’s strange these days, Mikael. You must have felt it. You been working more or less than usual?”

“What kind of question is that for a working man, Nico?” Mikael demanded, and Rathe spread his hands.

“Off the books, Mikael, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on these days. Kids disappearing…”

“And you only take notice because they’re merchants’ spawn, don’t you?” The tone was less angry than the words, almost a token protest.

Rathe sighed. “That’s not fair, Mikael. You have to admit, this is something outside the ordinary. The Quentiers were telling me they’d lost a–prentice, I guess you’d call him.”

Mikael’s lips twisted beneath the beard. “Bet they didn’t go to the points, did they?”

“Well, they told me, and I’ve added it to my books.” Rathe matched the other man’s half smile. “Unofficially, of course, Estel wouldn’t thank me if I made it official. But that’s not all of it. Caiazzo is more than commonly edgy these days. I mean, we all know he’s not the most serene individual, but he’s close to the edge. And that’s bad for business, Mikael.”

Mikael’s eyes narrowed, and Rathe knew the other man had taken his oblique meaning. “You’ve been trying to close Caiazzo down for, what, five years now, Nico?” the knife said at last, and Rathe shrugged.

“Sure. But the fact of the matter is, his business keeps the peace along much of the southriver and in the outer Court.”

“His and Dame Isart’s,” Mikael corrected automatically. Rathe met his stare, and it was the big man who looked away first.

“What is it you really want to know, Nico?”

“Just what I said, really,” Rathe answered. “What’s going on with Hanse? Things aren’t right with him, and he’s letting it show. Have you done any work for him this summer?”

Mikael shook his head. “All right, Nico, and this I’ll give you for free. No, I haven’t worked for him this summer, and that’s not usual, not through the fair. He usually hires me on to keep an eye on things for a couple of his merchants who come in for the fair. And there’s a banker you might know, Dezir Chevassu, changes a lot of Hanse’s money as it comes in and out. Usually that’s good for two weeks solid hire, and not too much heavy work, there never is with bankers, not really. This year…” He gestured, showing empty palms. “Nothing. Not a damned thing. He hasn’t even told me he won’t be needing my services, and you know Hanse, polite to the last, or if you’ve offended him, you don’t know it until it’s too late.”

“Yes, but who could he hire to finish you, Mikael?” Rathe asked. “How many takers do you think there’d be for a job like that?”

Mikael favored the younger man with a smile that was almost indulgent. “And how many young hotheads do you have in the points, Nico? Idiots who should know that a job is suicide, but see it as their way of proving themselves? No, there are plenty of people who’d try to hit Mikael, if Caiazzo wanted to hire someone, I can give you the names of half a dozen. But he hasn’t. And he hasn’t given me the brush. Just–nothing. And that’s not normal.” He paused then, the animation draining from his face, and Rathe guessed he was thinking of the children, making the same unwelcome connections that Rathe himself had been making. “Go see Chevassu,” Mikael said at last. “She might have some answers for you. Truth be, told, I think Hanse took more than a little business away from her. She used to have some interests as a merchant‑venturer.”

“So is she now a resident?” Rathe asked, and Mikael shook his head.

“Chevassu favors the money side of things. She’s solely banking and exchange these days.”

Rathe set his empty cup on the table–ruddywood inlaid with white stone, a pretty piece of work, and probably good to have at hand in a brawl. He wondered if Mikael had liberated it from one of the locals. “I’ll do that,” he said, and stood slowly. Mikael didn’t favor sudden movements. “I assume this Chevassu isn’t located in the Court.”

Mikael snorted. “Not likely. Chevassu lives well north of the river–further north than most of her clients. And that argues a lack of diplomacy, to my mind. You’ll find her in the Chancery district, on the Temple Road. Or at the Heironeia, during business hours. And, Nico.” He fixed the younger man with a sudden, baleful stare. “If Hanse is involved in the child‑stealing, I expect you’ll let me know. He’s a good employer, but this–this is bad, bad business, bad for business. I don’t like it.”

Rathe met the stare squarely. “If he is involved–and I don’t have any real reason to think he is, Mikael, I’m clutching straws here–then he’s mine. This is a points matter.”

“Unless I get there first,” Mikael answered.

Rathe nodded slowly, acknowledging what he couldn’t prevent. “But I’ll do my best to stop you. I want this one very badly, Mikael. Just so you know.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Mikael said, and opened the narrow door.

Rathe made his way back toward Point of Hopes, his mood hovering vaguely between satisfaction and guilt. Mikael had spoken honestly, for once, and that was good, but Rathe wished it hadn’t been at the price of spreading suspicion against Caiazzo. He sighed then. Worse than that was the nagging fear that the surintendant might be right after all.

Chevassu lived in Manufactory Point–well northriver, as Mikael had said, but not as undiplomatic a choice as the knife had implied. It was a good neighborhood, but not old; for a woman who’d almost certainly been born southriver, it was a wise choice. The adjunct point at Manufactory was a woman named Talairan, small, with a deceptively lazy air. Rathe had seen her crack skulls once, during an ugly guild fight, and was not deceived. She grinned up at him as he came into the station, and jerked her head toward a side room. Rathe nodded, relieved–he wasn’t particularly fond of Huyser, Manufactory’s chief point–and followed her into the narrow workroom. She closed the door firmly behind him, and perched on the end of the bare table.

“What in all hells is going on southriver, anyway, Rathe? One riot, one near riot, and a man shot dead in the street? And before the clocks, so there’s no excuse.”

“That was self‑defense,” Rathe said, automatically, and Talairan shook her head.

“Sounds like you’re having a rare old time down there.”

“Nothing we’d like more than to share it with you,” Rathe said dryly. “You telling me it’s all peace and tranquility here?”

Talairan’s mouth twitched. “Hardly. Not only are these missing kids not in the manufactories, no matter what they think southriver, we’ve lost some of the ones that are supposed to be working there. Now, some of them are just runaways–and I can’t fully blame them, not from most of those places, it’s not like they’re learning a trade. My feeling is, the older ones are thinking, well, if I get caught, I can always blame it on the child‑thieves.”

Rathe nodded, not surprised. The manufactories weren’t the worst places to work in the city, but they weren’t the best, and they lacked the community of the guild system, and room for advancement. A chairmaker there would make chairs all her life; an apprentice carpenter had at least some faint chance of becoming a master, though that, too, was changing. “I’ve a question for you,” he said, and saw Talairan’s gaze sharpen.

“About the children?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t think so. But the sur thinks possibly.”

Talairan lifted an eyebrow. “You’re flying high these days, my son. All right, try it on.”

Rathe nodded, and took a breath, wondering precisely how to phrase his questions. “There’s a banker lives hereabout, name of Chevassu. Know her?”

Talairan laughed. “Sure I know her. I keep my beady eye on her, seeing as I’m sure she shaves the rate of exchange the way her lessers shave coins. Last I heard, though, bankers were hardly the most likely suspects.”

“Tell me about her,” Rathe said.

Talairan blew air from puffed cheeks. “Where to begin? She’s a respected woman hereabouts, the question is how she got that respectable–seeing as she came from southriver.” Rathe nodded, unsurprised, and Talairan went on, “Rumor has it she has partial interest in a couple of the better class houses over in Hearts, which is where her own coin comes from, and, of course, they say she banks for folk in the Court–not the queen’s–and the ’Serry and the Old Crossing. Why?”

Rathe ignored the question. “Is she a fence?”

“No. Or not anymore. Like I said, my main concern is how she juggles her books and with whom.” She fixed him with a sudden glare. “I would take it very badly, Rathe, if you were going after her on my ground.”

Rathe shook his head. “No–my word on it, Tal. It’s just… well, you mentioned court connections. I hear they’re with Caiazzo, probably legal enough, and I’ve some questions for her. That’s all.”

Talairan nodded, appeased. “I’ve been hearing some very odd talk about him, trickling up from Fairs’ Point. Business problems, I heard. Is there a connection with the children?”

“I don’t know–I didn’t think so, still don’t, really. But there’s no denying there’s something wrong there.”

“He’s never dealt in human flesh,” Talairan said, doubtfully, “and especially not children.”

Rathe nodded, ran a hand through already disheveled hair. “Tell me about it. But I don’t like the coincidence, what pointsman does?”

“A lazy one,” Talairan answered, and jerked her head toward the wall she shared with Huyser’s office.

Rathe smiled, but wryly. “So I need to look into it.”

“Caiazzo’s rightfully Customs Point’s concern.”

“Customs Point,” Rathe said, enunciating each syllable with acid precision, “thinks Hanselin Caiazzo is an honest businessman and a boon to the district.”

Talairan stared at him. “They said that?”

“They’ve said it,” Rathe said grimly.

She whistled softly. “His fees must be powerful.”

“So they tell me. Thanks for your help, Tal.”

“You’re welcome, for what it was worth. I’ll ask for the return of the favor some day.”

“I don’t doubt you will,” Rathe answered, and let himself out.

Despite what Mikael had said, Chevassu was not at the Heironeia. Swearing under his breath, Rathe retraced his steps, threaded his way through Manufactory’s crowded streets to the banker’s house. It was an expensive‑looking place, but at second glance he could see that the glass in the upper windows was of distinctly lesser quality, and the stone of the facade was not matched on the sides. Monetary difficulties? he wondered, as he tugged the heavy chain of the bell, or just southriver practicality? The door opened after only a moderate wait, and a tall, greying man in footman’s livery looked down at him. The discrepancies between facade and sides were just practicality, Rathe decided, looking at the quality of the linen and the metal braid that guarded every seam of the man’s narrow coat. If she could afford to dress her servants like that, she could afford good glass if she wanted it.

The footman opened his mouth–to direct him to the trades door, Rathe was sure–and Rathe cut him off with a smile that showed teeth. “Adjunct Point Rathe from Point of Hopes. They told me at the Heironeia that Madame Chevassu’s here.”