Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Point of Hopes?” The man was visibly startled, but recovered himself quickly. “We’re in Manufactory Point–”

Rathe shook his head, and the man stopped.

“May I ask your business?”

“You may not,” Rathe answered, pleasantly. “Just tell Chevassu that I’d like to speak to her, please. I don’t think she’d refuse.” He let the words hang.

For a moment, it looked as though the footman would protest further, but then southriver habits took over, and he stepped back from the doorway. Rathe followed him in, as always a little annoyed by his own methods. It was bad enough to use a woman’s past against her, worse when it was the same as his own–and worst of all when it made him into a bully.

“Wait here,” the footman said, and disappeared up the main staircase. He was back a moment later, and paused disdainfully at the top of the stairs.

“Madame will see you now.”

Rathe nodded, and climbed to join him, the wood of the railing warm under his hand. The house smelled expensive, herbs and wax; the furnishings were good, obviously chosen by someone with an eye for quality, and he revised his opinion of Chevassu’s fortunes once again. If she needed funds, all she would have to do was sell one or two of the tapestries that adorned her upper hall–so what, he wondered silently, is Caiazzo up to, that he doesn’t just borrow from her?

“Pointsman Rathe, madame,” the footman said, flinging open a painted door. “Point of Hopes.” He stressed the last word, and Rathe couldn’t repress a grin of his own.

“Adjunct Point, actually, madame,” he said, and stepped past the man into Chevassu’s workroom. It was a cluttered place, full of good furniture and better paintings, and the fittings on table and sideboard were all of silver. “I appreciate your seeing me.”

Chevassu was easily sixty, maybe older, her hair a grey somewhere between iron and silver. Her skin was the color of very old ivory, and her eyes were the palest blue Rathe had even seen, barely darker than the ice blue silk of her gown. She didn’t rise from behind her table, but gestured for Rathe to take one of the fragile chairs instead. It was a nice balance of courtesy and status, Rathe reflected, and perched carefully on the carved and gilded seat. It creaked under his weight, but he thought it was stronger than it looked.

“I’ll be blunt, I’m curious what Point of Hopes wants with me,” Chevassu answered. She wore no paint, either on hands or face, and her skin was crisscrossed with a web of fine lines, like soft and crumpled paper. “I’ve done no business there these past, sweet Heira, seven years. Do you tell me my past has come back to haunt me?”

“I’m more interested in your present, madame, and I’ll say straight out it’s nothing to do with Point of Hopes,” Rathe answered. He watched her closely as he spoke, but saw no change in her calm expression. “I understand you handle the exchange for Hanselin Caiazzo.”

“I have done,” she answered, and Rathe tilted his head to one side.

“But not this year?”

“I fail to see why I should tell you–” Chevassu began, sounding almost indulgent, and Rathe lifted a hand.

“Bear with me a moment, madame. You know what’s been happening in Astreiant this summer, you know why we in the points are looking sideways at anything out of the ordinary. And you also know that Caiazzo’s dealings, business and otherwise, have not been exactly ordinary. I understand, you do business with him, you wouldn’t want to jeopardize that, and I wouldn’t ask you to–in the normal way of things. But things are not normal.”

“Are you accusing Caiazzo of being behind these child‑thefts?” Chevassu demanded. She sounded, Rathe thought, almost more outraged by that than by anything else he’d said.

“I don’t know,” he answered, bluntly. “But there are people who do think so, and I’m duty bound to make sure he’s not.”

Chevassu tipped her head back, bringing him into the far‑sighted focus of the old. “Off the books, pointsman?”

“As far as I’m able.”

She studied him for a moment longer, expression thoughtful, then nodded. “I’ll take the chance. Hanselin Caiazzo’s not one to deal in these goods. Let me tell you a little bit about him.” It was the tone a grandmother used to begin a story on a winter‑eve, and Rathe smiled back at her, not the least deceived.

“Hanselin is one of the canniest and most intelligent businessmen I’ve worked with, not excepting his mother, who was as canny as they come. The two don’t always go together, but Hanselin–ah, he has both, in roughly equal portion, and what I wouldn’t give to see a copy of his nativity.”

So would I, Rathe thought. He knew almost nothing of the trader’s stars, he realized, with some surprise, not even the major signs of his birth.

“It’s not the usual nativity of a longdistance trader, I would wager,” Chevassu went on, “and it’s equally not your usual southriver knife’s, however much he likes walking that line. How many questionable businesses do you think he fees, either the whole or in part, here in Astreiant?”

She seemed to expect an answer, and Rathe shrugged. “I’ve lost count, but then, I have a suspicious mind.”

She gave him an approving nod, as though he’d passed some test. “You probably do, it’s a hazard of your profession, and I’m not surprised you’ve lost count, because it changes year to year. He keeps the money moving in and out and that keeps his–associates–on their toes, and that keeps them all the safer. But there’s always been one thing that puzzles all of us. For all he’s a shrewd judge of the chance, and a hard man for a bargain, he’s had more coin than he ought for the past several years. Oh, the Silklands caravan is well managed, extremely well managed indeed, and that pays well and in coin, but he’s always had more to hand than he reasonably should have, coin that’s not tied up in goods until he chooses to spend it. Now, here it is, time for him to be changing monies, setting his Silklands caravan on the road, outfitting his ships… and things have been very quiet from Customs Point this year. Aurien’s caravel coming in, that was luck, but it hasn’t helped. So, Caiazzo’s problem is a money problem, pointsman, and one that has roots years back. Whatever’s wrong can’t have anything to do with the children, but it could get him into serious trouble, in and out of the court. Which I would surely hate to see.” She smiled. “And now you’re wondering why I’d tell you this much.”

Rathe blinked. “Frankly, yes.”

Her smile widened. “Hanselin has a nice hand in his business, a subtle hand. There are people who would like to take his place whom I would very much dislike dealing with. Which is why this old woman has been rambling on at you, pointsman, and you’re very kind to listen to her.”

Rathe blinked again, a kind of awe filling him. She had told him everything he could have thought to ask, and never once had directly implicated herself or anyone. “Not at all, madame, it’s been my pleasure to listen to you ramble.”

“Because that’s all it is, of course, pointsman.”

Rathe’s eyes met hers, his expression as ingenuous as her own. He’d agreed to keep it off the books; she could and would deny ever having said any of this, if he were foolish enough to try to make a points matter of it. But he did believe her–if nothing else, it fit in too well with what Eslingen had said. Caiazzo was having problems, and with something that had worked well in the past. And that argued that he didn’t have anything to do with the missing children: the two events just didn’t fit. In other times, the sources of his coin might be Rathe’s concern, but at the moment, he could leave that to Customs Point, and concentrate on the children. “Of course, madame. And I thank you for letting me take up so much of your time. You must be very busy.”

She sighed, and lifted an enameled bell that stood beside the silver inkwell. “I could be busier, and hope to be so soon. My man will see you out.”

The door opened, and the footman loomed in the doorway. Rathe nodded politely to Chevassu–almost a bow–and followed the servant out.

Caiazzo’s temper had improved markedly since the arrival of Aurien’s caravel, and for the first time, Eslingen began to understand why the longdistance trader’s household was so fiercely loyal to their employer. With the immediate problems somewhat relieved, Caiazzo relaxed, showing a deft awareness of his people that surprised and, unexpectedly, charmed the soldier. The household relaxed, too, as the night of the clocks receded without further consequence, and Eslingen found himself made cautiously welcome.

“You’ve done well, settling in,” Denizard said, as they climbed together toward Caiazzo’s workroom.

Eslingen shrugged. “I’m not ungrateful, but I’m also not unaware that at least some of them think I’m good luck. And that’s a chancy reputation.”

Denizard grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about Azemar, she’d follow every broadsheet astrologer in the city if she could just figure out how to do it all at once. No, seriously, you’ve done well. I think Hanse will want to keep you on, if you’re willing.”

Eslingen hesitated. Now that it had come to an offer, he found himself surprisingly reluctant, but then he shook the thought away, impatient with himself. This was the best place he’d had, not excepting his post with Coindarel, and he’d be a fool to turn it down, particularly when he couldn’t have put a name to the reluctance. “Thanks,” he said. “I–it’s a good place, I’d be glad to stay.”

“Good–” Denizard broke off as the door to the counting room snapped open, and Caiazzo himself stood framed in the doorway.

“Oh, there you are. Good. Eslingen, I want you to go to the fair, to the caravan‑masters, and tell Rouvalles he can send for his coin tomorrow–any time after second sunrise, tell him. And you can make reasonable apologies for me, but don’t give him any explanations.”

“Sir,” Eslingen said.

“After that–” He rolled his eyes at Denizard. “After that, meet me at the public landing at the northriver end of the Manufactory– the Point of Graves–Bridge. You’re in for a treat, Eslingen, we’re going to see my merchant resident.”

“Sir?” Eslingen said again, and immediately wished he’d left the question unasked.

Caiazzo’s grin widened. “Oh, you’ll like Madame Allyns, Eslingen, and, more to the point, she’ll certainly like you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the standing clock. “Be there by noon, that should give you enough time with Rouvalles.”

The dismissal was obvious. “Sir,” Eslingen said, for the third time, and took himself off.

The fair was in full swing at last, and Eslingen wasn’t sorry to have an excuse to explore its byways. The older members of the household grumbled that this fair was a shadow of its usual self, that the commons of Astreiant were too busy looking over their shoulders and keeping a hand firmly on their children to loose their purse strings, but for Eslingen the rows of stalls–some of them easily as big as an ordinary shopfront, and as well stocked–were an almost magical experience. He had been to the various fairs of Esling as a boy, and once to the Crossroads Fair held at the autumn balance outside Galhac, south of the Chadroni Gap, but none of them compared with this display of goods. He took a roundabout road to the corrals on the eastern edge of the fairground, dizzying himself with the scent of spices from the Silklands and the strange, musky ambers and crystal flowers from the petty kingdoms north and west of Chadron. They lay in baskets and shallow dishes on every counter, and the suns’ light sent the pungent odors skyward. Between the drapers and the dyers, he nearly walked into a black‑robed astrologer, orrery out as he spoke to a girl in an apprentice’s blue coat. Eslingen murmured an apology, but the astrologer had already turned away, pocketing his orrery, and faded into the crowd.

“Hey,” the girl called, but he was already almost out of sight. She swore and started after him. Eslingen blinked, startled–what had the man been promising her, to run so fast–but shrugged the thought away. The leathersellers’ alley was too crowded to pass–Astreiant was noted for its leatherwork, but bought most of its hides from the League–and he skirted the mob of masters, each with her train of apprentices and journeymen. Handcarts trundled between the stalls and the river, hides in various stages of preparation stacked so high that the sweating laborers could barely see the path in front of them. Eslingen kept a wary eye out, and wasn’t sorry to reach the end of that section.

The caravan‑masters, by a commonsense tradition, had the two rows of stalls on the eastern edge of the fairground, by the corrals where they and their people lived for the duration of the fair. Someone had set up an altar to Bonfortune at the southern end of the makeshift street, and the smiling statue was draped with flower wreaths and printed offering‑slips. The ground at its feet was dark, sticky with spilled wine and shreds of rice and noodles: the caravaners were impartial in their allegiances, and in their methods of worship.

Caiazzo’s booth–another small shop, really, with a bright blue canvas roof over half‑height wooden walls–lay closer to the western end of the street, marked by the pennants with his house‑sign hanging from the tent poles. Eslingen waited until the factor had finished with her customer, a stocky woman in plain brown who clutched a letter, credit or introduction, in one painted hand, before he stepped up to the counter. It was padded with leather to protect the bolts of silk brocade and silk velvet from the rough wood. There was silk gauze as well, a length embroidered and re‑embroidered with gold and pearls; he reached out to touch it, in spite of knowing better, and winced as his fingers caught on the delicate fabric. A bolt of this was worth a common man’s salary for years, and the nobles who bought it paid in gold; he was not surprised to see a solid‑looking man watching him from the shadows inside the stall.

“Can I help you, sir?” the factor said, and blinked. “You’re Hanse’s new knife, aren’t you? Trouble?”

Eslingen shook his head. “No trouble, and yes, I’m Eslingen. I have a message for Rouvalles, if he’s here.”

“He’s back at the corrals,” the factor answered. “Do you know the way?”

“No, but I can probably find it,” Eslingen answered.

The factor grinned. “You can’t miss his camp, it’s got the house pennants all over it. We use the fourth corral–it’s almost directly behind where we are now–and Rouvalles has the stable beyond that.”

“It sounds simple enough,” Eslingen said, dubious, and the factor’s smile widened.

“Look for the house pennants,” she advised, and turned to greet a tall woman in a beautifully cut bodice and skirt.

Eslingen sighed, but knew better than to come between her and a potential customer, especially one as well dressed as this woman. He found a path between two of the stalls that seemed to be in general use, and emerged into the confusion of the corrals. There were five of the wood and stone enclosures, each one filled with horses; the low buildings beyond, clearly built as stables, seemed to be being shared impartially by people and animals. The air was hazed with dust, and a thicker plume of it rose over the furthest pen, where a trio stripped to shirts and breeches were attempting to cut a single animal out of the herd. The horses, each one marked by a ribbon braided into its mane, snorted and swirled, unwilling to be caught; Eslingen snorted himself–he would never had let his troopers handle their mounts that badly–and made his way toward Caiazzo’s pennant hanging above a stable door.

The stalls in that section seemed to be occupied exclusively by horses, and Eslingen nodded his approval even as he glanced around for someone who could direct him. Rouvalles was wise to keep his horses out of the common herd; you never knew how well anyone else kept their animals, and the last thing you needed was to have your best mounts down sick when you were ready to move out. A skinny man was mucking out the furthest stall, and Eslingen moved toward him, inhaling the familiar scent of hay and dung.

“I’m looking for Rouvalles,” he said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the noise outside.

The skinny man straightened, showing a wall eye that made him look rather like the horse he was tending, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Above.”

Looking more closely, Eslingen could see the stones of a steep stairway set into the wall at the end of the building. “Thanks,” he said, and climbed to the floor above. The space had obviously once been intended for hay storage, and indeed the broad boards were still scattered with bits of straw, but at the moment it had been turned into an indoor campsite. Bedding was piled in neat rows along each wall, beneath windows propped open to the fitful breeze, and carpets hung from a web of ropes at the far end of the space, creating a makeshift room. A group of four or five men, mostly Chenedolliste, by their looks, were sitting around an unlit brazier, tossing dice on its flat cover. The nearest stood easily, seeing Eslingen, and stepped into his path.

“Can I help you?” he asked, around a stick of the sugar‑candy the Astreianters sold ten‑for‑a‑demming, and Eslingen lifted the badge he wore on a ribbon around his neck.

“I’m here to see Rouvalles,” Eslingen said, patiently. “From Caiazzo.”

The man scowled around his candy, and Eslingen wondered just how much bad feeling the delay had engendered. “I’ll see if he’s free,” he said, and ducked under the carpets without waiting for an answer. He reappeared a moment later, scowling even more deeply, and Rouvalles himself held aside the carpet that served as a door.

“Come on in–Eslingen, isn’t it?”

Eslingen nodded, and ducked under the heavy fabric. It smelled of horses and smoke and sweat and leather, all the scents of a campaign, and he took a deep breath, savoring even the heat of the enclosed space. Rouvalles gave him a wry smile.

“Regretting your change of employment already?”

The smile, Eslingen saw, didn’t touch his eyes. “Not so far,” he answered. “But this does bring back memories.

Rouvalles gave a short laugh, easing some of the tension and anger in his face, and gestured to one of the stools. “I bet it does. So, tell me, what does Hanse want?”

Eslingen seated himself, taking his time with the skirts of his coat. All the furniture around him was portable, he saw, from the stools to the narrow table and the narrow bedstead; all would break down into easily‑carried pieces. The entire room, carpets, bedding, furniture, even the strongbox that lay half‑hidden under a worn square of blanket, would fit easily on a single pack animal.

“Cijntien told me he’d made you an offer,” Rouvalles said, and shrugged. “I suppose it still holds, though Hanse wouldn’t thank you– and I’m not sure how much I care about that, just now.”

Eslingen brought himself back to the matter at hand. “No, so far I’m quite comfortable with my employment, thanks. Caiazzo sent me to tell you that the money will be ready tomorrow. You can send a couple of men to collect it any time after second sunrise.”

Rouvalles paused in the act of pouring two glasses of wine: anger at the delay notwithstanding, customs of hospitality, bred on the caravan routes, died hard. He turned to Eslingen, one eyebrow lifted, then Eslingen thought he saw the other man’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Well, that’s good news at least,” the Chadroni said, after a moment. He made a face, as though he had forgotten he was holding the cups, and handed one to Eslingen. “I rather thought you’d come to put me off again.”

Eslingen took a careful swallow of what proved to be a heavy, aromatic wine. He said, “Not this time. And I can’t say I blame you for wanting to leave the city as soon as possible.”

Rouvalles frowned slightly, as though puzzled, then his face cleared. “Oh, the children. I thought you meant the clock‑night. No, neither one’s made my life any easier, let me tell you.”

“Nor anyone’s,” Eslingen said, and remembered what Jasanten had said–had it only been a week ago? Children born under Seidos might well find employment with the caravans, though why a caravan‑master would steal children was beyond him–unless, he thought suddenly, there was someone foreign, someone in the Silklands, say, who wanted them? It didn’t seem likely, but he owed Rathe at least that much of an effort. “Have the broadsheets been blaming you lot, then?”

Rouvalles scowled, the pale eyes narrowing. “Along with everybody else, yes, they’ve mentioned the caravans, and we’ve had a few worried mothers wandering through, peering in corners when they think we’re not looking.” He shook his head as though amazed at the thought, then looked sharply at Eslingen. “And you can tell Hanse I don’t hire kids, and never have done, he should know that.”

So much for being subtle, Eslingen thought. At least he assumed I was asking on Caiazzo’s behalf. He said, “I’ll pass that on. But–and this is me asking, not Caiazzo, I’m just curious–does that mean you don’t take apprentices?”

“Did you see any apprentices in the hall?” he asked, but his tone was milder than his words. “Oh, we take apprentices, all right, or I do, but what we get… it’s always the ones who’ve already failed at something else. Nobody in Astreiant–nobody anywhere–sets out to become a caravaner.”

“Did you?” Eslingen asked. “I mean, if you’re going to be good at something, it doesn’t seem as though you’d go into it by default. And from what Caiazzo says, you’re probably the best.”

Rouvalles tilted his head, stared into space for a few moments, then said, “I didn’t set out to become a caravaner, no. Never thought it was–open–to me. But once I did, I discovered I liked it, and had a knack for it. Rather like you and soldiering, I would imagine?” he asked, making it not quite a question, and the blue eyes were pale, cool.

“A lot like soldiering,” Eslingen agreed. He finished the rest of his wine, stood up. “Thanks for the drink, it’s a thirsty day.”

“Are you sure you won’t come along?” Rouvalles asked. “This is no time to be a Leaguer, either, in Astreiant.”

“I’m trusting Caiazzo can protect me,” Eslingen answered, with more confidence than he entirely felt. “If you’ll send to him tomorrow, after second sunrise, he’ll have the money for you.”

“We’ll be there,” Rouvalles said, and Eslingen thought there was the hint of a threat in his tone. He lifted an eyebrow in question, and the Chadroni spread his hands. “No ill meant, Eslingen, but I’m a week later than I should be, and I still have supplies and goods to buy, so it’ll be another two weeks before I’m on the road. Hanse–but Caiazzo knows all this.”

Eslingen nodded in restrained sympathy, “I’ll tell him, but, as you say, he knows.”

“If he knows,” Rouvalles said, and the good‑humored face was suddenly grim, “if he knows, why in all the hells hasn’t he sent the money I need?”

Eslingen shrugged, regretting his casual remark. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Don’t think I haven’t,” Rouvalles answered.

Eslingen didn’t answer, but ducked through the improvised door into the hall. The group was still gathered around the brazier, he saw without surprise, making a very bad pretense of interest in the dice game. The carpets would absorb some sound, but not all of it; it was no wonder they had listened. He smiled cheerfully at them, and went down the staircase to the stables.

He was early at the landing, and sat in the sun nibbling half a dozen ripe strawberries purchased on the edge of the market while he watched Caiazzo’s boatmen bring the barge expertly across the current and alongside the landing. The longdistance trader sprang out almost before the ropes were snugged home, Denizard following more decorously, and stalked up the gentle slope toward the street. “Come on, then,” he said, as he drew level with the soldier, “we don’t want to keep madame waiting.

Eslingen fell into step half a pace behind him, wondering why not, but the look of mischief in Caiazzo’s eyes was enough to keep him from asking aloud. He risked a glance at Denizard, but the magist looked, if anything, a little bored. Eslingen sighed, and resigned himself to whatever would happen. Caiazzo led them through the Manufactory district, skirting half a dozen brick‑walled compounds that smelled of wood and glue and other, less‑identifiable substances, and up the queen’s‑road into a neighborhood where sober‑looking shops alternating with small, well‑built houses. He turned into the courtyard of one of the larger of the latter, and the door opened before he could knock. A servant in sober livery bowed them into a reception hall, murmuring something Eslingen couldn’t quite hear, and vanished through a narrow door.

As the door closed behind him, Eslingen glanced surreptitiously around the hall, impressed in spite of himself by the carved panels and the interlaced tiles that faced the hearth. There was real silver on the sideboard–put out for show as well as use, surely–and the livery had been of good linen, generously cut. The candles–unlit, at this hour, when the sun poured through the unshuttered windows, filling the room with light–were wax pillars as thick as a man’s wrist. Surprisingly good taste from a woman who was partner to a southriver rat, he thought, but his heart wasn’t in the sneer, not confronted by this restrained wealth, the dark wood that showed highlights as cool as the polished silver, the quiet service. Oh, the house itself might be on the wrong side–the Manufactory side–of the queen’s‑road, but the interior was as rich as any petty‑noble’s palace, or richer.

Caiazzo saw him looking then, and smiled. It was an expression Eslingen had already learned to distrust; he glanced sideways at Denizard, and saw her grave and unsmiling as ever, her painted hands folded into the sleeves of her master’s robe. That was reassuring–if there were real trouble, Denizard would be tensed for it–and Eslingen sighed as unobtrusively as possible. So it really was just one of Caiazzo’s jokes, something he thought would startle or shock his new knife, and Eslingen braced himself to meet the surprise as calmly as possible.

The door to the rest of the house opened then, and a liveried servant stepped through. “Madame Allyns,” he said, and Eslingen caught his breath.

The woman who swept through the doorway was enormous and beautiful, skin like rich cream from the top of her breasts to the roots of her golden hair, eyes blue as summer skies, lips–slightly pouting– the pink of the inside of a shell. A strand of pearls a half‑shade lighter than her skin wound twice around her neck, and vanished into the shadowed valley of her cleavage: A brooch the size of a man’s hand– Oriane and the Seabull, Eslingen thought, not quite incredulous, in full congress–clasped her bodice, drawing the eye irrevocably to the divide between her massive breasts. She was as large as any two women, and four times as lovely.

“Hanse,” she said, and swept forward, hands outstretched in greeting.

Caiazzo caught them, brought each in turn to his lips, bowing slightly. “Iniz. How pleasant to see you again.”

“I trust so,” Allyns answered, and turned, smiling, to the others. “Mistress Denizard I know–and I’m delighted to see you again, my dear–but this gentleman–” The smile was back, full of heavy‑lidded speculation. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Eslingen swallowed hard, willing his arousal to subside. Caiazzo said, “May I present Philip Eslingen, late of Coindarel’s Dragons? My new knife.”

“A soldier,” Allyns said. “How charming.” She held out her hand, and Eslingen bowed over it. She smelled of roses, heavy‑scented, late season flowers, a fragrance men could drown in… And then she had twitched her hand deftly out of his grasp, and turned back to Caiazzo, one delicate brow lifting. “And I hear you have need of a knife these days, Hanse. I’m–concerned.”

“There’s no cause for worry,” Caiazzo answered, and Allyns smiled again, too sweetly.

“But there is for concern, is there not? Our partnership has been a profitable one. I’d hate to have to find another longdistance trader, especially this late in the season. But I’d hate it even more if my investments failed to materialize.”

“I doubt very much it will come to that,” Caiazzo answered. “Even considering your legendary prudence, Iniz. Shall we go in?”

Allyns regarded him for a moment longer, and then nodded. She turned away, the rich silks of her skirts hissing against the stone floor, against each other. Caiazzo, suddenly, startlingly drab against her opulence, followed, and the servant shut the door behind them. Eslingen glanced at Denizard, wondering if he should follow, but the magist shook her head fractionally. She seemed to be listening for something, and Eslingen tilted his head to one side, too, not sure what he was waiting for. The house was very quiet; in the distance, he heard a door close, and then, from the street, the rattle of wheels and the sound of a horse’s hooves.

At last Denizard relaxed, looked at him with a rather wry expression. Eslingen said, “It’s all right, then?”

The magist nodded. “Oh, yes. Or, if it’s not, it’s far too late to worry about it.” She saw Eslingen stiffen, and added, “They’ve been partners for fifteen years, Philip. We’re as safe here as in our own house.”

Eslingen nodded back, reluctantly. He knew that most longdistance traders–Merchants‑Venturer, as the guild called itself– formed partnerships with Astreiant’s Merchants Resident: each needed what the other could supply, goods exchanged for capital, and markets for each other’s products, but that didn’t explain the particulars of the situation. “She didn’t sound happy,” he said, and Denizard looked away.

“There have been some–difficulties this year,” she said, after a moment. “As you’ve probably gathered.”

Eslingen nodded. “Is it something I should know about? To do my job?”

Denizard sighed. “Hanse said I should use my discretion, telling you. And since you’ve said you’ll stay on… about five years ago, when Seidos was in the Gargoyle, Hanse and Madame Allyns bought a seigneurial holding in the Ile’nord–in the Ajanes, west of the Gap.”