Point of Dreams a-2 Read online

  Rathe stared at her, disbelief turning to anger. “With all respect, Chief, I think you’re reaching.”

  “Do you? Knowing the regents as we both do?”

  She was right about that, if nothing else. Rathe knew the regents, and their temper, very well indeed. “But you can’t really think they’d be willing to let murder go, the murder of one of their own…”

  Trijn smiled again through a cloud of smoke. “Have you read the astrologers’ sheets lately? The city’s primed for just such stupidity, and the regents have been primed for it for years.” She frowned at the window again. “If you make this plea, the regents are going to try to stall, just to spite you–and, I suspect, the metropolitan.”

  “What’s she got to do with this?” Rathe demanded.

  “She stood patronne to you over the children,” Trijn answered. “Don’t be dense, Rathe.”

  “The important thing is the investigation,” Rathe said stubbornly. “Not who conducts it.”

  “No.” Trijn released another cloud of smoke. “All right. I’m coming with you.”

  “Chief?”

  “I’m not going to let the regents eat my senior adjunct for breakfast simply because the metropolitan took his part against them once. The grande bourgeoise has a long memory.”

  From the tone of her voice, Rathe wondered if she had some other motive as well, but put the thought aside. Her support could only help, he hoped, and pushed himself to his feet.

  “With your permission, Chief, I thought I’d send to the alchemists first thing tomorrow, get the death signings.” He raised a hand. “Not as part of any investigation, of course, but there might be something there that would support our case.”

  Trijn grinned. “Of course. Give Fanier my regards.”

  Eslingen made his way back to Customs Point in good time, pushed his way through the garden gate just as the clock on the old Factors’ Hall was striking the quarter hour. He’d made better time than he’d expected, would have time to change before dinner if he chose, and he picked his way through the last drifts of leaves with some satisfaction. The garden was bare in the falling night, the tender plants already bundled against the coming cold, the last beds of vegetables piled with hay to keep the frosts at bay, and the light from the windows haloed the last spare sticks. Caiazzo was in his workroom, Eslingen saw without surprise–the merchant‑venturer tended to work late in any event, and with the winter‑sun rising later every day, after nine now, Caiazzo’s more discreet visitors tended to arrive in the hours of true dark between sunset and winter‑sunrise. No one had been expected, though–otherwise, he himself would not have been allowed the afternoon to himself–and Eslingen guessed the older man was just working on his books, allotting the capital for next year’s caravans. The loss of the de Mailhac gold mines had hurt, meant that Caiazzo had to be more careful than he had been, but recently the merchant‑venturer had expressed himself cautiously satisfied. Which would make me happier, Eslingen thought, if I were staying the winter.

  The kitchen door was half open, one of the cooks leaning out to catch her breath; Eslingen lifted a hand in greeting, but kept on toward the side door, remembering a line from the last play he and Rathe had seen together. Magists by the front door, undertakers by the back, and the knife goes in at the side door. He thought it had been good, but they had had a box to themselves, and he hadn’t followed much of the story. Still, it captured his position well enough, somewhere between servant and colleague, and in any case, he liked the sound of it. He was smiling as he pushed open the heavy door, nodding to the runner who was sitting on the tabouret at the end of the short hall. To his surprise, the boy caught his sleeve as he passed. “Lieutenant. Master Caiazzo wants to see you right away.”

  “Right away?” Eslingen repeated, a thrill of apprehension shooting through him. An unexpected visitor, maybe, one of Caiazzo’s less reputable agents from the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and him not here to offer backup… But Denizard was here, and she was effective protection in her own right, and Caiazzo would have no compunction about refusing to see someone, if he had the slightest suspicion of trouble.

  “As soon as you came in,” the boy said, and Eslingen nodded.

  “Show me up.”

  Caiazzo’s workroom was warm and warmly lit, the polished stove in the corner showing bright tongues of flame to match the enormous candelabra. The candles were wax, too, all two dozen of them, and there were more candles in the sconces above the long counter. That surface was relatively clear, for once, the ledgers stacked, tallyboards turned face to the wall, papers tucked into folios, and Eslingen looked curiously at the stranger. There was no missing him, a big man, dark as Caiazzo, but older, his black hair streaked with silver under the candles’ light. The same brilliance reflected from a satin coat, bottle‑green striped with gold, and glinted from shoe buckles set with stones. The ivory lace at the thick wrists and neck seemed to glow as well. But there was no mistaking who was master here, Eslingen thought as he made his bow. Caiazzo might be plainly dressed, as plainly dressed as ever, but it was clear the big man deferred to him, and to the magist seated demurely in the corner.

  “I’m glad you’re back, Philip,” Caiazzo said, and the big man lifted heavy eyebrows. There was something familiar about the gesture, gone so quickly that Eslingen couldn’t place it.

  “This is the man you meant?”

  “It is.” There was a warning in Caiazzo’s voice, and the big man lifted both hands in surrender, the lace flashing. “Lieutenant Philip Eslingen, currently of my household, formerly of Coindarel’s Dragons.”

  “And the man who helped rescue the children,” the big man said. “No one will have forgotten that, Hanse.”

  “Which hardly seems a problem, surely.” Caiazzo waved. vaguely in the direction of the sideboard. “Pour me a drink, please, Philip, and yourself one, too.”

  Eslingen moved to obey, swallowing unworthy annoyance–it was one thing to introduce him as a lieutenant, a gentleman in name at least, and another to treat him like a servant–and turned toward the stranger. “And for Master–?”

  “Master Duca’s been served,” Caiazzo said.

  There was a glass on the end of the worktable, barely touched. Eslingen gave an inward shrug, and poured two glasses of the sweet, light wine. He handed one to Caiazzo, who took it smiling, and himself retreated, his eyes on both men.

  “Prettily done,” Duca said, and sounded as though he grudged the admission.

  “Done like a gentleman,” Caiazzo corrected. “Down to offering some to you.”

  Duca scowled, and for a moment it was as though he were looking into a distorting mirror, the expression so perfectly mimicked Caiazzo’s own. Then the moment was gone, and the big man turned away, shaking his head. “He’s a soldier. I don’t need a soldier.”

  “Forgive me, Gerrat,” Caiazzo said, “but I’d’ve thought that was exactly what you did need.”

  Eslingen’s eyebrows rose in spite of himself. Whoever this Duca was, whatever he was, he, Eslingen, didn’t appreciate being talked about as though he were cattle in the marketplace. If this was the place Caiazzo had found for him, he’d have none of it.

  Caiazzo’s eyes flicked his way, and too late, Eslingen smoothed his expression. The merchant‑venturer grinned, and set his own glass carefully on the edge of the long counter. “Forgive me, Philip, you must be wondering what’s going on.”

  Eslingen considered several responses, contented himself finally with a short bow. “Yes.”

  “We’ve had word today,” Caiazzo said, “as principal financier, that The Alphabet of Desirehas been chosen as the midwinter masque. The official announcement will be made tomorrow or the next day, but in the meantime, it seems to me that this may offer a–resolution–of our current dilemma. This is Gerrat Duca, senior master of the Guild of the Masters of Defense, who will be responsible for all the chorus displays–”

  “For the fight displays,” Duca said.

  Caiaz
zo sighed. “For the chorus’s fight displays. That’s the drills, the procession set pieces, and any duels, though those will probably be handled by actors.”

  What does this have to do with me? Eslingen thought, and bowed again. “Congratulations.”

  This time, both Duca and Caiazzo lifted an eyebrow at him, and he wondered if Duca was copying the younger man’s gesture. Duca was the first to look away.

  “All right, that was good. But can he act?”

  “Who knows?” Caiazzo answered. “Does it matter?”

  Enough of this, Eslingen thought. “Excuse me, Master Caiazzo, but what–exactly–do you want me to do?”

  To his annoyance, it was Duca who answered. “I need someone who knows how to run a drill, who can teach complete novices to handle weapons without hurting themselves or anyone else. It would help if that someone also knew the rudiments of military technique, more than what he’s learned out of a book.”

  “I would have thought that the Masters of Defense had plenty of members with those qualifications,” Eslingen said. Even he had heard of the Masters of Defense, had even seen a couple of their fencing exhibitions–the only time he’d been to the Tyrseia before he saw The Drowned Island, in fact. They taught swordplay, and general use of weapons, and some of the masters had even published chapbooks on the subject. He’d read a few of them himself, when he was with Coindarel, hoping to learn enough to pass for a gentleman.

  “They’re not, generally speaking, soldiers,” Caiazzo said. “And that’s not the only problem.”

  “The chorus is noble,” Duca said. “Landames and vidames and even a castellan or palatine or two, for all I know, but all well born and used to having their own way. They’ll take orders better from one of their own kind than they would from any of us.”

  Eslingen blinked, absurdly flattered–to be mistaken for gentry by an Astreianter of Duca’s rank and experience was novelty indeed– and Caiazzo sighed again.

  “As you’ve pointed out before now, Philip, your rank makes you a gentleman. And you know how to run a drill.”

  That I do. Eslingen blinked again, considering his options. He could do the job, that much he was certain of–it wasn’t that different from what he’d done as one of Coindarel’s sergeants, never mind as a lieutenant, taking new recruits and teaching them to handle arms and leading them through the basics of maneuvers. But whether he’d want to… Not that he was likely to have much say in the matter; he had known he was being kept on through sufferance since he had taken up with Rathe. Publicly, Caiazzo shrugged off the insinuations of his colleagues, maintained that the household of an honest businessman could consort where and with whom they wished. Privately, though…

  “I can’t keep you,” Caiazzo said, suddenly silken‑voiced. “You’re becoming a liability.”

  “The pay is decent,” Duca said. “We’ll each take home a share–no less than a couple of pillars, maybe as much as a petty‑crown if all goes well. Are you interested, Lieutenant?”

  And to be fair, Caiazzo was under no obligation to have done this much, but it still rankled. “It seems like an–intriguing–position,” Eslingen said.

  “Good,” Duca said. “We can arrange the trials.”

  “ ‘Trials’?” Eslingen repeated, knowing he’d made a mistake, and Duca smiled, the expression a mirror of Caiazzo’s.

  “Even under these circumstances, the formalities have to be observed. We can’t just let anybody in.”

  “Just a moment,” Caiazzo said, and Duca spread his hands.

  “It can’t be done, Hanse. I can make it as easy as possible, but that’s all.”

  “What,” Eslingen asked, “are these trials?” He had a feeling he already knew, that he’d seen a stage fight that was supposed to prove the fitness of one of the contenders either to join the Masters, or to move up in rank, and he schooled himself to show no surprise when Duca answered.

  “Everyone who’s admitted as a master has to prove her worth– his worth, in your case. Usually, it’s in a public subscription match, three bouts against three proving masters with three different sets of weapons, their choice, not yours, with at least one win and no killing touches in a lost bout. As I said, I can set it up, but I can’t eliminate the trial entirely.”

  Wonderful, Eslingen thought. And is it worth it, to become drillmaster to a pack of half‑disciplined nobles? But of course that wasn’t the real question: the real question was whether Caiazzo would allow him any alternative.

  “Mind you,” Duca went on, as though he’d sensed the other man’s unease, “you’ve got the manners for it, and the looks, too. In fact–have you ever considered changing your name?”

  “What?”

  “Lieutenant d’Esling, no, vaan Esling, since you’re a Leaguer.” Duca smiled. “It would look better on the broadsheets.”

  Eslingen bit back a sudden peal of laughter. Folly, Meening had predicted, and here was a grand folly just waiting for him. Lieutenant vaan Esling, indeed, and him a whore’s son from Esling. The other men were looking at him expectantly, knowing what his answer had to be, and this time Eslingen did laugh. “Very well, masters, it sounds like–interesting–work, and I’ve no desire to make Master Caiazzo’s position difficult any longer. But what if I don’t pass these trials?”

  “Oh, you’ll pass,” Caiazzo said, and his smile matched Duca’s. “Don’t worry about that.”

  2

  It was cold already in All‑Guilds, where the regents met. The heavy stones of wall and floor seemed to suck all warmth out of the air–pleasant enough in summer, Rathe thought, but hard to bear at this end of the year. The young women who bustled importantly about the lobby had buttoned their guild‑robes to the chin, and more than one had thickened her ankles with an extra pair of stockings. At least the guild mothers had allowed the ancient guard to light a brazier at his post, and when they were finally ushered into the long room where the regents sat, he was glad to see another pair of stoves, as well as the massive fireplace. All were lit, and he edged gratefully toward the nearest of the stoves, letting it warm him at least from the knees up. Holles spoke first, impressive in the black‑banded scarlet that contrasted so sharply with the regents’ sober black, relieved only by spotless lace and the silver and gold of guild badges at neck and sleeves. The grande bourgeoise was the plainest of all, every stitch proclaiming that her family had held its shop in the Mercandry for a hundred years, and had no need of additional finery. Rathe glanced along the row, was not surprised to see the gold‑edged lace and the frippery of black‑on‑black striping, satin on plain weave, only on the youngest woman. New‑rich herself, or a new‑rich merchant’s daughter, she seemed to have no qualms about setting herself apart from the others, and he hoped that was a good sign.

  Holles spoke well–speaking on his own behalf must be strange to him, Rathe thought, and had to admire if not the cold eloquence then the simple emotional justice of his plea. He showed good sense in not trying to make this a court‑speech, downplaying the legal aspects in favor of the personal, and Rathe saw one or two of the regents nod in agreement as he worked his way toward his conclusion. Then, in spite of himself, he glanced toward the frieze that wound its way around the room, the carved figures centered above the grand bourgeoise’s chair. In any of the courts, high or low, that frieze would show the Pillars of Justice, the four deities who guarded court matters. Here in All‑Guilds, the theme was Heira’s Banquet, Heira herself presiding over the great gathering of the goddesses, from the solid, familiar figures pressing toward her for her gifts, to the lesser known, less loved, clustering behind them. And somewhere, Rathe knew, probably opposite Heira herself for the balance of the composition, Bonfortune, the god of the Merchants‑Venturer, would be at his tricks, persuading innocent Didion to give up her share in the spoils of the settled life. And that meant that Bonfortune stood above all petitioners, he realized, warning the regents against inevitable deceit. Unfair, he thought, but then, the regents were responsible for more th
an just the guilds now, and had good reason to be careful.

  “Adjunct Point Rathe and Magist b’Estorr both worked with the intendant,” Holles said, and Rathe jerked himself back to attention at the mention of his name. “And Chief Point Trijn is an impartial witness. They have all viewed the evidence I’ve laid before you, and have agreed to stand with me today, in support of my plea before you.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then the regents leaned toward each other, conferring in lower voice. The lines of their bodies mimicked the lines of the frieze above them, and Rathe wondered if they were aware of the effect. Finally the grand bourgeoise straightened, glancing to either side until the other women subsided. “It seems to me, with all due respect to the advocat, that there is no clear evidence of murder. Suggestions, yes, but nothing more.”

  Someone gasped–not Holles, Rathe thought, the advocat had himself too well in hand for that, but perhaps one of the regents. He glanced sideways to see b’Estorr looking dangerously demure, studying a crack in the stone floor with the same intensity he would focus on a particularly interesting set of bones. Holles started to speak again, but Trijn spoke first.

  “It seems to me, with all due respect to the regents, that the evidence in hand combined with the sanction–the agreement–of the points should be enough to satisfy the regents that murder, in fact, has been done, as well as violence after death. Even if the evidence were inconclusive, the matter must be resolved. The intendant Leussi was one of the brighter ornaments of the judiciary. His murder must not be allowed to go unpunished.”

  The regents were staring at Trijn, Gausaron with particular disdain, and Rathe knew he was staring with them. It wasn’t like Trijn to make speeches, even less like her to antagonize the powers that be–even in the short time Rathe had served with her, he had learned that she was more likely to get her way by bowing and catering to people’s pretensions. But this… There was a particular ring in the chief point’s voice, triumph almost, or sharp attack, that made him suspect there was more here than he knew. Which might explain why she volunteered herself for this, he thought, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to help us.