Fairs' Point (18 page)

“
There’s no chance that something designed to steal gold, or do something else entirely, could have misfired and taken the silver instead?” Rathe spoke without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when b’Estorr shook his head.

“
That’s close to impossible. Gold isn’t silver, it isn’t even like silver. Magistically, they’re as different as the sun and the moon, at opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“
Always in opposition,” Eslingen said.

“
Yes, that’s right,” b’Estorr said, startled, and Eslingen gave a crooked smile.

“
Read that in a broadsheet once. But it makes sense.”

“
It’s a good analogy,” b’Estorr said. “That’s why magists who work with aurichalcum use vessels and tools made of silver. The two don’t mingle. So, no, I don’t think it’s a mistake.”

“
It’s too targeted for that,” Calaon said, and Rathe nodded.

“
Yeah.”

“
Also…” Calaon hesitated, then shrugged. “I have heard that one person might have had gold in her box, and that coin wasn’t touched. Just the silver.”

“
Which confirms it’s not an ordinary theft,” Rathe said, with a sigh. “If someone was opening the boxes, there’s no way she’d leave gold behind and take silver instead.” He frowned, considering. “When did these thefts happen, dame? Hypothetically, I mean.”

“
One was two days ago, sometime between nine o’clock and first sunset,” Calaon answered. “The rest—all in daylight, I think, but I don’t know for sure.”

“
Could you get a list?”

“
I might,” Calaon said. “I can try.”

“
You’re thinking something in the stars,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.

“
I’m not sure what, exactly, but, yeah, something in common.”

“
A suitable conjunction might make it easier to work with silver,” b’Estorr said. “I can look into that. But even so—it just wouldn’t be easy.”

Rathe looked at Calaon.
“Send to me, if you would—or give it to Philip, here, that’s more discreet, and he’s at the Fair most mornings. Aren’t you?”

“
I’ll find him,” Calaon said.

Eslingen nodded. He was tracing shapes on the scarred table, frowning as though he were trying to tease out a lingering thought.
“There’s nothing you’d need silver for? No process or special need?”

“
Like the tale that it takes a silver bullet to bring down a revenant?” b’Estorr asked.

“
Or your silver vessels for working gold,” Eslingen answered.

“
I thought revenants were a myth,” Rathe said.

“
Oh, they are,” b’Estorr answered. “The dead don’t walk, at least not in their own bodies. But people believe in them, and so it might be a cause. If you needed a mass of raw silver, well, yes, coin silver is pure enough for the purpose, but it would be simpler just to buy the goods you need. Any silversmith in the city has the tools, or can make them in a day or so.”

“
Someone who couldn’t afford to be seen buying them?” Rathe asked. “And who didn’t want to have a servant traced?”

“
Maybe?” b’Estorr looked doubtful. “For that matter, you could buy a set of silver spoons and melt them down for less effort than it would take to steal silver like this. And I can’t think what you’d want them for in the first place. Bullets make more sense.”

In the distance, the Great Clock stuck the hour, followed a m
oment later by a nearer, less melodious chime, and Calaon pushed back her stool. “If we’re reduced to talking about revenants, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve work to do.”

Rathe looked up at her.
“Dame. If there’s any chance that someone could put in a formal complaint—”

“
What, you’d pay the fine?” She laughed without humor.

“
Someone who could afford it might,” Eslingen said.

Calaon snorted.
“If by that you mean Caiazzo—not likely. And I wouldn’t want to owe him the favor.” She looked back at Rathe. “Besides, we’d have to go to Fairs’ Point, and they’re so busy with the meet that they’d dismiss it as nonsense. Or spend more time calling the point on a poor book-writer than taking down the details of the loss.”

“
Claes is a good man,” Rathe said again. He felt as though he’d had to say it far too many times lately.

“
Claes is too busy running Solveert’s errands to listen to common business,” Calaon retorted. “And his adjuncts are worse than useless.”

Rathe sighed, conceding the point.
“You know there’s not much I can do without a formal complaint.” He held up his hand to forestall her answer. “I will keep this in mind, and we will make inquiries, but if there’s no case—”

“
I know.” Calaon nodded. “I do know. But someone needed to be told.”

She turned away without waiting for his answer. Rathe watched her go, her skirts swaying as she made her way between the tables. She was right, that was the trouble: if Claes didn’t handle the ma
tter himself, the adjuncts, especially Voillemin, were likely to focus on the lack of license rather than the theft itself. But without some official excuse, he couldn’t interfere—

“
It’s a bad business,” b’Estorr said, and poured himself more wine. That in itself was unusual, and Rathe lifted an eyebrow.

“
That bad, then?”

B’Estorr tipped his head to one side.
“Anytime someone is using magistry of an entirely unknown nature, I get nervous. If someone has figured out how to work silver in safety, well and good. But—I’m not sure I believe that.”

“
If this is like those Dis-damned flowers,” Eslingen began, with a wry grin, and Rathe shook his head.

“
The Pillars forfend! Istre, what about Maseigne Vair?” That was the Royal Fellow who’d advised him once before about the properties of missing gold. “Would she be able to help?”

“
I thought I’d talk to her,” b’Estorr said. “And there might be something in the stars, if you’ll bring me that list, Eslingen. Though there’s nothing particularly potent in the skies just now.”

“
The sun, the moon, and Argent are in conjunction,” Eslingen said. “That’s good for gamblers, or so the broadsheets say.”

“
And that stellium stands in opposition to Metenere which in turn squares Heira,” b’Estorr said. “Silver is the moon’s metal, yes, but the sun negates it, and Argent-Bonfortune stands for the merchants who deal in silver, not the metal itself. No, this is individual luck, private luck, not luck for sober women of business. Perfect for the races, but I don’t see how it bears on missing silver.”

Rathe shook his head.
“No more do I,” he agreed. “But we’d best find something that does.”

The knock at the door came at the false dawn, when Eslingen could just see his hand before his face. Rathe rolled over, reaching for shirt and breeches even half asleep, had them both decently fastened by the time he reached the door.

“
Who’s there?”

“
Maeykin, Adjunct Point. I’m sorry, but you’re needed.”

Rathe swore, and reached for the poker, stirring up the embers until he could light a straw, and the candles from that.
“Give me a minute.”

Eslingen pushed himself out of bed, reaching for his shirt as well, then shrugged on his dressing gown as Rathe pulled back the door.

“What’s amiss?”

Maeykin was short and stocky, with a determined jaw blued with the night’s stubble. He pulled off his shapeless cap as he came in, and Rathe’s frown deepened.

“Well?”

“
Sorry, Adjunct Point.” Maeykin sounded both tired and out of breath, as though he’d run a distance on top of the long night’s shift. “The pontoises have found a body, and they say it’s ours. The Chief says you should look at it before we claim it.”

Rathe groaned.
“Really?”

“
I’m afraid so.”

“
Astree’s tits.” Rathe ran his hands through his hair, and cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder. “If someone wakes the chief, the rest of us had better be out of bed. Any idea who it is?”

“
A man?” Maeykin turned up his hands. “That’s all they told me, Adjunct Point.”

“
The pontoises?” Eslingen asked.

“
They’re the pointsmen for the river and the bridges, though I won’t let them hear me say that,” Rathe answered. “Their writ’s older than ours. Which means this one’s probably drowned—what a lovely way to start the day.”

He had been dressing as he spoke, fastening collar and cuffs, pulling on stockings and shoes, and now he reached for the coat he’d left draped over the back of his chair. Eslingen shook himself.
“I’ll go with you.”

Rathe stopped for an instant, then gave a quick smile.
“No need for both of us to be awake at this hour.”

“
I’m up,” Eslingen said. He hesitated, looking for the words that might get him what he wanted. “I’ve got a feeling about this, Nico.”

“
Oh, yes?” Rathe gave him a searching glance, and Eslingen met it squarely. “Then you’d better hurry.”

Eslingen dressed with practiced haste, pulling his hair back into a passable queue, and jammed his hat onto his head. He could stop at a barber’s later—perhaps even in Rathe’s company, a small bright possibility in the cold dawn.
“Let’s go, then.”

To Eslingen’s surprise, Rathe led them west along the Sier, through Point of Dreams and into Point of Hearts, past closed and shuttered houses that grew increasingly larger and better appointed until at last the squat tower of the Chain loomed at the end of the road. Eslingen gave it a thoughtful look, and then glanced at Rathe.

“I thought you told me once that the chain wasn’t in use.”

“
The actual chain isn’t,” Rathe said. “I don’t think it’s been deployed in living memory.” He grinned, teeth showing white in the rising dawn. “Not even the last time we were at war with the League.”

“
Because we’re such a great maritime power,” Eslingen said.

“
It’s never a good idea to take chances,” Rathe said. “But it’s an even worse idea to inconvenience the merchants-venturer unless the enemy is actually sailing down the river.”

At which point, Eslingen remembered, the two Chain Towers would set waterwheels and windlasses in motion and raise the ma
ssive chain that currently lay at the bottom of the river. He’d seen the spare chain stacked on the riverside on the edge of the market at Little Chain: enormous iron links half as long as a man, each one forged with square studs like an ironmonger’s punch, enough to splinter a ship’s hull. No, the merchants-venturer would want that put in place only as a last resort. They were as cold-blooded in their way as any Ajanine landame; they took risks by way of business that made the hairs rise at the back of Eslingen’s neck.

Hanging lanterns were lit at the entrance to the Great Chain Tower, mage-lights glowing blue behind a lattice-work of glass and iron, and more homely lamplight flickered behind the half-shuttered windows. A young woman was minding the door, wound in a cloak against the night’s chill. She straightened at their a
pproach, then seemed to see Rathe’s truncheon and relaxed slightly. Rathe nodded a greeting.

“
I’m from Dreams,” he said. “Nicolas Rathe. I had word you had a body for me?”

“
That’s right.” She stepped aside, motioning for them to pass beneath the raised portcullis. “The cap’pontoise is within.”

“
Thanks,” Rathe said, and Eslingen followed him through the narrow entrance.

Inside, the Great Chain Tower was much like all the points st
ations Eslingen had seen. There was a heavy worktable to one side, where a bored-looking young man tended an open ledger; a pair of boatmen, their long-tailed caps distinctive, were arguing in low voices while another man took notes. A set of shapeless leather coats hung ready on the wall behind them, but instead of truncheons there was a rack of cutlasses, old-fashioned but clean and well-kept. On the opposite wall, the river wall, there was a rack of oars, each one as long as an Altheim pike, each blade painted with bright symbols, suns and moons and stars on fields of vivid red and blue and ochre. In the corner, an arched door gave onto a darkened stairwell, and for a moment Eslingen thought he could hear the rush of the river, or perhaps the mutter of the tower’s wheel, turning idle in the current. His stars were bad for water, and he kept Rathe between him and the open door.

“
Nico!” That was a fair man with untidy blond hair and very bright blue eyes, and a smile that showed a chipped tooth. Despite the hour and the chill, he was barefoot and bare-legged, patched homespun shirt open at the neck to show solid muscle and a bit of fine gold hair. “Good of you to come out at this ungodly hour.”

Rathe submitted to his embrace.
“Hello, Euan. They told them at Dreams it was my dead man, so here I am. This is Eslingen, by the way. Philip, Euan Cambrai.”

Eslingen sketched a bow, and Cambrai grinned even wider.
“I’m sorry you feel the need of your black dog, Nico. You know you’re always welcome in my house.”

Rathe shook his head.
“You won’t get around me that way, Euan. Not with a drowned man to look at—he is drowned?”

“
As far as we can tell,” Cambrai answered, with new seriousness. “He’s been in the water a while. At least a week, by Saffroy’s best guess. He’ll need to go to the deadhouse, but I thought you should see him first.”

“
Do you have a name for him?” Rathe asked.

“
That’s how we knew him for yours,” Cambrai said. “He had a set of tablets on him with his name carved in them. Poirel. You put out a circular for him.”

Rathe swore, and Eslingen grimaced, thinking of Naimi and the dogs still hoping he’d come back.
“He’s mine. Where did you find him?”

“
In a dock on the Manufactory side of the river, just above Point of Graves. From the look of him, though, he’d got caught on something, and only broke free last night or thereabouts.” He paused. “He wasn’t a friend, was he?”

“
I never met him in life,” Rathe said, grimly. “That bad?”

“
I’ve seen worse.” Cambrai shrugged one shoulder. “I wouldn’t like to swear to the face, but our magist says the tablets are his. We go to court with less.”

“
Let’s see him,” Rathe said. “I can’t swear to him, mind, but I imagine there are people at Fairs who know his goods.”

Cambrai led them through the arched door and down a spiral stair that opened into a stone-flagged room well-lit by mage-light. The sound of water was louder, and Eslingen realized that the walls were open to the river, water lapping at the edge of what was less a room than a large dock. A square gate opened to the river, and the first light of dawn was seeping in, though it didn’t reach the flat-bottomed boat snugged up to the edge of the dock. The body lay on a stone table, covered with a thin piece of cloth; a pile of tattered objects was heaped on a smaller table, and a long-faced man looked up from examining it.

“Saffroy,” Cambrai said. “My tillerman. I’ve got Rathe and his black dog.”

“
Adjunct Point.” Saffroy nodded in acknowledgement. “Lieutenant. I’m sorry it’s not better news.”

“
I can’t say I’m surprised,” Rathe answered. “Euan says you knew him by his goods?”

Saffroy nodded again, and rummaged through the things on the table until he produced a set of wooden tablets. Eslingen looked over Rathe’s shoulder as the other man opened them. The wax was spoiled, but the name could still be clearly seen, chip-carved into the frame in a repeating pattern
:
poirelpoirelpoire
l
. Eslingen looked away, focusing on the other items that had been recovered. A single shoe and stocking, torn linen that might have been a shirt and drawers, rags that had been coat and breeches. No apron, though, and no stick; either they’d been washed away or he’d left them in his lodgings. There was a small purse, good stout leather, and Saffroy saw where he was looking and turned it out.

“
The tablets were in there, too,” he said. “A couple of demmings, a comb and brush, a pair of dice—nothing much.”

“
And no way to tell if he’d been robbed,” Rathe said. He gave an unhappy sigh. “All right, let’s get it over with.”

Cambrai nodded, and Saffroy moved to the stone table and fol
ded back the length of linen. Eslingen grimaced at the sight. The man had been in the water, all right. The skin was puffed and pale, flesh watery and loose on the bones. The fish had been at him, nibbled at nose and ears and one eye, and at second glance, one leg looked odd, as though it had been wrenched out of socket and set back imperfectly. He had been held in the river some days, Eslingen remembered, trapped in the tangles of debris that lined the banks, and he had to swallow hard. There were more scrapes and gouges, bloodless tears here and there deep enough to show purpled muscle, and Rathe shook his head.

“
I’ll see if DeVoss can’t name him from his things. All right, you can cover him—”

“
Wait,” Eslingen said. There was a deeper cut on Poirel’s chest, not far off the heart, and it looked more like shot than either a stab wound or something that happened after death.

“
What?” Rathe looked over his shoulder.

“
There,” Eslingen said, and pointed.

Rathe frowned, and then his eyebrows rose.
“All right, that’s—interesting.”

“
Fish,” Cambrai said, but his tone wasn’t as certain as the word.

“
Always possible,” Rathe said, “but I think I want Fanier to take a good look at that. Good eye, Philip.”

“
Glad to oblige,” Eslingen murmured.

“
Have you sent to the deadhouse?” Rathe asked, and Cambrai nodded.

“
When you got here. They should arrive any time now.”

“
Thanks,” Rathe said, and turned toward the stairs.

Eslingen followed, but couldn’t resist a last look over his shou
lder. Saffroy had covered the body again, but there was still no mistaking what it was. Naimi and DeVoss would be upset—they had both cared about the missing man, and they would both be eager to blame Fairs’ Point for ignoring their reports. “DeVoss isn’t going to like this.”