Fairs' Point (32 page)

“
I was.”

“
It seems likely.” b’Estorr sat back on his heels, and made a gesture over the splintered wood. Sparks flared, and he looked up with a wry smile. “It seems you were right.”

“
So the odds are he was killed here,” Eslingen said. “Just as Nico thought.”

“
Time to make sure of that,” b’Estorr said. He pushed himself to his feet, and looked around the bedroom. “In the parlor, I think.”

Eslingen followed him into the larger room.
“What should I do?”

“
Stand over there by the stove and stay still,” b’Estorr answered, and Eslingen did as he was told, flattening himself against the paneled wall.

b’Estorr reached into his pocket and came up with a piece of chalk. He sketched a series of symbols on the floorboards, then connected them with short sweeping arcs, so that he stood within a circle. He placed himself in its center, turning so that he faced north, his feet a shoulder’s-width apart, his hands open at his side. He closed his eyes, frowning slightly, and the air smelled suddenly of salt, as though they were on the coast itself. It was chill, too, a weird little breeze that wandered through the room, coiling around Eslingen’s knees, but there was no sign of even b’Estorr’s personal ghosts. And then the air lightened, and b’Estorr opened his eyes, his expression pensive.

“Well, now,” he began, and there was a sudden crack from the boards at his feet. He stepped back, startled, and Eslingen swore. Between the boards, between the necromancer’s feet, a silver coin glinted as though it had just emerged from the wood.

“
That would seem indicative,” Eslingen said, after a moment, and b’Estorr nodded.

“
Beier was killed here, and by the silver that your boxholders and apprentices have been finding in the walls.” He stooped to collect the coin, then knelt to examine the gap more closely. “Hand me a straw.”

Eslingen pulled one from the threadbare broom, and b’Estorr i
nserted it in the opening, wriggling the straw until his knuckles were pressed against the floor.

“
It tunneled up from the wall,” he said.

That was a thought for nightmare: a horde of coin burrowing into brick and stones and wood, climbing inexorably back to the place where it had killed. Eslingen shook himself.
“We’d best tell Nico,” he said, and b’Estorr nodded.

“
Although…” He looked toward the door. “The girl’s not back yet, is she?”

Eslingen went to the door and peered out.
“No sign of her.”

“
Then there’s one more thing,” b’Estorr said. “Stay where you are.”

Eslingen closed the door and put his back against it while b’Estorr sketched another set of symbols on the dusty floor. He centered himself and murmured a word that Eslingen couldn’t quite hear. He smelled salt air again, and then there was a faint, sweet sound, like the ghost of a silver bell. It hung in the air, a vibration almost solid enough to touch: the sound of silver, Eslingen thought, the music that called it from the stone. B’Estorr gestured again, and smell and sound both vanished, leaving only an emptiness like an echo. Eslingen let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Well,” b’Estorr said, and scraped his foot across the floor, erasing the chalked signs. “That’s fairly conclusive.”

“
If you say so,” Eslingen said.

“
Sorry.” b’Estorr finished wiping away the marks, and straightened with a satisfied smile. “That confirms that silver was moved here—that was the echo of the actual working you heard, and that gives me an idea of how it was structured.”

“
Was it an accident, then?” Eslingen asked. “Beier, I mean. Was he fiddling with something, and got it wrong, or did somebody—I don’t know, aim the silver at him somehow?”

“
I think it was murder,” b’Estorr answered. “You heard how clean it sounded, that’s not usual if there’s been a mistake. I don’t know if I can prove it, though.”

Eslingen nodded, not liking the picture that conjured for him. Beier, standing alone in his open parlor—or, worse and more lik
ely, standing there with a friend, someone he’d trusted enough to interrupt his observations for her. And then the air suddenly filled with silver coins, scything through the room to strike the man as dead as musket fire.

“
I need to talk to Fanier,” b’Estorr said. “I have an idea—tell Nico he can buy me a meal later, but I want to see what comes of this first.”

“
Go,” Eslingen said. “I’ll wait for the girl, and then tell Nico.”

It was increasingly hard to concentrate on the latest complaint about unlicensed astrologers. Rathe turned back to the front of the circular for the third time, but his mind was on Fairs’ Point. Eslingen and b’Estorr had to have finished by now, surely—but then the Bells’ clock struck two, and he swore under his breath at his own impatience. A shadow crossed his door, and he looked up with relief as Trijn paused in the doorway.

“
Chief?”

“
A word with you, Rathe,” Trijn said, and swept past. Rathe disentangled himself from the nest of papers, and followed her into her workroom.

“
I’ve been with the Surintendant,” she said without preamble, and Rathe blinked. “An unofficial gathering to pass on some unwelcome news.”

Rathe winced.
“The City Guard.”

Trijn nodded.
“The Queen has stated that it will move forward under Coindarel’s sponsorship.”

“
The Sur must be beside himself,” Rathe said.

“
He’s exactly as happy as you’d expect,” Trijn answered. She reached for her pipe and began to fill it. “To be fair, it’s not as bad as it could be, at least not on paper. Coindarel’s men are intended to be subordinate to Fourie, and both the Queen and Astreiant have sworn they’ll back the Sur in this.”

“
What rank’s the commander?” Rathe asked.

“
A Colonel. I don’t yet know who it’s to be—Fourie may know, but he’s not saying.” Trijn got her pipe lit and took a deep breath of the smoke. “There’s a rumor that the Prince-Marshal wants your black dog as one of his captains.”

Rathe winced again.
“He’s made that offer, yes. Philip—” He stopped, not at all sure where he wanted to go with that. Eslingen wanted the position, and he couldn’t bring himself to lie to Trijn about it.

“
I hope he takes it,” Trijn said. “And if you had any sense, you’d wish the same.”

Rathe blinked at that, and Trijn went on, heedless of his reaction.

“The Guard is a fact. It’s going to happen. All we can hope is to get it on our side. Eslingen’s a sensible man, and he understands the business—if he’d been born here, I’d have begged his mother to apprentice him to me.”

“
He’s—” Rathe closed his mouth over what he had almost said: a man kept his leman’s secrets.

“
He’s good,” Trijn said. “I’d rather have him captain of a troop than what we’re likely to get in his place.”

“
He is good,” Rathe said, feeling himself on more certain ground there. “And I think he wants to do it.”

“
For the Pillars’ sake, don’t you talk him out of it,” Trijn exclaimed. “If nothing else, Rathe, he’s less at risk holding that commission than he is doing you favors.”

That was true, and Rathe nodded. Trijn eyed him thoughtfully through the cloud of smoke, and reached for her own stack of ci
rculars. “Now. Any luck on these Dis-damned astrologers?”

“
I’ve sent Sohier to make the usual inquiries,” Rathe said.

Trijn snorted.
“And got the usual results, I don’t wonder. And Solveert is breathing down our necks. You’d think he got a bounty for every astrologer we found without a badge.”

“
I’ll do the best I can, Chief,” Rathe said, and let himself out of her workroom.

To his relief, Eslingen returned within the hour, without b’Estorr, but with an interesting account of the day’s investigation. It was enough to distract Rathe from Trijn’s news, and by the time he had sent to the nearest tavern for a quick meal, and then treated Eslin
gen to a better dinner at Wicked’s before they returned to their rooms, he couldn’t think of a way to mention it that wouldn’t provoke a quarrel over his not having spoken sooner. Instead, they made love in the big bed, the night air shiveringly cool on their bare skin, and afterward Rathe lay sprawled, listening to Eslingen’s breathing as it slowed toward sleep. The winter-sun had just set, but the waxing moon was still up, and the light falling through the opened shutters and bedcurtains showed Eslingen’s hair black and tangled against the sheets. Rathe brushed some errant strands out of his own face, more wakeful now than he had expected to be.

He was, if he would admit it, a little jealous of b’Estorr, and he couldn’t help a wry smile at the irony. Now that Eslingen seemed over his concerns, it would be wrong for him to sulk. But he would much rather have spent his day in Fairs’ Point, seeing Beier’s room for himself. At least he could rely on Eslingen’s perceptions, and his ability to describe them, he’d learned that much in the months since Midsummer. Still, he wished he’d been there—been there to trade ideas, bounce theories off each other. If Eslingen took Coi
ndarel’s offer, that would be one good thing that came from it.

Eslingen shifted drowsily, working one foot under Rathe’s calf, contact that made no overt demands, and Rathe shifted in turn to accommodate him. They usually started the night apart, though in the morning they woke twined more often than not, as though in sleep their bodies sought each other
.
In wine and dream comes trut
h
: the old proverb slipped through his mind unbidden. And perhaps he was being foolish—or a coward—to so carefully not name what he nonetheless believed was there. He wanted Eslingen to be happy—to see him happy was itself a pleasure, even when the cause was as petty as proper Leaguer beer, or as ridiculous as a racing terrier. Trijn was right, the Guard was going to happen. They would all be better off if Eslingen was one of the captains.

He started to roll over, then changed his mind and turned delibe
rately in the other direction, setting his shoulder against Eslingen’s back. Eslingen stirred, but didn’t pull away, and Rathe let himself relax into the familiar warmth. They would still need to talk about it, but he knew what he wanted to say.

Eslingen was out early, off to see Sunflower in his first ladder race. Rathe let him go without complaint, and made the round of the printers’ shops before he went in to Point of Dreams. He found nothing of significance, just the usual broadsheets, and wrote up the usual summonses with about as much enthusiasm as the printers received them. Sohier was ahead of him at the station, and one of the runners brewed a fresh pot of tea while they went over her notes.

“
Honestly, Nico, I don’t know what the Patent Administrator is screaming about,” she said, when they were done. “There aren’t as many astrologers as last year, and there’s no Beier, poor bastard, to make his life miserable alleging cheating and a thousand other unspecified misdemeanors. But he’s acting as though every one of them is taking the coin straight out of his own purse.”

Rathe nodded.
“I know.”

“
Do you suppose it’s still the Repudiation?” Sohier asked, winding her lovelock idly around one finger. “His family was responsible for so many people backing Malfiliatre and her brother, and the Regents haven’t exactly forgiven any of them. Or so I hear.”

“
It could be,” Rathe said, though he thought it was more likely that Solveert was simply out for every seilling he could squeeze out of the races. The Patent Administrator’s perquisites were traditionally generous. “Unfortunately, we’re stuck with the business.”