Devynck pushed open the main door, and Eslingen winced at the smell of cold cabbage and cheap scent that rushed out past her. Despite the pair of windows, the shutters of both open wide to let in as much light as possible, the room was dark, and the candle on the duty pointsman’s desk was still lit. He looked up at their entrance, eyes going wide, and quickly closed the daybook.

“Mistress Devynck?”

He had been one of the ones who’d searched the tavern, Eslingen remembered, but couldn’t place the man’s name.

“Where’s Monteia?” Devynck said.

“Not in yet, mistress–”

“Then you’d better send for her,” Devynck said, grimly, and one of the doors in the back wall opened.

“I’m here, if that helps, Aagte.” Rathe stepped out into the main room, the bird’s‑wing eyebrows drawing down into sharper angles as he looked from Devynck and her wrapped caliver to Eslingen. “I take it there’s been trouble.”

Devynck nodded. “No offense, Nico, but Monteia needs to hear it, too.”

“None taken,” Rathe said, equably enough, and stepped past them to the door. “Asheri! Run to the chief point’s house, tell her she’s needed here. Tell her Aagte Devynck’s come to us with a complaint.” He turned back into the main room, a scarecrow silhouette in his shapeless coat. “Come on into her workroom–but leave the artillery outside, please.”

Devynck hesitated, but, grudgingly, set the caliver into a corner. “It’s loaded,” she said. “No match, of course, but one of the things I’ve come for is to fire it off.”

“If things were bad enough to bring out the guns,” Rathe said, “why didn’t you send to us last night?”

“They were here and gone before I had the time,” Devynck answered. “And then there seemed no point in one of my people risking the streets before daylight.”

Rathe’s eyebrows flicked up at that, but he said nothing, just motioned for the others to precede him into the narrow room. It, too, was dark, and Eslingen stumbled against something, bruising his shin, before Rathe could open the shutters. This window looked onto a garden of sorts, and laundry hung from a line strung between the corner of the station and a straggling tree. Eslingen felt his eyebrows rise at that, and realized that Rathe was looking at him.

“All the comforts of home?”

Rathe shrugged, seemingly unembarrassed. “Has to get done some time, and some of the people here can’t afford their own laundresses. So Monteia makes sure one comes in once a week.”

Before Eslingen could answer, Devynck slammed her palm down on the table, making the inkstand rattle. “Areton’s balls, what do I have to do to get the points to protect my interests? Or would the two of you rather sit here and gossip about laundry?”

“I thought you wanted to wait for Monteia,” Rathe answered.

“Which I do.” Devynck glared, but Rathe went on calmly.

“And, to get to what business I can, what were you doing with that gun of yours, Aagte?”

“How could I know they would just break my windows and run–”

Rathe shook his head. “It takes time to load one of those, Aagte, I know that. If they just broke your windows and ran, you wouldn’t’ve had time to load it. So what else did they do, and why didn’t you send to us? Or were you expecting trouble, had it ready just in case?”

Eslingen kept his expression steady with an effort. He hadn’t expected the pointsman to know that much about guns, enough to have caught Devynck in the weakest part of her story. Most city folk didn’t, didn’t encounter them much in the course of their lives, or if they did, they knew the newer flintlocks, not old‑fashioned ones like Devynck’s matchlock. Flints didn’t take as long to load–were generally less temperamental than a matchlock–but he was surprised that Rathe, who didn’t seem to like soldiers much, would have bothered to find that out. Or did the points still act as militia? he wondered suddenly.

Devynck fixed Rathe with a glare, and the pointsman returned the look blandly. “As it happened,” she said, after a moment, “I’d loaded before bed, just to be on the safe side. After your lot searched us yesterday, pointsman, it seemed wise to expect a certain amount of– awkwardness.”

Rathe nodded again, apparently appeased. “Yeah, I heard about that. Huviet’s getting above herself, wants guild office, or so I hear.”

“Not through my misfortunes,” Devynck retorted.

“I agree. But, bond or no bond, Aagte, you shoot someone, and it’s manslaughter in the law’s eyes.”

“Or self‑defense.”

“If you can prove it,” Rathe said. “And with the way tempers are these days, it wouldn’t be easy.” He held up his hand, forestalling Devynck’s automatic outburst. “I’m not begging fees, Aagte, or telling you not to protect your property. But I wish you’d sent to us as soon as it happened, that’s all. I’d’ve welcomed an excuse to put Paas Huviet in cells for a night or two, think of it that way. I’m assuming he was the ringleader?”

Devynck sighed. “I think so. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I’d know the voice.”

Eslingen eyed Rathe with new respect. Not only was what he said solid common sense, it had appeased Devynck–not the easiest thing at the best of times, and this was hardly that.

Rathe looked at Eslingen. “Did you see him?”

The soldier shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I heard the shouting, but I couldn’t swear to the voice.”

Devynck made a sour face. “No, you hardly could.” She looked back at Rathe. “Does this mean you can’t do anything?”

Before he could answer, the workroom door opened, and Monteia said, “I hear there was trouble, Aagte?”

Eslingen edged back against the shelves where the station’s books were kept, and the chief point eased past him, her skirts brushing his legs, to settle herself behind the worktable. Rathe moved gracefully out of her way, leaned against the wall by the window.

“Trouble enough,” Devynck answered, and Monteia made a face.

“Sit down, for the gods’ sake, there’s a stool behind you. I’d hoped we’d nipped that in the bud.”

“I told you it wouldn’t help matters,” Devynck said, not without relish, and dragged the tall stool out from its corner. She perched on it, arms folded across her breasts, and Monteia grimaced again.

“Tell me about it.”

“We had a very slow night last night, not a single Chenedolliste from the neighborhood, and damn few of the Leaguers,” Devynck answered. “And after we’d closed up–and locked up, we’re not taking any chances these days–and were all in bed, a band of the local youth comes by and smashes in my front windows. It’s going to cost me more than a few seillings to get them repaired, that’s for certain.”

“What time was it that it happened?” Monteia asked. Rathe, Eslingen saw, without surprise, had pulled out a set of tablets and was scratching notes in the wax plates.

Devynck shrugged. “The winter‑sun was well down, and I heard the clock strike four a while after. Sometime after three, I think.”

“And you didn’t send to us.”

“As I told Nico here, I didn’t want to send my people into the streets, not when I was pretty sure they were gone.” Devynck sighed. “They were drunken journeymen, Tersennes. They weren’t going to do much more damage to my property, or so I thought, after we’d scared them off, but that sort’s more than capable of beating one of my waiters if they caught him unaware. It may have been a mistake, I admit it, but I’ve my people to think of, as well as the house.”

Monteia nodded. “I gather you didn’t recognize anyone.”

“I’m morally certain Paas Huviet was the ringleader,” Devynck answered, “but, no, I can’t swear to it.”

Monteia nodded again. She took Devynck through her story in detail, calling on Eslingen now and then for confirmation–a confirmation he was only able to provide in the negative, much to his chagrin– and finally leaned back in her chair. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Aagte. I’d hoped we’d put a stop to the rumors. I’ll send some of my people around to ask questions–”