“Right, then. See that he gets there safely.”

“Thank you for that,” Eslingen said, not entirely sarcastically, and turned to face the two pointsmen. “Lead on.”

6

« ^ »

it took the better part of the next two hours to lead Nigaud and a handful of his journeymen through the Old Brown Dog. Rathe was careful to stand aside and let them do most of the work, intervening only when Devynck’s stores seemed threatened, and at the end of it Nigaud faced him with visible embarrassment.

“There’s no one here,” he said, at last, and Rathe barely stopped himself from nodding.

“No,” he said, instead, and kept his tone and face impassive. “Will you say as much to your people, Master Nigaud, you and Master Follet?”

“We will,” Nigaud said shortly, and Follet cleared his throat.

“And how much of a difference does this make in terms of a point?”

Rathe cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

Follet took a deep breath. “People of mine are liable for riot, I can see that, just as that knife of Devynck’s is liable for manslaughter. So where do we stand with that, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe studied him for a long moment, torn between anger and a grudging respect for the man. Follet’s journeymen–and Nigaud’s and probably a few others’–could indeed be taken up for provoking trouble and assault, especially after they’d all been warned the day before; at least he was acknowledging it, even if he was also angling for a fee. “Given the circumstances, Master Follet–I’ve been working on the business of Mailet’s missing apprentice myself, along with a dozen others, I know how frantic we all are. Given the circumstances, I’m prepared to overlook the formal point on your journeymen. Paas Huviet’s hurt, maybe dying, that’s enough for me. However, we will require two things from you, masters. First, I want you to post a bond for good behavior for the ringleaders among the journeymen–you know who they are as well as I do, and I’ll give you the names in the morning.” He held up his hand to forestall the automatic protest. “This is a bond, not a fee, you’ll get it back when they make their appearance at the fall assizes as long as there’s no more trouble from them. I don’t want fees from you, or from anyone right now. I want to be free to chase these child‑thieves where or whoever they are. Is that clear?”

He could hear himself on the verge of anger, was not surprised to see Follet’s matching frown, but Nigaud lifted both hands in surrender. “The guild will pay the bonds, Adjunct Point.”

Follet nodded. “You said two things?”

“That’s right.” Rathe did his best to moderate his tone. “Devynck’s knife, Eslingen–I don’t expect you to press the point. It was self‑defense and defense of property, and that’s where it will stand.”

Nigaud looked at Follet. “He was your journeyman.”

Follet made a face, as though he’d bitten into something sour. “And he was at fault, I admit it. All right. I won’t press the point.”

“Good.” Rathe sighed, suddenly aware of how late it was, and in the same moment heard the tower clock strike three. “Then let’s get your people home.”

He made it back to his own lodgings in time to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but dragged himself out of bed as the local clock sounded eight. Someone from the Butchers’ Guild would be coming to pay the journeymen’s bond, and he wanted to be there personally to oversee the process. Still, he was later than usual as he entered the gate at Point of Hopes, and glanced around to see if the guild’s representative had somehow gotten there ahead of him. There was no sign of him or her, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“We’re sent for,” Monteia said.

Rathe paused in the station doorway, coat already halfway off his shoulders. He looked at her, seeing the unexpected tidiness of her clothes–her best skirt, unmistakably, and probably her best bodice beneath the polished leather of her jerkin–and the truncheon slung neatly at her waist. “The sur?” he asked, and Monteia gave a grim smile.

“The city.“ She nodded to the table where the duty recorder sat, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t all ears. A half sheet of good paper lay among the clutter of slates and reused broadsheets, the city seal at its foot visible from across the room.

Rathe’s eyebrows rose at that, and he shrugged himself back into his coat, crossed to the table to pick up the summons. It was from the Council of Regents, all right, signed by the grande bourgeoise herself, and her seal lay just above the more massive slab of wax that was the city’s.

“The sur will be there, of course,” Monteia went on, “but it’s for us–me, primarily. Madame Gausaron dislikes disorder.”

Rathe nodded absently, skimming through the neat lines of secretarial hand. “All right,” he said, “but I don’t know what she thinks we should have done.”

“Nor I.” Monteia studied him thoughtfully. “Houssaye! I won’t have you, Nico, appearing before the regents like that. It won’t help us any if you look hungry.”

“Chief Point–”

“Ma’am?” That was Houssaye, the station’s junior pointsman, coming in from the garden belting his trousers. He finished that and reached for the buttons of his coat, but Monteia shook her head at him.

“Don’t bother. You’re loaning that to Nico–we’ve business with the regents.”

Houssaye blinked, but slipped obediently out of the coat. “Yes, Chief.”

“I have clothes of my own,” Rathe said.

“And no time to fetch them,” Monteia answered. “This is important, Nico.”

Rathe started to bridle, but she was right, of course, it mattered how one looked, prosperous but sober, particularly when one was dealing with the women of the Council of Regents, but he had dressed for the work he expected, not for a council visit. Not that his best clothes were anything out of the ordinary–he was hard on clothes, and knew it, had learned to buy good plain materials that stood the wear–but it stung to be dressed like a child in someone else’s best. Still, Houssaye was his size and build and coloring; as he pulled the light wool over his shoulders, he had to admit that it wasn’t too far from something he might have bought himself. He fastened the waist buttons–loose; Houssaye had an inch or three on him there–and hastily rewound the stock that fastened the neck of his shirt. “We’ve got people from the Butchers’ Guild coming to post bond, and I wanted to be there,” he muttered, a last protest, and reached for his jerkin and the truncheon that hung beneath it.

“Oh, you can still have that one,” Monteia answered, and looked at Houssaye. “You’re in charge until Salineis gets in or we get back–I told her she could sleep in, after last night. The release order is in my office, get a fair copy made and send it off to Point of Sighs as soon as you can. Use the station seal. When the guildmasters show up, tell them they’ll have to wait–and you can tell them why.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“What’s going to happen to Eslingen?” Rathe said. “It wasn’t exactly fair, calling the point on him, no matter how necessary it was.” He still felt obscurely guilty for calling a point on the Leaguer, couldn’t quite work up much indignation for Paas Huviet, even if he had been shot. His eye fell on the daybook, and the most recent entry: Paas Huviet had died close to first sunrise, according to the physician who’d tended him. He considered it, but even the death didn’t make much difference. Huviet had been a troublemaker, Eslingen had been doing his job, and that, he hoped, would be an end to it.

“It’s technically manslaughter,” Monteia said, and jammed her hat onto her piled hair. Rathe looked at her, and she sighed. “But I’ve ordered his release, you heard me do it, and I won’t be pressing charges unless and until someone’s stupid enough to force me to it. Does that meet with your approval, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe nodded. “He did the best he could–better than I’d’ve expected, frankly, it was a nasty situation. And it wasn’t him who started it.”