Fourie smiled, a bloodless expression, without humor. “If it were easy, Nico, I wouldn’t have insisted on your doing it.”

And that, Rathe thought, was as close to a commendation as anyone got from the sur, short of a eulogy.

When he got back to the station, the hour‑stick was just showing midday, and he made a face at it: it had already been a long day, and didn’t look to get any shorter. He found Houssaye, returned his coat to him, and shrugged gratefully back into his own, welcoming its familiarity. He had just settled in at his worktable when Salineis poked her head in the door.

“Lieutenant Eslingen to see you, Nico.”

Rathe bit back a groan–he doubted the Leaguer was there to thank him for anything–but nodded. “All right, send him in.”

Eslingen had clearly found–or taken–the time to tidy himself up from the depredations of a night spent in one of Sighs’ cells. His hair was caught neatly back, though the ribbon no longer matched the color of his coat, his hat was brushed, its plume uncrushed, and his linen was bright. Rathe wished for a moment that he hadn’t been in such a hurry to return Houssaye’s coat, then put the thought aside with impatience. The Eslingens of this world would always seek to gain advantage through appearance, and the Rathes could never hope to match them. What did surprise Rathe was the lack of resentment he felt toward the soldier.

“Adjunct Point.” Eslingen’s voice was icy, and Rathe’s heart sank. Clearly, Eslingen felt rather differently about the whole thing.

“Eslingen, look, I’m sorry about what happened, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“It wasn’t me who started this–Seidos’s Horse, you ought to thank me for ridding you of a troublemaker.”

“We don’t generally shoot them dead,” Rathe shot back, and, hearing his voice rise, got up to close the door of the narrow anteroom. He shook his head. “Forget it, it’s not worth arguing about.”

“I’m inclined to disagree with you, Adjunct Point, seeing as it’s lost me my job.”

Rathe turned to stare at Eslingen. “You’re joking. No, no–sorry, forget I said that. She let you go?”

“Can you blame her? In times like these, does she want a Leaguer who, even in self‑defense, and–what was it the magistrate said the release said–defense of property, was seen to kill a member of one of the most influential guilds in the city? I’d say that would be bad for business in a bad time, wouldn’t you, Adjunct Point? So now I’m in your city without employment or a roof over my head. All because I did what you told me to, Rathe, and that’s send for the points if there was any trouble. I did, and look what happened.” He gestured widely, and for the first time Rathe noticed the heavy saddlebags on the floor at the other man’s feet. “Hells, I thought we Leaguers were looked on with disfavor, I didn’t realize the extent of the loathing people have for your lot.”

“That was Ranazy,” Rathe said, and didn’t add, and you know it. “He’s a bully and not a cheap one. And he makes us all look bad. You know how Devynck feels about Monteia–for that matter, you know how Devynck feels about me. So you can tar us all with the same brush, fine, everyone else does, or you can see that it’s the truth. We’re all blamed for the actions of a few. Sound familiar?”

Eslingen stared at the pointsman for a long minute, the anger fading as he recognized the justice of what Rathe had said, and done. “It sounds familiar,” he said. “Can I sit?” He nodded to the chair along the wall.

Rathe rubbed his eyes. “Of course. Sorry. Not a good morning for you, and the night won’t have been much better, for all they’re a decent lot at Sighs.” He sat back down behind his table, leaning his elbows on its well‑worn surface. “What can I do?”

Confronted by it, Eslingen found himself at a loss. He had been bolstering himself with his anger, thoughts of the demands he would make on the pointsman, but now he could only shake his head. “Gods know, Rathe. I need a place to live, I need a job.” He grinned suddenly. “But don’t think I’m applying for a job with the points. I don’t think we’d suit, do you?”

“I’ve seen odder,” Rathe answered, but tipped his chair back to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. “There ought to be plenty of work available just now–” He heard Eslingen draw breath to protest, and hurried on. “–but I can understand a lot of it’s not really what you’re looking for.” He tipped his head in a shrug. “It’s never easy for gentlemen to find appropriate work, and that’s what your commission would make you, isn’t it? So hiring on as a fairground knife would be right out.”

“Putting that aside, since I will get hungry eventually, would anyone hire a Leaguer right now?” Eslingen asked.

“Some would,” Rathe answered, absently, but then the thought struck him. There was one job that he knew of, was almost sure the place hadn’t been filled, and it would get him personally out of a good deal of trouble… “Some might.” Oh, gods, he added silently, am I really going to do this? He leaned forward, intent now. “Look, Eslingen, you’ve got every right to be angry–my having no choice doesn’t help you losing your place–but maybe, just maybe, I can make it up to you. That was what you came here for, wasn’t it?”

Eslingen nodded, the faintest of smiles on his handsome face. “That, and the thought of wringing your neck.”

“Which would have put you back in cells,” Rathe pointed out, “and here rather than Sighs.”

“I’ve slept in stables before.” The smile might have widened a fraction, but Rathe couldn’t be sure.

“All right then. But I want to be plain with you about this. I think the job would suit you. The man I’m thinking of lives like a gentleman, and is highly respected throughout Astreiant.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but,’ ” Eslingen said.

“A couple of them, actually. His name’s Hanselin Caiazzo, and if you were still working at Devynck’s, I’d tell you to ask her about him, you’d get an honest answer. He’s a longdistance trader–merchant‑venturer,” he added, and Eslingen nodded again. “A large part of his business is perfectly legal and above board, but there’s a sizeable percentage of it that isn’t.” Rathe cocked his head at the other man. “I don’t know how much time you’ve spent in Astreiant, all in, or what you know about a place called the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives.”

Eslingen sat back in his chair, one dark eyebrow winging upwards. “I’ve heard of it,” he said. “Devynck told all her soldier friends to stay away from it. That was enough for me.”

Rathe nodded. “Good. There’s nothing they like better in the Court for a bunch of roistering, on‑leave soldiers to come in thinking they’re tough enough to handle it, because they’re not. But Caiazzo has contacts and businesses within the Court. He can walk in and out, pretty much at will–but then, he is southriver born.”

“And you?” Eslingen asked, when it seemed clear that Rathe had finished. The pointsman looked startled.

“Me? Yeah, I’m southriver born, too.”

“Can you walk in and out of this Court with impunity?”

“I’ve done it.”

“But not like Caiazzo does it,” Eslingen finished, and Rathe grinned. There’s a lot you’re not telling me, Adjunct Point, Eslingen thought, and decided not to pursue the matter. Rathe had said enough to get his message across. “So what’s so special about this Caiazzo, then? I assume there are reasons none of your lot have scored a point on him yet.”

“Oh, there are, chief among them being he’s good at covering his tracks, most of his success comes from his legal businesses, and people are loyal to him. And he has canny associates, as well as a deft hand with a fee.” Rathe paused. “But the thing is, he had this bodyguard–”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I don’t step into a dead man’s shoes. Not like this. Thank you kindly, Rathe, but–”

“Will you shut up for a moment?” Rathe said, equably. “His last bravo’s alive and well and sitting in a Customs Point cell.” Eslingen looked at him, and Rathe met the stare with a bland smile. “Duelling.”