Caiazzo stopped at last in front of a low shopfront, low enough that he had to bend his head to pass under the broad lintel. Denizard followed without a backward glance, and Eslingen went in after her, the skin between his shoulder blades prickling. If they were attacked inside, the low doorway would make it very hard to escape. To his surprise, however, the only visible occupant of the shop was an old woman, neat in a black skirt and bodice, an embroidered cap covering her grey hair. She sat on a high stool in front of a writing board, ledger open in front of her, her feet not quite touching the ground, fixed Caiazzo with an unblinking stare. There were no goods on the counter, Eslingen realized, no indication of what–if anything–this shop sold.

“How’s business, dame?” Caiazzo asked, and tipped his head in what was almost a bow.

The old woman shook her head, closing the ledger, and hopped down off her stool. Standing, her head barely reached to the trader’s armpit, but Eslingen was not deceived. There would be a bravo, probably more than one, within easy call, and the gods only knew what other protection.

“Well enough,” she said. “My business. But what about yours, Hanselin? That’s less well, by all accounts. You bring not only your left hand, you bring a new dagger with you, whom I’ve never seen before. Do you feel the need of a dagger?”

Caiazzo shrugged, the movement elegant beneath his dark coat. “Times are uncertain.”

The old woman looked far from convinced, but she nodded. “Inside.” She turned without waiting for an answer, and pushed through a door that had been almost invisible in the paneling. Caiazzo made a face, but moved to follow. Eslingen put a hand on his arm, all his nerves tingling now.

“Permit me,” he said, and stepped in front of the trader to go through the door behind the old woman. There was no shot, no hiss of drawn steel, and he glanced around the narrow room, allowing himself a small sigh of relief as he realized it was empty except for a table and chairs.

The old woman took her place at the head of the table, fixed Eslingen with a dark stare. “Not what you expected, eh, knife? Thought it would be more dangerous?”

Eslingen blinked once, decided to risk an answer. “I see enough danger right here, ma’am. I’ve been a soldier, I know what old women can do.”

Caiazzo shot him a warning glance, but the woman laughed. “I dare say you do, soldier. I knew you were one, from your boots.”

Caiazzo said, “No hurry, dame, but you said it was important.”

The old woman looked at him. “That’s rude, Hanselin, and not like you. Business must be bad.”

“Business, in general, is well enough,” Caiazzo said, through clenched teeth, “except for the one small thing that you know about. Somewhere between here and the Ile’nord something’s breaking down. If it’s here, dame, you’ve got problems.”

The woman’s stare didn’t waver. “We both have the same problem, Hanselin. Nothing has come in from the Ile’nord. Nothing. Not coin, not goods, not word.”

Caiazzo flung himself into the chair opposite her, swallowing an oath. “It’s your business, too, dame. What’re you doing about it?”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly getting close to the end of her patience, and Eslingen saw Denizard tense fractionally. The old woman merely folded her hands on the table top, and said, “The same as you. I sent men north, a few weeks back, when you first mentioned the problem to me. Yours or mine, one of them will find out what’s keeping her, Hanselin. She owes us–forgive me, owes you too much to be playing us foul like this. I expect one or both of mine back within the next few days.”

“Mine should be in soon, too,” Caiazzo said. “But the fair is well underway. I have two seasons of trade to underwrite. Without that gold, it could be a very cold winter, and I won’t be the only one feeling the chill.”

The old woman leaned forward, her hands flattening, palms down, on the smooth wood. “Your knife is new, untested, and you trust him with knowledge like this?”

Eslingen felt his shoulder blades twitch again, wondering if Caiazzo had blundered, and if he, Eslingen, was going to be the one to answer for it. The trader barely glanced his way.

“Oh, and am I so poor a judge of character? A fool who’s useful for channeling the gold–forgive me, goods–we both need, but not to be trusted in matters of my own business, my own household?” With a single fluid movement, Caiazzo pulled a short, wide‑bladed knife from beneath his coat, and drove it into the table between him and the old woman. She didn’t move, her eyes going first to the knife and the new cut, the first, it made in the polished wood, and then back to Caiazzo. “I know you, dame,” Caiazzo went on. “You’ve still got the arm for it. If you can’t trust me, or worse, think I’m too fatally stupid to be your associate in this, then do something about it. Otherwise–”

He let the word hang, and the old woman looked back at him, cold eyes unchanging. Gods, the man’s mad, Eslingen thought, and if it’s on his challenge, there’s damn all I can do. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, wrapping his fingers cautiously around the butt of his pistol, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Denizard’s hand close on the back of Caiazzo’s chair, the knuckles white beneath the skin.

The old woman reached out, jerked the knife free with an expert’s hand, her expression still the same, and Eslingen thought, gods, if she goes for his heart, I’ll go for hers, and we can sort it out later. He tilted the pistol, still in his pocket, hoping the flint would work in the confined space. It would be more likely to set his coat on fire, if it fired at all, but there wasn’t room to draw his sword, and his knife was no good at this range.

“I’d forgotten,” she said at last, “that your mother was a binder.” She laid the knife down flat on the table, and pushed it back across to Caiazzo. “You’ve kept it well. She’d be pleased.” She looked at Eslingen, and he let the pistol ease back into its place. “My apologies if I touched your honor.” She leaned forward as Caiazzo reached for his knife, placed her hand on his. “I do trust you, Hanselin, as I would my own child. This business with the Ile’nord…” She shook her head. “If I didn’t trust you, if I didn’t trust your judgment and acumen–well, as you say, we wouldn’t be doing business together. I’ll send word to you as soon as I hear anything.”

It was clearly a dismissal, and Eslingen glanced curiously at Caiazzo. The trader rose, nodding. “And I’ll do the same. But you know that’s of use only if they bring the gold.”

“If they bring word only, Hanselin, your autumn ventures are still safe. Your reputation is still more than sound. One way or another, the money will be there for you.”

“Yes, but…” Caiazzo gave a grim smile. “Then where will my reputation be? I appreciate it, dame. I don’t want to take you up on your offer.”

“Nevertheless, it stands.” The old woman smiled back, widely this time, and Eslingen shivered. The implication was clear enough even to him: if Caiazzo failed, she would provide the capital, but at a price.

Caiazzo bowed again, his temper barely in check, and stalked from the room. Eslingen followed hastily, and heard Denizard shut the door again behind them. Caiazzo said nothing until they were well clear of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and had turned onto the street that sloped down to the landing.

“I bet it stands,” he said at last. “Nothing she’d like better than to get that far inside my business. Well, it’s not going to happen–” He broke off, head going back like a startled horse, black eyes fixing on something beyond the landing. Eslingen reached automatically for his pistol, and Caiazzo laughed aloud, looked up to the sky. “Gods, Bonfortune, it’s about time the stars turned my way.”

Eslingen looked again, and saw another caravel, larger than the one he’d seen before, making its way cautiously up the river. Caiazzo’s red and gold pennant flew from its mast, and the deck was piled high with cargo.