The Drowned Island

In one of the drafts of Point of Dreams, this was the beginning of Chapter Two. This was a lot of fun to write, but, alas, it really didn't move the plot along, so it became a classic case of "kill your darlings." We've used the section as a reading at some conventions, where it's been well received and we're now, finally, getting around to posting it here. Enjoy!

The Tyrseia loomed in front of them, the oldest theater in Point of Dreams, so old it was still partly open-air, so old it had no resident company and no guild mothers of its own, but had passed into the hands of the Merchant Venturers. They - many of them born like actors with Tyrseis prominent in their stars - rented it in turn to anyone who needed both the massive stage and the two-thousand-odd seats, which meant in practice mostly fencing masters and acrobats and wrestlers and all the other seasonal extravaganzas. In the six months he'd been in Astreiant, Eslingen had learned to sneer at the Tyrseia's spectacles even while he enjoyed them, and now he glanced sideways at his employer, wondering again how Caiazzo had known. Not a week after Rathe had first mentioned the name, Caiazzo had taken his knife and his bookman and traveled to Point of Dreams to view the theater in consultation with Mathiee Gasquine and her scenerymen. At the end of the day, he'd loaned Gasquine a large part of the capital she needed to stage the piece, and she had not merely repaid the investment, but actually paid the promised percentage of her profits. She'd also promised the best box in the house, at any time, and that was the part that Eslingen didn't quite understand. Caiazzo had seen The Drowned Island once already, had not required Eslingen's attendance that day, and his comments had been, if anything more scorching than Rathe's; he wasn't spending this afternoon at the theater because he had to see this tale again. Caiazzo's magist, walking soberly at his left hand, looked equally unenthusiastic, and in spite of himself Eslingen had to hide a grin.

They were in the minority, though, Eslingen saw as they turned the last corner and came up the low rise to the Tyrseia's main entrance. There was a crowd ten deep at the double doors - dozens of apprentices, and mostly boys, too, nudging their friends and catcalling after enemies and guild rivals, but not just apprentices. There were a fair number of journeymen, mostly young men traveling in pairs, but here and there a foursome gathered, young women and men eying each other discreetly, and the few guildswomen in the crowd watching them with equally discreet concern. There had been at least two broadsheets tacked to the Tyrseia's doors, Eslingen remembered, accusing the playwright of encouraging license among the young. Journeymen were supposed to stay chaste until they were old enough, rich enough, to set up their own households, or if the passions ran too high, they were to satisfy them with a leman, not seek out a lover before they could keep a shop of their own. The journeymen themselves had never thought that, of course, but this play, more than any other in recent memory, celebrated illicit love between the sexes.
And it was profitable. Eslingen looked up, squinting, to see the Tyrseia's clock tower bright against the cloudy sky. The brass hands and the moon-face looked newly polished, the numbers newly painted, and as he watched, the pennant at the top of the tower snapped out in the fitful breeze, displaying the name of the play and the sinking ship that was its centerpiece. Caiazzo saw where he was looking, and shook his head.

"That cost a few pillars. And the gilding."

Eslingen looked where he was pointing, and realized that the Tyrseia's pillared galleries had been repainted since the last time he'd passed this way. The astrological beasts that ringed the base of the clock tower practically glowed against the pale sky, and the fretwork encasing the stairs that led to the uppermost galleries was now bright blue with tiny gold figures - stars or suns or moons - at each of the junction points. It looked more like the real theaters, he thought, the smaller indoor houses where the serious drama played, and grinned in spite of himself at how thoroughly he'd become an Astreianter. A year ago, at this time, he'd been leading a troop of Dragons down out of the hills above Moiclear, and had seen exactly one play in his entire life. Of course, having seen so many plays since he'd come to Astreiant was one of the little awkwardnesses of his position as Caiazzo's bodyguard-his knife, in the southriver vernacular-because he'd seen them in company with Point of Dreams' new adjunct point, who was bound and determined to prove that at least one of Caiazzo's ventures was outside the law. It was probably just as well they weren't going to the Bells or the Galenon or even Demis-of-the-Minute today. Too many people there would recognize him.

"Good for business," Denizard said.

Caiazzo tilted his head, conceding the point. "Maybe. But luring apprentices out of work isn't going to win Gasquine any friends among the Regents."

Denizard didn't answer, and Eslingen glanced sideways, to catch her fleeting grin. Caiazzo saw it, too, and his eyes narrowed. They had reached the fringes of the crowd, however, and he held his tongue-not willing to risk losing any of his money by putting off his audience, Eslingen guessed, and guessed, too, that there was little chance of that. A pair of girls, easily fourteen or fifteen, but without apprentice badges, stopped abruptly in front of him, and he dodged sideways, hand dropping automatically to his knife. The taller girl gave him an incurious glance as her friend finished dividing an orange, counting the segments out between them.

"That's one for every time we've seen him."

There were at least eight bright segments in the tall girl's palm. Eslingen stopped himself from shaking his head, but couldn't help calculating. At a demming each time, that was probably three weeks' rent, and from the look of their skirts, neat but worn, it hadn't been easily come by. A gaggle of boys cut across his path, talking all at once about the sudden thaw that drowned the island, and Eslingen took a careful breath. From everything he'd heard about the play, it was going to be a long two hours.

Caiazzo slowed still further, frowning again, and a boy in a bright blue apprentice-coat pushed past a trio of broad-skirted dames to bow in front of him.

"Master Caiazzo. Mathiee sends her abject apologies, and asked me to bring you up to your seats straight away."

"Did she tell you to call her Mathiee?" Caiazzo asked, and the boy went red.

"Mistress Gasquine, I meant."

Caiazzo nodded, and Eslingen could almost see the protest forming on the boy's lips. Everybody calls her Mathiee: and it was true enough, but Caiazzo didn't understand the actors' brand of respect. Eslingen had seen a bit of it, in the time he'd spent with Rathe, and it hadn't been as alien as he'd thought it might be. If anything, it was a little like an army camp in winter, discipline still kept, but with the certainty that the rougher the respect, the realer.

The boy brought them efficiently past the doorkeepers, though, and then up a closed stair to the expensive boxes. They had the best of the lot, far enough back to be at a decent angle, close enough to see, and the boy held open the curtains with a flourish. He looked startled when Eslingen slipped past, hand on his knife-not that he was expecting trouble, but Caiazzo had more than the usual number of enemies these days-and looked even more impressed when the knife reported the box clear. Caiazzo nodded, and stepped through the heavy draperies, settling himself in the best seat as by right.

Gasquine had done them proud: there was an unopened bottle of wine on the table, and even as Eslingen reached for it, the apprentice reappeared with a plate of expensive-looking cakes crowned with dark-sugar candies in the shape of leaves and animals. Caiazzo nodded, seeing that, and beckoned to the boy, offering a silver coin.

"Tell Mistress Gasquine we're very comfortable. I look forward to seeing her."

"Yes, master." The boy bowed again, not as theatrically, and let the curtains fall closed again behind him.

"Oh, that'll make her feel good," Denizard said, with irony, and Caiazzo bared teeth in something that was not a smile.

"I don't want her to feel good. I want to know why I'm sitting through this again."

Eslingen drew the cork and poured two careful glasses, hoping that would improve the merchant-venturer's mood, poured a third at the older man's nod and seated himself between his master and the doorway. From there, he had a good view of the stage, only partly obscured by Denizard's shoulder, and he couldn't help staring. Unlike the other theaters he'd frequented, the Tyrseia had no curtain, and the scenery for the first act stood in full view. A wooden frieze, carved and painted to look like waves, ran across the full width of the stage, and to either side a series of flats painted with buildings ran back to a watery horizon. The buildings looked familiar - were familiar, he realized, were the main buildings that lined Astreiant's own River Sier, from the Assize buildings and the Maternite in the background to the gallows at Point of Graves dominating the foreground. But of course The Drowned Island was supposed to be a true story; of course Gasquine's scene painters had done their best to recreate the city as it had been fifty years ago. He leaned forward slightly, wondering if he could pick out any other landmarks, and Caiazzo glanced over his shoulder.

"You haven't seen this, Philip?"

"No." Best to leave it at that: he didn't particularly want to explain that he hadn't seen it because Nicolas Rathe hated the whole idea on pure leveller principle, and wouldn't be caught dead watching such a travesty.

Caiazzo sat back, looked almost smug. "You're in for a treat," he said.

Overhead, the clock struck, first the hour and then the rippling cascade of notes that marked the start of the play, and there was a sudden, unnerving silence in the pit. Eslingen caught his breath - that was something he'd never heard before, had never expected to hear; usually the pit only quieted when the actors actually appeared-and leaned forward to see a hundred upturned faces fixed on the stage.
"Oh, yes," Caiazzo said. "Quite a treat."

There was an intake of breath from the pit, the silence deepening even further, and a pair of actors in the broad skirts of fifty years before, appeared, strophe and antistrophe, to set the scene. At least it wasn't actually verse, Eslingen thought-he still had trouble following some of the older plays, for all that the League and Astreiant spoke more or less the same language - and it wasn't badly done, a couple of speeches about the upcoming wedding feast at the house of the Landame of Triar, her proud daughter to the son of her mother's great rival, the Landame of Auriens. And then they were off, skirts rustling against the painted fronts of the Assize, and a slim figure in a gold brocade coat appeared from between the pillars of a counting-house, hands spread in appeal to the audience. There were shrieks at his approach, quickly stifled and manfully ignored, and Reynau d'Auriens came forward to plead his case. Eslingen blinked at the voice - he hadn't recognized Gavi Jhirassi under the bronze wig and antique paint that faded his rich color-and Caiazzo shifted, reaching for more wine. Eslingen forestalled him, grateful for something to do, while in the background Jhirassi explained that he was hardly in love with Amie de Triar, had hardly had enough of a life to know if he wanted to be married, and that he'd slipped away from mother and tutors long enough to visit the winter fair. The Sier was frozen solid, hard as his bride-to-be's heart, and he wanted to see some of the festival before he was married off, banished to the Triar lands. There was a bit of comic relief as he persuaded a young apprentice to trade coats, and then the scene ended with a song from a pair of wandering musicians, as d'Auriens persuaded them to let him accompany them to the festival and the Wooden Isle.

"I think you know Jhirassi," Caiazzo said.

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Knew him through Rathe, actually, and Eslingen wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut.

"I hope they're paying him what he deserves."

"Gavi's a careful sort," Eslingen answered, and Caiazzo smiled.

"I'd say not careful enough, but the money must be good."

Someone in the next box shushed them, indignantly, and the merchant venturer rolled his eyes, settling back in his chair.

Eslingen suppressed an answering smile-as far as he knew, Jhirassi was making very good money indeed, and for a wonder, none of the other actors seemed to grudge him the success-and then caught his breath as the scene began to change. He had known that the Tyrseia's machinery had been rebuilt for this show, had been present for at least three accounting sessions where Gasquine and her scenery-men had explained in interminable detail exactly what each of the engines would do, and why each one was indispensable, but he had had no idea what they would look like in action. This.... To either side, the buildings that created the edge of the Sier swung smoothly away, turning to reveal a different riverfront perspective, the buildings that edged the rivermarket, and suddenly the river itself seemed much closer. Eslingen frowned, unable to see how it had been done-not with a painted cloth, like at the Bells, but maybe something thrust up from the floor of the stage-and the stage filled suddenly with fairgoers, chattering and pointing as the Wooden Isle itself heaved slowly into sight, a massive tower topped with banners that stirred slightly in the breeze that crept in through the Tyrseia's open ceiling.

As if the crowd had been waiting for it, there was a sudden murmur, as hundreds of theatergoers turned to their seatmates to whisper comments on the action so far. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, feeling vaguely sorry for the actors in the crowd, and heard a rustling outside the door of their own box. It could only be Gasquine, but he stood anyway, pushed back the curtain with his hand on the hilt of his knife. Caiazzo had enough enemies that it paid to be careful-and, in any case, Caiazzo was paying him to be more than careful. Mathiee Gasquine gave him a conspiratorial smile, settling her skirts with a quick twitch of her hand. She was dressed as soberly as a Regent today, in green wool so dark as to be almost black, with lace trimming collar and cuffs, and a part of Eslingen approved even as he checked the hall behind her. It was always wise to make sure that Caiazzo understood when one meant business.

"Mathiee," Caiazzo said. He kept his voice down, but not by much. "My friend, your success continues, but do you have to make me part of it?"

Gasquine smiled, and settled herself in the empty seat at Caiazzo's right, smoothing her skirts with absent care. "I thought you should see your investments in action."

"I've seen them."

"And this was the most discreet place I could think of," Gasquine went on. "Any place else, we'd start talk."

"And that would be a problem?"

"Always," Gasquine answered, as though she were not one of the theatre's most devoted connoisseurs of gossip. "And in this case, especially so."

Caiazzo smiled. "What are you up to, Mathiee?"

On the stage, d'Auriens-unconvincingly disguised as a wandering musician-had reappeared to flirt with a strapping trio of southriver girls, daughters of the Isle's self-proclaimed "bannerdames" and Eslingen could hear sighs and stifled giggles again from the pit. Gasquine lifted her voice only slightly to carry over them.

"I've been approached by a playwright, with a very fine entry for the Midwinter Masque."

"A very late entry, this far into Metera," Caiazzo said. "I thought I'd heard the chamberlains had already made their decision."

Gasquine shook her head, setting curls the color of old iron dancing under her embroidered cap. Like half the women in the city, she'd copied the fashion from the Metropolitan of Astreiant, and it sat well on her round face. "Not for another three weeks at least. And the entries aren't closed until the thirteenth."

"Mathiee, that's two weeks away. The chamberlains aren't going to change their minds at this point."

"It's a very good play," Gasquine said.

"It would have to be." Caiazzo shook his head. "So. Tell me all about it."

"Wait." Gasquine held up her hand, gave a charming smile. "I want to see the change."

Caiazzo spread his hands, leaned back in his chair again. Eslingen leaned forward in spite of himself as the machinery began to move. The buildings to either side swung away again, were replaced by another version of the buildings that lined the river, these drawn as though seen from midstream. At the same moment, the stage floor seemed to split apart, the entire central portion dropping away to reveal the turrets of the Wooden Isle as it rose from beneath the stage, actors already in place on its towers. One was the protagonist, the southriver girl who loved, lost, and eventually died for d'Auriens, and cheers rose from the pit. Around the Isle, the stage turned white, broken here and there by carved waves that rose and fell in a dangerous, staccato rhythm. Even knowing it was machinery, it was impressive, realer than the woodcuts of the Wooden Isle that still decorated song sheets and broadsheet prophecies, the ramshackle towers built on the frozen river in defiance of the Queen's law and all custom and common sense, and Eslingen let his breath out again with a sigh. Gasquine gave another small, satisfied smile.

"I've seen it a thousand times, and it's still good." She glanced over her shoulder. "Have you seen it before, master knife?"

Eslingen shook his head. "No, mistress."

"Ah. Wait til you see the inundation."

If they could do that on stage - but he wouldn't have said they would be able to make the Isle appear, not visibly in the middle of the Sier. "I look forward to it," he said.

"Must have been hell to rehearse," Caiazzo said, and Gasquine's attention flicked back to him instantly.

"Oh, it was. And the machinery's problematic, there are too many gears and gaps when the effects are working, it's too easy for somebody to trip and break an ankle. Or worse. But we didn't have any injuries, thank Tyrseis himself."

Caiazzo smiled. "This new play, Mathiee?"

Gasquine returned the smile. "It's called the Alphabet of Desire."

"It's a fake," Caiazzo said.

"Absolutely," Gasquine agreed. "The so-called original is self-evidently a forgery. But the play, Hanse. It's brilliant."

"The Midwinter Masque isn't the place for brilliance, I thought." Caiazzo frowned at the stage, where Jhirassi and the musicians were serenading the Isle from a boat that was being drawn jerkily across the stage. "Besides, you need a noble to sponsor you, not common folk like me."

Gasquine's mouth tightened briefly - and I don't blame her, Eslingen thought, I wouldn't like being told my business by an outsider - but she said only, "Of course. We have a noble sponsor, but he's - short of funds."

"So you come to me."

Gasquine sketched a bow, just the shadow of a gesture, and Eslingen filed the movement for later use. "You have been willing to invest in theatre before now. I think this has unusual opportunities. It seemed a good match."

"It was my understanding that the Midwinter Masque was an excellent way to lose money," Caiazzo said. "That her Majesty's grandmother instituted it to give her more extravagant nobles something to do with their spare gold. That in fact it's one of the most boring pieces of theatre in this entire city, not least because every scene is backed by a chorus of singing landames-actual landames and landseurs, not actors playing them, who could at least keep in tune. It's also my understanding that those same landames are part of what makes it so expensive to stage the masque, because every one of them wants at least two costumes, and they're not willing to settle for something that just looks like silk or satin, no, they want the real thing."

"Oh, they pay for those suits themselves," Gasquine said. "As soon as they're cast."

Caiazzo looked at her for a moment, took a deep breath. "Why are you involved in this, Mathiee?"

"I told you. Because of the play." Gasquine leaned forward a little, her hands for the first time clenched, betraying her eagerness. "Hanse, it's good. It's one of Aconin's best - and once it's played here, I think we can stage it in our house and run for months. Honestly. It's that good."

"Aconin."

"Aconin," Gasquine agreed, and it was all Eslingen could do not to raise an eyebrow himself at the thought. Chresta Aconin - known to friends and enemies as Aconite, poison monkshood - was known more as the author of delicately vicious satire than of something that would be suitable for the Midwinter Masque. But that wasn't quite true, Eslingen remembered. There had been a historical piece, a few months back, The Queen of Ems-that had been quite good, and not at all Aconin's usual style.

Caiazzo sighed. "And your noble sponsor couldn't get one of his friends to raise the cash?"

"He's a friend of Aconin's." Gasquine laid delicate emphasis on the word "friend" and Caiazzo grimaced.

"All right. I'll look at the script, and let you know-will tomorrow be soon enough, Mathiee?"

Gasquine dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Hanse. I don't think you'll regret it."

"But I will want a full share of the profits from the later run," Caiazzo said. "No percentages, a full share."

"I don't have the authority for that," Gasquine said.

"Then you can discuss it with your sharers," Caiazzo said. "While I look over the script."

Gasquine hesitated, then nodded again. "I'm sure it can be arranged."

Eslingen hid a smile. Gasquine was the senior sharer of her company, the unquestioned woman in charge. If they needed Caiazzo's money badly enough, she'd make sure that the share was forthcoming.

On stage, the two protagonists had met, were working their way through the inevitable dance of fascinated dislike that would turn, all too quickly, to love. The girl's mother, herself a "bannerdame", at first opposed, and then, discovering the "musician's" true identity, approved far too heartily, driving another wedge between the would-be lovers. D'Auriens revealed himself, hoping to win the girl, and she rejected him instead, proclaiming herself unworthy of a noble's love. Eslingen suppressed a yawn. Oh, if he'd seen this when he was twelve, or even fourteen, when he was first a soldier's runner, he'd have been as obsessed as any of the apprentices watching from the pit, but it was hard to recapture that innocence at his age. He could hear rustling from the pit, and leaned forward, curious, to see a hundred young faces fixed on the stage, lips moving in time with the lovers' dialogue. They knew it by heart, he realized, had memorized every word of the speeches, either from seeing the play a dozen times, or from reading the cheaply printed pirate copies that were clogging the bookstalls, and he wondered if, even at twelve, he would have felt that strongly. Probably, he admitted, and hid a smile. Particularly then, when he'd been young enough to dream that his father might have been someone other than the innkeeper's groom who'd claimed him, he would have seen a romantic version of his parents in a story like this, as well as his dreams for himself.

He shook that thought aside, seeing Caiazzo's eyes on him, and lifted the wine bottle in silent question. The merchant venturer shook his head, but Gasquine nodded, and Eslingen filled her glass, grateful for the distraction. The play was building to its end at last, the astrologer appearing a final time to warn against pride and overreaching stars, and then the chorus appeared again, warning of tremors in the ice. The river was melting, had already melted north of the city, and the waters were rising, cracking the ice and rocking the Wooden Isle. It was never built to float, but the "bannerdames," madly proud, refused to leave their towers, and the girl, her true love lost, chose to stay with them, to help the fearful flee even against her mother's wishes. D'Auriens returned, of course, shaming his new-made southriver friends into crossing the ice a final time, but the girl refused him again, and he leaped to the Isle to die with her. There was a final dialogue, the Isle tilting ponderously beneath them, and then the girl thrust him away, into the arms of his friends, swearing she would follow, calling that he must live for her. At her order, the friends pulled away, one rowing, three more holding d'Auriens from throwing himself after her into the ice, and the stage convulsed. The Isle rocked, hard, and began to sink, while all around it the white-painted "ice" turned over, and was overtaken, replaced by angry waves. The Isle sank faster now, the girl still clinging to its highest tower, and then, with a final shrieked farewell, she, too, vanished, and two great waves rose from the wings and came crashing down, hiding the Isle. When they rose again, the Isle had disappeared completely, and the stage was a chaos of ice and water, d'Auriens' boat dwarfed by the massive set. It was drawn off-stage, d'Auriens still posed in the bow, arms outstretched, and, very slowly, the waves began to calm. The last ice flows disappeared one by one, and, as slowly, the waves receded, drawn down beneath the stage floor again. The trap doors slid back across, creating a solid forestage again, and the buildings changed a final time, became once again the buildings of the rivermarket. D'Auriens, in sudden aged makeup, came on with children to speak the epilogue, and Eslingen leaned back in his chair. Whatever else he thought about the play, there was no denying the effectiveness of the stage machinery. Gasquine's company had spent more than a few great crowns on it, but he guessed they'd gotten every demming's worth.
The silence as the play ended surprised him, broken only by some sniffles and a few outright sobs, bravely choked. It lasted a heartbeat, then three, before the ovation began, raucous and building to a slightly hysterical edge. Gasquine was on her feet in an instant, frowning slightly, though from the look of things in the pit her doorkeepers had matters well controlled.

"If you'll excuse me, Hanse..."

"Send me the script this evening. And speak to your sharers. Only, Mathiee-"

Gasquine paused in the doorway, and Caiazzo gestured toward the stage. "Not another one of these."

"Only in terms of the money, I promise you," she said, grinning, and was gone. Caiazzo stood, and Eslingen was at the door of the box before him.

Outside, it was as mobbed as it had been before the performance, printers and broadsheet sellers shouting copies of the play - and the music from the play, Eslingen saw, and even biographies of the principal actors. That was an unexpected sight, and he wondered how Jhirassi felt about it. An actor's life was hardly private, but no one could expect something like this - and I, for one, am heartily grateful I'm not likely to stand in his shoes.

The sun had already slipped behind the tallest buildings, and there was a bite to the air, the rising wind rustling the broadsheets. The few sellers who'd set up tables hurried to set out weights, but even so a handful fluttered free. A cursing apprentice chased them, brought most of them back only a little spoiled, and Eslingen saw a girl stoop quickly to retrieve one of the rejects. It wasn't much, from the woodcut, just another "true history" of the bannerdames, but she folded it carefully, and slipped it into her pocket. There were cookstalls as well, offering hot drinks and roasted nuts, and a few hardy dames carried baskets of warmed pies. The scent of the spices on chill air was intoxicating, but the wind was cutting. Coming from the river, Eslingen realized, and glanced left to see a street running straight and true to the Sier's edge. He'd never spent a winter in Astreiant, but surely it wouldn't be colder than the northern garrisons. He interlaced his fingers to settle his gloves more comfortably, and swore under his breath as he saw a seam beginning to give way.

"What did you think?" Caiazzo asked. A knot of printers' apprentices blocked their way for the moment, ostensibly comparing and contrasting the works of the printers on display with that of their own masters, but Eslingen saw one of them reach for a coin to buy.

He took a breath. "The - machinery was impressive."

Caiazzo grinned. "It was, wasn't it?"

A movement in the crowd, a swirl and eddy of bodies, caught his eye, and Eslingen turned to see a small party of finely-dressed men leaving the Tyrseia, talking as animatedly as any of the apprentices. Their leader was tall, and slim, and vaguely familiar, though that might be the bronze wig, copied, it seemed, from the one Jhirassi had worn in the play. He seemed to catch Eslingen's idle glance, then looked beyond him to Caiazzo, waving a hand in greeting. Caiazzo saw, and swore, a short, southriver word that earned him a few awestruck glances from the apprentices. The stranger seemed unaware, certainly undeterred, steering his troupe toward them.

Eslingen fixed his eyes on the approaching knot of exquisites, wondering what a group like that could have done to annoy the merchant. "Sir? Problem?"

"Not like what you're thinking, Philip. What do you know about the Trepassys?"

At his back, Denizard muttered something uncomplimentary, and Eslingen frowned, struggling to remember what he'd learned so far about Astreiant's many trading houses and families. Trepassy was both, he remembered, a family and a business, and a sizable one, but beyond that.... "Not much, sir."

"They're harmless, by and large," Caiazzo said. "Up until a year ago, they were never much in the merchant-venturer line, but now. Now they're in it up to their necks, and presuming to teach the rest of us our business. Stay close."

Eslingen blinked, saw Denizard trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "I thought you said-"

"They're not the danger," Caiazzo said. "I am." He smiled blandly, but made no move to approach the strangers.

Not actually a danger, Eslingen guessed, and leaned closer to Denizard. "What happened a year ago, or was it just business?"

Denizard looked briefly startled, then smiled, ruefully, this time. "I forget sometimes we haven't had you for years. Gasquine mentioned the Alphabet of Desire? Well, a year ago, a new "verifiable" copy was discovered, and everyone's been clamoring for the corms since. Young Trepassy was the only one who risked a fortune on them, and he's the only one who's made a serious killing, at least so far." She shook her head. "You have to wonder if Aconin doesn't have a stake in the sales."

"It wouldn't surprise me," Eslingen said, and the Trepassy paused, waiting for one of his friends to finish purchasing a broadsheet.

"Well met, Hanselin!" he called. "Wasn't the performance superb today?'

Caiazzo sighed. "You know, his mother's a sensible sort. I wonder she didn't have him drowned at birth."

Eslingen hesitated, but the transaction seemed to be taking longer than it should, and he ventured the comment. "Maybe that's why she's sending him to sea?"

"Oh, if only." Caiazzo's eyes were fixed on the group, their bright coats a reproach to the more dowdy souls around him. "But, no. Margues - that is Margues - stays home, attends the play, occasionally attends to the books, but lucky for his family, his mother and sister actually keep them. And every so often he throws out an idea on what they should be importing. They have not generally listened. I never thought Bonfortune smiled on fools, but the Trepassys' past reputation must help." He looked as though he wanted to say more, but the friend, vivid in pale straw, had finally collected his sheet, and the group was finally underway again.

"Margues," Caiazzo said, and submitted to a joining of hands. "I'm sure you enjoyed this."

"Oh, we did, it was so thrilling, so moving, such sacrifice, such love. This is the third time I've seen it, and every time, there's something new."

Behind him, his friends were nodding like the chorus they had just seen, and it took an effort of will for Eslingen to keep from grinning.

"Tell me, do you believe such love can exist, from high to low-crossing the line like that?"

"I wouldn't know," Caiazzo answered, "I'm hopelessly southriver, myself."

"Ah, you must live in hope, my dear Hanselin."

The chorus nodded behind him like a line of the talking birds imported from the Silklands, and Eslingen could see Caiazzo take hold of his temper and throttle it down, but Trepassy rolled on, heedless of insult or danger.

"And your investment, such a wise move, so forethoughtful." He turned to the others in the group. "This wise man - hopelessly southriver, indeed! - had the wit to respond when Mathiee Gasquine came to him to finance this production. Just think, if he hadn't agreed, we might have been denied this ravishing story." The chorus made small, admiring murmurs, and Trepassy turned back to face the merchant venturer. "We are in your debt, Hanselin, truly."

The small scar to the side of Caiazzo's mouth jumped twice, a sure sign of fury, but then the merchant had himself under control again. "And I'm in a way to being in yours, if you've seen it three times." He gave the other no time to work out the implications, plunged smoothly on. "I'm told by my factor you had a ship in this morning, Margues. I trust your captain had a successful trip."

At his side, Eslingen heard a smothered snort of laughter, and hastily smoothed his own expression.

"Oh, we did, of course we did," Trepassy answered, blithely. "It couldn't fail, could it? And the market, it's so strong right now, the timing is perfect, simply perfect."

"Where are you out of, this trip?" Caiazzo asked. His eyes slid past Trepassy's shoulder, as though looking for escape or even a diversion, but there was nothing in sight.

Trepassy looked momentarily incredulous, then decided the other man had to be joking. "My dear, where else but the Silklands?"

"Of course. And your cargo?"

"Need you ask?"

"Oh." Caiazzo managed to sound so patently bored that Eslingen had to smother a smile. "The corms."

"Indeed, the corms. What luck for us all, wasn't it, that the verifiable copy was brought to light last spring. I've had my crews bring back as many listed breeds as they could find, but, do you know, the growers were so uncooperative! Said they couldn't give us all we were asking, that we would have needed to commission over a year ago, and even then no promises! Still." He looked for an instant almost smug beneath the unlikely wig. "Limited supply and high demand - perfect conditions for us, eh? And now we can claim preferred status for next year, as well." He paused, and lowered his voice in what Eslingen thought was genuine concern. "You're making a mistake if you don't get involved, Hanse. It's too late for this year, of course, but if you want to be considered a factor for next year...."

"Ready money will cure that, if I'm suddenly seized by the desire." Caiazzo returned the other man's smile in an expression that would have made a more sensitive man wary. "Come along, Margues, you know that. The thieves in that market won't remember your captain from this year to next if mine happens to show up with more cash on hand."

"But, truly-" Trepassy blinked, somehow finally aware that the conversation had not gone as he'd intended. "A man of your perspicacity - as you say, even next year, you could... None of us can afford to let such an opportunity pass us by."

"I'm afraid I don't deal in fads." Caiazzo's gaze flicked sideways, stern and warning, and Eslingen hid another smile. "Not knowingly, at any rate."

"A fad is a fad, but treble the rate of increase in the price of a single corm, and that a modest one, in the past year?" Trepassy did smile then. "That, I think, is a fad I can afford to indulge in."

Caiazzo's expression had gone from bland to serene, and Eslingen hoped the man kept a grip on his temper. Strangling a Trepassy in broad daylight was bound to attract unfavorable attention - though if this was Margues' usual behavior, perhaps his mother would be grateful after all. Caiazzo spoke almost without hesitation. "And so you can, with the might of House Trepassy behind you. My backing is far more modest, as are my needs."

Margues Trepassy might be a fool, Eslingen thought, but even he wasn't that stupid. He laughed aloud, a musical sound also copied from the play. "You play the part so well, Hanselin, you truly do. But how modest are the resources and needs of a man who must have one of Coindarel's own Dragons for his knife? How extravagant!" He tipped his head to one side, looking for all the world like one of the gargoyles crouched under the Tyrseia's roof beams. "Mind you, it must come in handy, for one of your - investments - for him to be so connected to the points. It must save you a powerful amount in fees."

"Not noticeably." Caiazzo sighed, and Eslingen felt his face burn, knew he'd betrayed himself completely in that moment, he who hadn't blushed since he'd been a boy, even knowing he'd earned his lieutenancy in Coindarel's bed as well as on the field. If Margues Trepassy, fool that he unmistakably was, knew about his relationship with Nicolas Rathe-and apparently the nature of it, unless that was the damned play talking - how could Caiazzo not? How long had he known - and, more to the point, how could he possibly ignore it now?

"Rathe doesn't take fees," Caiazzo said, and for the first time there was an edge in his voice. "Everyone knows that. As for who my household choose to associate with, on their own time and with suitable discretion, that is very much their own-affair."

Trepassy took a step backward, eyes widening, his mind obviously ranging back to the play and the madness of the bannerdames. "Oh, no offense meant, Hanselin, truly, I just thought-"

You didn't think, Eslingen amended, silently, savagely. Damn the man, how am I going to get out of this one? Caiazzo was perfectly capable of arranging a quiet death for him, particularly if he chose to take it as betrayal-and how could he not, considering what lay between him and Rathe? Maybe Eslingen could make sure it wasn't a quiet death, buy his freedom that way, but realistically speaking, Caiazzo had too many friends in places like the Court of the Thirty-Two Knives - the bannerdames' true descendants - to make that very likely.

"Oh, none taken," Caiazzo said, with silken menace, and Trepassy gabbled some excuse, melting with his group into the thinning crowd.

Caiazzo looked at his knife, black eyes hard and measuring under his thin brows, and Eslingen took a slow breath. "Sir, I'm - sorry about that."

Caiazzo broke the stare, looked up at the sky, the blue deepening to purple and grey. The Winter Sun wouldn't rise for another four hours, and the rising dusk was true and clear. "What, the fact that he knows you're - Rathe's black dog, isn't that what the broadsheets called you this past summer? He'd have to be blind and deaf not to."

Eslingen flinched at that, thinking of hours wasted on discretion, and the merchant venturer shook his head.

"No, that's being unfair, but you have to think, Philip, you haven't been quite as careful as you thought, if Margues knows about it. Doubtless he's just picked up on rumors, though, not seen anything himself." He sighed, the dark anger fading, replaced at last with what looked like genuine curiosity. "Wherever did you find the time?"

"You're very generous about days off, sir," Eslingen said ruefully.

"And Rathe has friends everywhere," Caiazzo said. "I'll have to correct my part of it. Damn it!"

He turned toward the street that led back toward Customs Point and his own counting houses, stride lengthening unconsciously, so that Eslingen had to stretch his own legs to catch up. He half expected to be turned away, but the merchant venturer said nothing. Denizard shook her head, out of Caiazzo's line of sight, but her expression was more amused than condemning. And that, Eslingen thought, was something: if she, who'd been with Caiazzo for years, wasn't condemning him, maybe he would get out of this with his life.

"But I can't just cut you adrift, either," Caiazzo said at last. "You've served me well. Douvregn was a fool, everyone said I was wise and lucky to be rid of him, but you're a different matter. You're a hero after this summer past, there's not a woman or man who'd believe me if I said you'd betrayed me if your body was found floating in the Sier. In fact, if I don't see you well bestowed, Philip, it will reflect badly on me." He paused, looking back at the other man. "Worse, even, than it being known that my heroic knife is consorting with a pointsman. Especially that pointsman. So, I'll find a place for you - not with the caravans, you needn't worry. It's too late, and besides, that would have Rathe down my throat faster than almost anything else I could think of."

He smiled then, not pleasantly, but not without humor, and Eslingen felt muscles he hadn't known were tensed loosen again.

"Unless I could come up with something to keep him busy." Caiazzo slanted at glance at his magist. "Aice?"

"Hanse?" She was wary, but amused, too.

"How do we stand with the Guild?"

Her eyes narrowed as she smiled, caught in a mesh of fine lines. "They're in your debt, Hanse. And will still be, if you do what I think you're planning."

There are how many guilds in this city, and he refers to one as if it were the only one.... Eslingen kept his face expressionless, knowing the other man wanted him to sweat, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Certainly there was a guild, of sorts, for merchant-venturers, but it hardly seemed likely that Caiazzo would find him employment among his rivals - and they certainly weren't in any debt to the man, either.

Caiazzo nodded once, apparently pleased with her answer. "I hope you've kept in practice, Lieutenant," he murmured. "But in the meantime - I will expect you to keep your distance." His eyes caught and held Eslingen's, the message unmistakable, and after a moment, Eslingen nodded. The man was being remarkably lenient, all thing considered. Caiazzo nodded again, satisfied, and lengthened his stride through the gathering dusk. Eslingen fell into step beside him, two paces to the rear as befitted a knife. Distance I will keep; but Nico needs to know about this.

return to main page