Point of Knives by Melissa Scott

Silklands wine that was Rathe’s current favorite along with a plate of bread and cheese to stay their appetite until the evening’s ordinary was ready. They were led toward the rear of the bower, across the central garden where the grass had been trampled almost to bare ground by the summer’s hard use. The private tables were set up within small tents of brightly painted canvas, divided from each other by hedges of thorny rose; there were small braziers in each one now, and lanterns hanging from the center posts, but at the moment the sun on the canvas kept them warm enough. The chairs were piled with cushions—enough, Esingen noted, to make quite a comfortable bed on the grass between the table and the tent’s rear wall—and the air smelled of late roses and the oil in the lamps. The waiter fetched their order, and offered with a leer to close the curtains, but Eslingen shook his head.
    “Later,” he said, and the waiter withdrew.
    “You’ll ruin your reputation,” Rathe said, and poured the wine.
    Eslingen stretched his feet out under the table, and leaned back in his chair. “Or yours.”
    “That’s done already,” Rathe said, with a grin. “Damn it. You’re sure Caiazzo’s not playing politics?”
    “As sure as I can be,” Eslingen said. “I’ve seen no signs of it, I know what he does need gold for, and—as I said, it just doesn’t pay.”
    Rathe nodded. “And there’s Mirremay to think about.”
    “What about her?” Eslingen lifted his wine in salute.
    “That’s right, I haven’t told you.” Quickly, Rathe sketched out his encounter with the enforcement men at Dame Lulli’s. “And Mirremay signed the writ. I hadn’t really had her on my books, but now—now I think I have to consider her.”
    “From what you’ve said, I don’t see how she’s involved in politics,” Eslingen said.
    “I’m not sure I do, either,” Rathe said, frankly. “It’s just that—I know she spent a lot of money to buy her post, and to get the Regents on her side, because the Surintendant didn’t want to give her Point of Knives in the first place.”
    “She’s that bad?”
    “She’s the direct descendant of the Bannerdames,” Rathe said. “Not that they were bannerdames, they were a pack of bandits who took over part of Point of Knives after the Court was destroyed.”
    “What a charming and peaceful city this is,” Eslingen said.
    Rathe looked torn between pride and guilt. “I never said there weren’t interesting people southriver.”
    “I do see why your boss might not want her in charge,” Eslingen said.
    Rathe nodded. “Her great-grandmother was one of the worst of them, and don’t think she’s forgotten.”
    “Lovely,” Eslingen said.
    “Yeah.” Rathe leaned back as the waiter appeared with the first course of the night’s ordinary, a pale soup smelling of cinnamon and winter gourds. When their bowls had been filled and the waiter had disappeared again, Rathe sighed. “I need to have a word with Mirremay, I suppose, which is a bit—ticklish—at the best of times. I’m Point of Hopes, not Knives. She’s not actually a chief point, just a head point, which may not seem like much of a difference to you, but—”
    “Oh, believe me, I’m very sensitive to all the little nuances of degree,” Eslingen said. “I’ve served with sixteen-quarter nobles who wouldn’t sit down at table with common folk under the rank of colonel, and that when the ‘table’ was the tail of a wagon balanced on a pair of powder kegs.”
    “Mirremay’s worse,” Rathe said.
    “I’ll refrain from making the obvious remark,” Eslingen said, and was pleased to draw a smile.
    “What, that common folk are worse about such titles as they’ve earned?”
    “I’d never suggest such a thing,” Eslingen said.
    “I don’t like it that she’s signing bailiff’s writs on van Duiren’s account,” Rathe said. “That—well, I’m sure she was well fee’d for it, but it smacks of politics. And