Point of Knives by Melissa Scott Page B

pause, and then Rathe responded just as fiercely, pushing him back in turn. Eslingen gave way willingly, thinking of the piles of pillows, but when he broke the kiss to reach for the nearest, Rathe pulled back, shaking his head.
    “Let’s go home,” he said.
     
    There was no point in going into Point of Knives before ten o’clock—by then, the night workers and knives would be well abed, and the first flurry of business would be concluded—and Rathe allowed himself the indulgence of sleeping in. When he woke, well past sunrise, the other half of the bed was empty, and he was startled and a little annoyed to feel momentarily bereft. He shoved that thought away and built up the fire, then went downstairs to the well to fetch the morning’s water, trying not to wonder where Eslingen had gone. Probably to fetch clean linen, he told himself, or a longer blade than was legal in the city—though the more he thought about it, the less it seemed like a good idea to go into Point of Knives carrying weapons that were conspicuously in violation of the law.
    He had just finished shaving when the door opened and Eslingen appeared, a basket tucked under one arm. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said, and set the basket on the table. “I brought breakfast.”
    “Thanks.”
    Eslingen began unloading the basket, setting out bread and honeyed cheese and a crock of salt butter. Rathe moved the kettle to the front of the stove, savoring the sheer ordinariness of the moment. Eslingen finished arranging his purchases—he was surprisingly finicky in some things, Rathe noted—and pulled out the rolled cylinder of paper he’d tucked into a corner of the basket. Rathe lifted an eyebrow, recognizing a vice familiar from the summer.
    “Broadsheet prophecies? The printers have them out already?”
    “The early printer catches my demming,” Eslingen answered. “At least today. I’d have brought you one, but I don’t know your stars.”
    “No more you do,” Rathe said, the words suddenly tight in his throat. He made himself go on making the tea, spooning the dry leaves into the pot. The kettle had begun to hiss, and he poured the water with extra care, brought the pot to the table to steep.
    “I’m not asking,” Eslingen said. He did a creditable job of not sounding hurt, but there was a bleak look in his eyes. “You’d be a fool to tell me, me being Caiazzo’s man.”
    And so he would. Rathe knew it perfectly well—he’d kept his natal horoscope a secret since his apprentice days, when he’d seen an entire glassblower’s workshop poisoned through the similarity of their stars—and Hanselin Caiazzo was the last man he’d want to trust with anything that could be turned against him. Still, most people were willing to share their solar signs, there wasn’t much even a skilled astrologer or magist could do with that. And yet— He forced a smile.
    “The Pillars of Justice are well aspected in my horoscope,” he offered, and Eslingen snorted, as though it were only a joke.
    “That shocks me to the core, Adjunct Point.” He flattened his sheet of paper, not bothering to hide the symbol at the top—the Horse, Rathe noted, in spite of himself, and felt a pang of guilt. The tea was ready; he poured them each a cup and cut himself a slice of bread. They ate in silence, not precisely uncomfortable, and then Eslingen laughed and picked up the broadsheet again.
    ““Stallions quarrel in a field,’” he read, “‘but do no harm.’”
    Rathe blinked, then shook his head. “Do you think this counts, or do we have something more to look forward to?”
    “I’d like to think this was it,” Eslingen said, “but from everything you said about this Mirremay….”
    “Yeah,” Rathe said. “Somehow I doubt it.” The tower clock at the end of the Leathersellers’ Hall struck the half hour, and he allowed himself a sigh. “And it’s time to be getting on with it.”
    “Lovely,” Eslingen said, but tidied the remains of