Point of Knives Read Free Page A

question.
    “That’s pirates to you,” Rathe said. “Or so the rumor went. Motherless men, all three of them, but no worse than many.”
    “I’m a motherless man myself,” Eslingen said, a little too lightly.
    Rathe winced, but it was too late to apologize. “Well,” he said, and knelt beside the body. “Hold the lantern, will you?”
    Eslingen did as he was told, opening the shutter and tilting the light so that it fell from the side, minimizing the shadows. The day-sun would be rising by now, but the alley was still deep in shadow. Rathe reached for the edge of Old Steen’s coat—it was fancy, long-skirted, expensive braid still neatly stitched at hem and cuffs—and something growled at him. Beside him, Eslingen swore, and the skirts bunched and shifted, the growl increasing.
    “Easy, now,” Rathe said, and a head poked from beneath the cloth, fierce brown eyes above a pointed muzzle, teeth bared. “Easy.”
    “What in Seidos’ name?” Eslingen began.
    The dog wriggled free of the coat, backed itself between the body and the wall, hackles up and teeth still showing white in the lantern-light. It was tiny, not much bigger than a two-pound loaf of bread, with a shaggy black coat and pointed ears and no tail at all.
    “It’s a little-captain,” Rathe said. He extended his hand cautiously, not so far that the dog could bite, but close enough that it could get the scent of him. “They’re a river breed, meant to guard the barges.”
    “That’s a guard dog?” Eslingen said, dubiously, and in spite of everything, Rathe grinned.
    “Depends on where he latches on, doesn’t it?”
    Eslingen shifted, but to his credit didn’t step back. “I’ll assume you just mean ankles.”
    “You do that.” Rathe kept his hand extended. “Hello, small dog, Steen’s dog. No one’s going to hurt you, pup.”
    The little-captain flung back his head and let out a piercing howl.
    Eslingen winced. “I begin to see their uses.”
    “Yeah.” Rathe stood, truncheon displayed now as a badge of office, as windows opened all along the alley. “Points business!” he called. “Who’ll earn a demming carrying word to Point of Hopes?”
    There was a scuffling from the head of the alley, and a girl appeared. “I’ll go.”
    “Ask for Chief Point Monteia,” Rathe said. “Tell her there’s another body, and to send to the dead-house.”
    “Another body and send to the dead-house,” the girl repeated. “Yes, sir.”
    She scampered off, and Rathe looked as Eslingen.
    “I don’t suppose your credit at the Bay Tree extends as far as a collar and leash?”
    “I imagine they can provide,” Eslingen answered. “But—favor for favor, Nico? I’d like to be there when you examine the body.”
    Rathe hesitated. It was far too easy to fall into old habits, the way they’d worked together over the summer, when they’d rescued the stolen children together—and after, when they’d fit all too well, in bed and out. But whatever was going on now, Caiazzo was up to his neck in it, and the Surintendant of Points had been wanting to call a solid point on him for more than a decade. “One thing first,” he said. “Spread your arms.”
    Eslingen paused. “I’m no archer,” he said, but lifted his arms from his side so that his coat fell open over his waistcoat and shirt. Rathe could see there was no standard crossbow concealed beneath the fine wool, but stepped closer anyway, ran his hands along the other man’s ribs. Eslingen caught his breath.
    “Now you’re just being—difficult.”
    “Don’t you want me to be able to swear you had nothing to do with this?” Rathe glanced quickly around but there was no place in the alley to hide even the smallest of crossbows.
    “You can keep looking if you want,” Eslingen offered. “Wouldn’t want to miss anything.”
    “Later, maybe,” Rathe said, with a certain amount of regret, and Eslingen shook himself.
    “Right, sorry. Leash and a collar, you said?”
    “A