Point of Knives by Melissa Scott Page A

I’m good, but I’m not good enough to be sure I can reset them perfectly.”
    “What about b’Estorr?” Eslingen asked.
    “He’s a necromancer, Philip. He doesn’t do locks.” Rathe paused. “Not as far as I know, anyway. And even the best lockpicks leave signs. How do you think we call half our points?”
    Eslingen lifted a hand, acknowledging the point like a fencer admitting a hit. “And here I thought you’d have an expert ready to hand.”
    “Sadly, no.” Rathe drained the last of his wine. “Though if it comes to that, there are tools—but no matter. We’ll put a watch on the place, certainly. One of the apprentices, maybe, or a junior, someone van Duiren’s unlikely to have noticed. That should give us an idea if she’s using it for this business. In the meantime, though—we do need to talk to Istre.”
    “I thought you said he didn’t do locks,” Eslingen said, and fished in his purse for the money for his meal.
    “He doesn’t.” Rathe tossed his share of the reckoning onto the table. “But he does understand about gold, and what he doesn’t know—he’ll know who we should ask.”
    “Are you back on that again?” Eslingen demanded. “I tell you, Caiazzo’s not interested in politics. The government suits him just fine the way it is.”
    “And I believe you,” Rathe answered, though a part of him wasn’t entirely sure. “But I’m going to have to answer to the Surintendant sooner or later, and I want to rule out politics before then.”
    They made their way across Temple Bridge toward the Pantheon and Temple Fair, Eslingen lagging only a little behind as they passed along the row of printers’ shops on the east side of the square. Checking the broadsheet horoscopes, Rathe knew, and kept his own gaze turned resolutely away. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by unlicensed printers, and particularly not ones printing under Caiazzo’s coin. They passed through the Northgate and made their way into the University grounds. The winter term was well begun, and the streets were crowded with students in their short gray gowns, worn open over every possible combination of fashion. That was against University rules, Rathe knew, and he wasn’t surprised to see various of them pause at the doorways of the lecture halls to do up a minimum number of buttons before rushing inside.
    b’Estorr, like most of the senior masters, had his lodgings on the University grounds. Rathe led them across the open courtyard, scattering a flock of gargoyles scrabbling at a pile of gardeners’ waste, and knocked at the porter’s door. He expected b’Estorr to be at classes, but to his surprise, the porter said he was in, and a few moments later the necromancer himself appeared at the top of the stairs to beckon them up. His rooms were comfortable, parlor and bedroom and study as well as the necessary, but, as always, Rathe felt a faint chill at the back of his neck as he came through the door. No natural chill, that, not on a warm autumn day, but the presence of b’Estorr’s personal ghosts, gathered during his service with the late king of Chadron. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eslingen’s eyebrow wing upward as he felt the same touch, and hoped the Leaguer wouldn’t say anything inappropriate.
    If b’Estorr saw, he ignored it, and waved them toward the chairs that stood beside the unlit stove. “I’ve just had tea brought up,” he said. “It should still be hot enough.”
    Eslingen shook his head, but Rathe accepted the offer, settled into the more comfortable of the two chairs b’Estorr kept for visitors. b’Estorr poured himself a cup as well, and looked quizzically from one to the other.
    “What brings both of you to me?” he asked, and Rathe thought there was a distinctly wary note in his voice. “I didn’t think you were allowed to work in harness these days.”
    “Is it that obvious?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr nodded. Eslingen looked faintly abashed, and brushed