Point Of Hopes
 Melissa Scott and Lisa A.
         Barnett
           the first pointsman book

                A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0
          click for scan notes and proofing history




                            Contents
                        |Prologue|
               |1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|
                       |Epilogue|


   TOR®
   A Tom Doherty Associates Book / New York
   Also by Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett
   The Armor of Light
   This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events
portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used
fictitiously.
   POINT OF HOPES
   Copyright © 1995 by Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett
   All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
   This book is printed on acid-free paper.
   Edited by David G. Hartwell
   A Tor Book
   Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
   175 Fifth Avenue
      New York, N.Y. 10010
      Tor Books on the World-Wide Web:
      http://www.tor.com
      Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty
    Associates, Inc.
      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
      Scott, Melissa
      Point of hopes / by Melissa Scott & Lisa Barnett.
      p. cm.
      ISBN 0-312-85844-2
      I. Burnett. Lisa A. II. Title.
      PS3569.C672P65 1995
      813'.54—dc20 95-35364
      CIP
      First Edition December 1995
      Printed In the United States of America


                           To Absent Friends


                        point of hopes


                           Prologue
                                                                  ^»
the long room was cool, and very quiet, not even the sound of a
house clock to disturb the silence. The magist who sat in the guest’s
chair by the empty fireplace was very aware of that unnerving
quiet, and folded her hands in her wide sleeves to stop herself
fidgeting with her rings. The room smelled of sour ash, as though
the fire hadn’t been lit in a week or more, for all that it was only
the last day of Lepidas and the Rat Moon. The spring came late and
cold in the Ajanes; she would have been glad of a fire to cut the chill
that clung to the stones of floor and walls. The heavy tapestries and
the one paneled wall did little to warm the room. She looked around
the room again and was reassured by the sight of silver on the
sideboard and wax candles in the carved-crystal holders, though she
could have sworn there had been a case-clock by the window the
last time she’d come to Mailhac.
   The landame of Mailhac—who had been plain Jausarande
d’Orsandi, one of five daughters with sixteen quarterings and no
prospects, before she had made her bargain with the magist’s
employer—saw that look from the doorway, and knew it instantly
for what it was. To see a shopkeeper’s daughter, or worse,
presuming to judge her own financial standing, to count the value
of silver that had belonged to this estate for generations, was
intolerable. Still, it had to be tolerated, at least a little longer, and
she smoothed her skirts, displaying long, fair hands against the rich
green silk, and swept forward into the room.
   The magist rose to her feet, the drab black of her gown falling in
easy folds over a plain travelling suit, the wine-colored skirt and
bodice dull even in the doubled sunlight that seeped in through the
flawed glass of the single window. “Maseigne.”
  “Magist.” The landame acknowledged the other woman’s greeting
with a nod, deliberately did not sit, and was pleased to see the
magist stifle a sigh at the reminder of her place. “What brings you
here?”
  What do you think ? The magist swallowed that response, and said
more moderately, “We are concerned about the terms of your loan.
About your meeting them.”
  Her voice was common, the sharp vowels of the capital’s poorer
districts barely blunted by her education. The landame achieved a
sneer. “I’m surprised to see you here on such an errand, magist. I
thought you were concerned with more important parts of your
master’s—business.”
  The magist shrugged, shoulders moving under the heavy fabric.
“You can take it as a compliment to your rank, if you like. Or you
can assume—if you haven’t already heard—that it’s just because
Douvregn was arrested for dueling, and we haven’t found a knife to
replace him yet. As you please, maseigne.”
  The landame caught her breath at the insult—how dare she
suggest that her employer would send a common street bully like
Douvregn to deal with an Ajanine noble?—but controlled herself
with an effort that made her hands tremble. She stilled them,
stilled her thoughts, reminding herself that she, they, needed time
to finish the work at hand, time to get all the pieces into place, but
once that was accomplished, neither she nor any of her rank would
ever have to crawl to folk like the magist again. “Douvregn was
getting above himself, then,” she observed, and was annoyed when
the magist grinned.
  “No question, maseigne, one prefers to leave blood sports to the
seigneury. However, that’s hardly the matter under discussion.”
The magist let her smile fade to the look of grave inquiry that had
intimidated far less cultured opponents. “We expect the gold at
Midsummer—by the First Fair, maseigne, not like last year.”
  The landame met the other woman’s stare without flinching,
though inwardly she was cursing the impulse that had made her
delay the previous year’s payment. That had been petty spite,
nothing more, but it seemed as though it would haunt her dealings
now, interfering with her current plans. She said, “But the
payment was made by Midsummer, magist, as agreed in our bond. I
cannot be held responsible for the vagaries of the weather.”
  The magist’s mouth tightened fractionally. She knew perfectly
well that the other had held back the previous year’s payment until
the last possible moment, though she doubted that the landame had
any real conception of the effects that delay had had on her
employer’s business. “Of course not, maseigne, but, as one who is
experienced in such matters, may I suggest you allow more time for
bad weather this year? The roads between Astreiant and the Ajanes
can be difficult even at the height of summer.”
  The landame bent her head with a passable imitation of grace,
hiding her anger at the condescension in the other’s voice. “I’ll take
that suggestion to heart, magist. As you say, I’m not as familiar as
you are with the proper handling of trade.”
  “How could you be, maseigne?” the magist answered, and the
landame was suddenly uncertain if her insult had even been
recognized.
  “When will you be leaving us?” she asked abruptly, and wondered
then if she’d spoken too soon.
  “In the morning,” the magist answered. “As soon after second
sunrise as we can manage, I think. Enjoyable as your hospitality is,
maseigne”— the flicker of her eyes around the chilly room pointed
the irony of the words —“we have business to attend.”
 “Of course,” the landame answered, hiding her rage, and the
magist moved toward the door.
  “Then if you’ll permit me, maseigne, I’d like a word or two with
your steward.”
  The landame bit back her first furious answer—how dare the
woman interfere in the running of a noble’s household?—and waved
a hand in gentle dismissal. “As you wish.”
   “Thank you, maseigne,” the magist answered, and bowed before
slipping from the room.
   The landame swore as the door closed behind her, looking around
for something to throw, but controlled her temper with an effort.
This was not the time, was too early to tip her hand—but when the
time came, she vowed silently, when my kinswoman sits on the
throne, then you will pay, magist, you and your employer both.
That thought, the reminder of her plans, steadied her, and she
turned toward the chamber she used for her private business. The
catch was hidden in the paneling, hard to find even for someone
who knew where to look, and she had to run her thumb over the
carved clusters of fruit before she found it. She unlatched the door
and went on into the little room. It smelled of stale scent and
windows that had been closed too long, and she made a face and
flung open the shutters. The air that rushed in was chill despite the
sunlight—the estate lay in the high hills, and the manor had been
built for defense rather than gracious living—and she considered for
a moment calling a servant to relight the fire in the stove. But that
would take too long; she had come here only to calm herself with
the reminder of her plans, and would be gone again before anyone
would hear the summons bell. She went to the case that held the
estate’s books instead, unlocked it, and reached behind the cracking
volume that held the estate’s charter to pull out a thin, iron-bound
box. She set that down on the table, fumbling beneath her bodice
for its key, and unlocked it, stood looking with satisfaction at the
papers that nearly filled it. The handwriting was her own, laborious
and old-fashioned—these were not matters that could be trusted to
any secretary, no matter how discreet—and the words, the plans
they outlined, were frankly treasonous. But the starchange was
almost upon them, the Starsmith, ruler of monarchs and
astrologers, was about to pass from the Shell to the Charioteer, and
that meant that times were ripe for change. The Queen of
Chenedolle was getting old, was childless, and had little prospect
now of bearing an heir of her own body; with no direct heir, the
succession was open to anyone within the far-flung royal family
who possessed the necessary astrological kinship. Law and simple
prudence demanded that she name her successor before the
starchange, before the events that shift portended actually came to
pass. The landame allowed herself a slight, almost rueful smile,
studying the jagged letters. In practice, there were only a handful
of possible candidates—the queen’s first cousin, the Palatine
Marselion chief, among them; then the palatines Sensaire and
Belvis, both granddaughters of the previous monarch’s sister; and
finally the Metropolitan of Astreiant, who was only the daughter of
the queen’s half sister but was rumored to have the queen’s
personal favor, as well as a favorable nativity. Her own chosen
candidate, the Palatine Belvis, to whom she was related by
marriage as well as the more general kinship among the nobles of
the Ile’nord and the Ajanes, was rumored to be deeply out of favor
at court, for all that her stars were easily as good as Astreiant’s.
The landame’s smile widened then. But that would change, she
vowed silently. She had taken the first steps toward ensuring
Belvis’s accession at the Spring Balance; the next step was well in
hand—as long as the magist’s employer could be kept at arm’s
length until after Midsummer.
  She sorted through the top layer of papers—letters to her agent
in the capital, blotted accounts, guarded letters to Belvis herself,
and the palatine’s equally guarded replies—and finally found the
sheet she wanted. It was not her own, but from her agent: an
accounting of the money already spent and a request for more,
along with its proposed uses. Most of it would go to the half dozen
astrologers who were at the heart of her plan; the rest would go to
the printers who sold the broadsheets that promoted Belvis’s cause
and to the dozen or more minor clerks and copyists who carried out
her agent’s business at court and in the tangles of the city
bureaucracy. She looked at the total again, grimacing, but copied
the number onto a slip of paper, and closed the box again, pressing
hard on the lid to make sure the lock caught.
   “Maseigne?” The man who peered around the edge of the door
tipped his head to one side like one of the fat gargoyles that infested
the manor’s upper stories. “I hope everything’s all right—she, that
so-called magist, is hardly a cultured person. Hardly someone one
would choose to handle such a delicate business…” He saw the
landame’s eyebrows lift at that, and added, “If one had had other
options, of course. I thank my stars I’ve been able to offer some
assistance there.”
  “And I’m grateful,” the landame said, with only the slightest
hesitation. She placed the box back into the cabinet, set the estate’s
charter back against it, then closed the double door and relocked it.
  The man straightened his head. He had discarded his usual robe
for the duration of the magist’s visit, wore a slightly out-of-fashion
suit, his linen fussily gathered at neck and sleeves, cravat fastened
in a style too young for his sixty years. “I take it all went well,
maseigne? She had no suspicions?”
  “I don’t think so.” The landame shook her head, her lip curling.
“No, I’m sure not. All she wanted was the money.”
  The old man nodded, his ready smile answering her contempt.
“Good. Excellent, maseigne, and I understand she’s leaving
tomorrow?”
  “Yes.”
  “Better still,” the man said, and rubbed his hands together. “And
she said nothing? No mention of the clocks, or the—well, of your
investments?”
  The things she had sold to finance his work, he meant, and she
knew it perfectly well. A faint frown crossed her brow, but she said
only, “No, nothing. As I said.”
  “Of course, maseigne, forgive my concern. But things are
delicately balanced just now, and I wouldn’t want to take any
unnecessary chances—”
  “No,” the landame said firmly. “No more do I. But she said
nothing.” Fleetingly, she remembered the way the other woman
had looked around the outer room, the way her eyes had run over
the silver and the wax candles and the blown glass, but shook the
memory away. The magist had seen only the proper signs of wealth
and standing; there was nothing to make her suspicious.
  “Even about the clocks?” the man continued. He saw the
landame’s frown deepen to a scowl, and spread his hands, ducking
his head in apology. “Forgive me, maseigne, but she is a magist,
and that is the one thing that might rouse her suspicions. And we
cannot afford that, not yet.”
   “She said nothing,” the landame said, again. “And I didn’t see any
indication that she’d noticed anything.” In spite of herself, her eyes
strayed to the empty spot on the shelf, imperfectly filled by a statue
of a young man with a bunch of grapes, where her own case-clock
had once stood. “My people aren’t exactly pleased by that, you
know. The clock in Anedelle is too far away, they tell me, they can
barely hear the chime unless the wind’s in the right quarter—”
  The man held up his hand, and the landame checked herself.
“Maseigne, I know. But it is necessary, I give you my word on it. To
have clocks in the house now would—well, it would offer too many
chances of revealing our plans ahead of time, and that would never
do.”
   The landame sighed. She was no magist, knew no more of those
arts than most people—less, if the truth were told; her education
had been neglected, and in her less proud moments, she admitted it.
If he said he couldn’t work while there were clocks in the house,
well, she would have to rely on him. “Very well,” she said, but the
man heard the doubt in her voice.
   “Maseigne, what can I do to convince you? I only want what you
want, the accession of a proper queen to the throne of Chenedolle,
and an end to the erosion of noble privilege. And I assure you, if the
clocks—and very fine clocks they were, too, which is part of the
problem—if they had stayed in the manor, our plan would be
betrayed as soon as I begin the first operations. They cannot
remain—and none can be brought back into the household, not by
anyone, maseigne. Otherwise, I cannot offer you my services.”
  His tone was as deferential as always, eager, even, but the
landame heard the veiled threat beneath his fawning. “Very well, I
said. There will be no clocks in the house.”
  “Thank you, maseigne, I knew you would understand.” The man
bowed deeply, folding his hands in front of him as though he still
wore his magist’s robes. “I think, then, that I can promise you every
success.”
  “I trust so,” the landame said, grimly.
  “I assure you, maseigne,” the man answered. “The time is
propitious. I cannot fail.”



                                 1
                                                             «^»
it was, they all agreed later, a fair measure of Rathe’s luck that he
was the one on duty when the butcher came to report his missing
apprentice. It was past noon, a hot day, toward the middle of the
Sedeion and the start of the Gargoyle Moon, and the winter-sun
was just rising, throwing its second, paler shadows across the
well-scrubbed floor of Point of Hopes. Rathe stared moodily at the
patterns thrown by the barred windows, and debated adding
another handful of herbs to the stove. The fire was banked to the
minimum necessary to warm the pointsmen’s food, but the heat
rolled out from it in waves, bringing with it the scent of a hundred
boiled dinners. Jans Ranazy, the other pointsman officially on this
watch, had decided to pay for a meal at the nearest tavern rather
than stand the heat another minute, and Rathe could hardly blame
him. He wrinkled his nose as a particularly fragrant wave struck
him—the sharp sweet scent of starfire warring with the dank smell
of cabbages—but decided that anything more would only make it
worse.
  He sighed and turned his attention to the station daybook that
lay open on the heavy work table in front of him, skimming
through the neat listing of the previous day’s occurrences. Nothing
much, or at least nothing out of the ordinary: this was the fair
season, coming up on the great Midsummer Fair itself, and there
were the usual complaints of false weight and measure, and of
tainted or misrepresented goods. And, of course, the runaways.
There were always runaways in the rising summer, when the
winter-sun shone until midnight, and the roads were clear and open
and crowded enough with other travelers to present at least the
illusion of safety. And the Silklanders and Leaguers were hiring all
through the summer fairs, looking for unskilled hands to man their
boats and their caravans, and everyone knew of the
merchants—maybe half a dozen over three generations, men and
women with shops in the Mercandry now, and gold in their
strongboxes, people who counted their wealth in great
crowns—who’d begun their careers running off to sea or to the
highways.
   Rathe sighed again, and flipped back through the book, checking
the list. Eight runaways reported so far, two apprentices—both
with the brewers, no surprises there; the work was hard and their
particular master notoriously strict—and the rest laborers from the
neighborhoods around Point of Hopes, Point of Knives, Docks’
Point, even Coper’s Point to the south. Most of them had worked for
their own kin, which might explain a lot—but still, Rathe thought,
they’re starting early this year. It lacked a week of Midsummer;
usually the largest number took off during the Midsummer Fair
itself.
   A bell sounded from the gate that led into the stable yard, and
then another from above the main door, which lay open to the yard.
Rathe looked up, and the room went dark as a shape briefly filled
the doorway. The man stepped inside, and stood for a moment
blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. He was big, tall, and
heavy-bellied beneath a workingman’s half-coat, but the material
was good, as was the shirt beneath it, and as he turned, Rathe saw
the badge of a guildmaster in the big man’s cap.
   “Help you, master?” he asked, and the big man turned, still
blinking in the relative darkness.
  “Pointsman?” He took a few steps toward the table. “I’m here to
report a missing apprentice.”
  Rathe nodded, repressing his automatic response, and kicked a
stool away from the table. “Have a seat, master, and tell me all
about it.”
   The big man sat down cautiously. Up close, he looked even
bigger, with a jowled, heat-reddened face and lines that could mean
temper or self-importance bracketing his mouth and creasing his
forehead. Rathe looked him over dispassionately, ready to dismiss
this as another case of an apprentice seizing the chance to get out
of an unsatisfactory contract, when he saw the emblem on the
badge pinned to the man’s close-fitting cap. Toncarle, son of
Metenere, strode crude but unmistakable across the silver oval,
knives upheld: the man was a butcher, and that changed
everything. The Butchers’ Guild wasn’t the richest guild in
Astreiant, but it was affiliated with the Herbalists and the
scholar-priests of Metenere, and that meant its apprentices learned
more than just their craft. An apprentice would have to be a
fool—or badly mistreated—to leave that place.
  The big man had seen the change of expression, faint as it was,
and a wry smile crossed his face. “Ay, I’m with the Butchers,
pointsman. Bonfais Mailet.”
   “Nicolas Rathe. Adjunct point,” Rathe answered automatically.
He should have known, or guessed, he thought. They weren’t far
from the Street of Knives, and that was named for the dozen or so
butcher’s halls that dominated the neighborhood. “You said you
were missing an apprentice, Master Mailet?”
  Mailet nodded. “Her name’s Herisse Robion. She’s been my
prentice for three years now.”
  “That makes her, what, twelve, thirteen?” Rathe asked,
scribbling the name into the daybook. “Herisse—that’s a Chadroni
name, isn’t it?”
  “Twelve,” Mailet answered. “And yes, the name’s Chadroni, but
she’s city-born and bred. I think her mother’s kin were from the
north, but that’s a long time back.”
  “So she wouldn’t have been running to them?” Rathe asked, and
added the age.
   “I doubt it.” Mailet leaned forward, planting both elbows on the
table. A faint smell rose from his clothes, not unpleasant, but
naggingly familiar. Rathe frowned slightly, trying to place it, and
then remembered: fresh-cut peppers and summer gourds, the cool
green tang of the sliced flesh. It was harvest time for those crops,
and butchers all across the city would be carving them for the
magists to preserve. He shook the thought away, and drew a sheet
of paper from the writing box.
  “Tell me what happened.”
   “She’s gone.” Mailet spread his hands. “She was there last night
at bedtime, or so Sabadie—that’s my journeyman, one of them,
anyway, the one in charge of the girl-prentices—so Sabadie swears
to me. And then this morning, when they went to the benches, I
saw hers was empty. The other girls admitted she wasn’t at
breakfast, and her bed was made before they were up, but Herisse
was always an early riser, so none of them said anything, to me or
to Sabadie. But when she wasn’t at her bench, well… I came to
you.”
  Rathe eyed him warily, wondering how best to phrase his
question. “She’s only been gone a few hours,” he began at last, “not
even a full day. Are—is it possible she went out to meet someone,
and somehow was delayed?”
  Mailet nodded. “And I think she’s hurt, or otherwise in trouble.
My wife and I, after we got the prentices to work, we went up and
searched her things. All her clothes are there, and her books. She
wasn’t planning to be gone so long, of that I’m certain. She knows
the work we had to do today, she wouldn’t have missed it without
sending us word if she could.”
  Rathe nodded back, impressed in spite of himself. Even if Mailet
were as choleric as he looked, a place in the Butchers’ Guild—an
apprenticeship that taught you reading and ciphering and the use of
an almanac, and set you on the road to a prosperous
mastership—wasn’t to be given up because of a little temper. “Had
she friends outside your house?” he asked, and set the paper aside.
“Or family, maybe?” He pushed himself up out of his chair and
Mailet copied him, his movements oddly helpless for such a big
man.
  “An aunt paid her fees,” Mailet said, “but I heard she was dead
this past winter. The rest of them—well, I’d call them useless, and
Herisse didn’t seem particularly fond of them.”
  Rathe crossed to the wall where his jerkin hung with the rest of
the station’s equipment, and shrugged himself into the stiff leather.
His truncheon hung beneath it, and he belted it into place, running
his thumb idly over the crowned tower at its top. “Do you know
where they live?”
  “Point of Sighs, somewhere,” Mailet answered. “Sabadie might
know, or one of the girls.”
  “I’ll ask them, then,” Rathe said. “Gaucelm!”
  There was a little pause, and then the younger of the station’s
two apprentices appeared in the doorway. “Master Nico?”
  “Is Asheri about, or is it just you?”
  “She’s by the stable.”
  Asheri was one of half a dozen neighborhood children, now
growing into gawky adolescence, who ran errands for the point
station. “I’m off with Master Mailet here, about a missing
apprentice—not a runaway, it looks like. I’m sending Asheri for
Ranazy, you’ll man the station until he gets here.”
  Gaucelm’s eyes widened—he was young still, and hadn’t stood a
nightwatch, much less handled the day shift alone—but he
managed a creditably off-hand nod. “Yes, Master Nico.”
  Rathe nodded back, and turned to Mailet. “Then let me talk to
Asheri, Master Mailet, and we’ll go.”
   Asheri was waiting in the stable doorway, a thin, brown girl in a
neatly embroidered cap and bodice, her skirts kilted to the knee
against the dust. She listened to Rathe’s instructions—fetch Ranazy
from the Cazaril Grey where he was eating, and then tell Monteia,
the chief point who had charge of Point of Hopes, what had
happened and bring back any messages—with a serious face. She
caught the copper demming he tossed her with an expert hand,
then darted off ahead of them through the main gate. Rathe
followed her more decorously, and then gestured for Mailet to lead
the way.
  Mailet’s house and workshop lay in the open streets just off the
Customs Road, about a ten-minute walk from Point of Hopes. It
looked prosperous enough, though not precisely wealthy; the
shutters were all down, forming a double counter, and a
journeyman and an older apprentice were busy at the meat table,
knives flashing as they disjointed a pair of chickens for a waiting
maidservant. She was in her twenties and very handsome, and a
knife rose into the air, catching the light for an instant as it turned
end over end, before the apprentice had snatched the meat away
and the knife landed, quivering, in the chopping board. He bowed
deeply, and offered the neatly cut chicken to the maidservant. She
took it, cocking her head to one side, and the journeyman, less deft
or more placid than his junior, handed her the second carefully
packaged bird. She took that, too, and, turning, said something
over her shoulder that had both young men blushing and grinning.
Mailet scowled.
   “Get that mess cleaned up,” he said, gesturing to the bloodied
board. “And, you, Eysi, keep your mind on your work before you
lose a finger.”
  “Yes, master,” the apprentice answered, but Rathe thought from
the grin that he was less than chastened.
  Mailet grunted, and pushed past him into the shop. “Young fool.
And the pity of it is, if he makes a mistake with that trick, it’ll be
Perrin who loses a finger.”
  “How many people do you have here?” Rathe asked.
  “Four journeymen, two boys and two girls, and then a dozen
prentices, six of each. And my woman and myself. She’s co-master
with me.”
  “Do they all live here?”
  “The apprentices, of course,” Mailet answered, “they’ve two big
rooms under the roof—with a separate stairway to each, I’m not
completely a fool—and then the senior journeymen, that’s Perrin
whom you saw, and Sabadie, they each have a room at the head of
the stair. And Agnelle and myself live on the second floor. But
Mickhel and Fridi board out—their choice, not mine.”
  The door that gave onto the main hall opened then, and a
dark-skinned woman stepped through, tucking her hair back under
her neat cap. She was close to Mailet’s age, and Rathe was not
surprised to see the keys and coinpurse at her belt.
  “Agnelle Fayor, my co-master,” Mailet said, unnecessarily, and
Rathe nodded.
  “Mistress.”
  “You’re the pointsman?” the woman asked, and Rathe nodded
again.
   “Then you’ll want to talk to the girls,” Fayor said, and looked at
Mailet. “They’re almost done, I don’t think it’ll cause any more stir
if he does.”
  Mailet grinned, rather wryly, and Rathe said, “I take it the
apprentices were upset, then?”
  Mailet nodded.
   Fayor said, “They didn’t know she was going to run, I’d stake my
life on that.” She looked at Mailet, seemed to receive some silent
signal, and went on, “We’ve had prentices run away before now,
everyone has, but they’ve always told us first, given some warning.”
  “Not in so many words, you understand,” Mailet interjected. “But
you know.”
  “Did Herisse have any special friends among the apprentices?”
Rathe asked. “A leman, maybe? Somebody she might’ve confided
in?”
  Fayor’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I don’t hold with
that. It causes all sorts of trouble.”
  “You can’t stop it, though,” Mailet said. It had the sound of a long
argument, and out of the corner of his eye, Rathe saw Fayor
grimace expressively. “And it keeps their minds off the opposite
sex.” Mailet looked back at the pointsman. “Sabadie would know if
she had a leman. You can ask her.”
  “Thanks. I’d like to talk to her. But right now, can you give me a
description of Herisse?” Rathe had his tablets out, looked from
Mailet to Fayor. The two exchanged looks.
  “She’s an ordinary looking girl, pointsman, pretty enough, but
not remarkable,” Fayor began.
  “Tall for her age, though,” Mailet added, and Rathe noted that
down, glancing up to ask, “And that’s twelve, right?”
  Mailet nodded and took a breath, frowning with concentration.
  “She has brown hair, keeps it long, but neat. Not missing any
teeth yet. Brown eyes?” He looked at Fayor, who sighed.
  “Blue. She has a sharp little face, but, as I said, nothing out of
the ordinary.”
  “What was she wearing, last time anyone saw her?”
  “Last time I saw her, she was wearing a green skirt and bodice.
Bottle green, the draper called it, and it’s trimmed with ribbon,
darker. She had the same ribbon on her chemise, too, she liked the
color. And that’s probably what she was wearing when she went
missing, her other clothes are still in her room,” Fayor said. She
spread her hands. “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
  Rathe closed his tablets. “That’s fine, thanks. Right—can I speak
with Sabadie now?”
 Mailet nodded. “I’ll take you to her. Mind the shop, Agnelle? And
make sure Eysi doesn’t hurt himself with his fancy knife tricks.”
   Fayor muttered something that did not bode well for the
apprentice, and Rathe followed Mailet through the door into the
main hall. The room was filled with the sunlight that streamed in
through the windows at the top of the hall, and the air smelled
sharply of vegetables. A dozen apprentices, conspicuous in blue
smocks and aprons, stood at the long tables, boys on the left, girls
on the right, while a woman journeyman stood at the center of the
aisle, directing the work from among baskets of peppers and bright
yellow summer gourds. Another journeyman, this one a woman in
the black coat and yellow cravat of the Meteneran magists, stood
toward the back of the room, one eye on the clockwork orrery that
ticked away the positions of the suns and stars, the other on the
sweating apprentices. From the looks of things, the piled white
seeds and discarded stems, and the relatively small number of
baskets of whole vegetables, the work had been going on for some
time, and going well. The journeyman butcher turned, hearing the
door, and came to join them, wiping her hands on her apron. Rathe
was mildly surprised to see a woman in charge—butchery was
traditionally a man’s craft—but then, the woman’s stars probably
outweighed her sex.
  “Just about done, master,” she said. “We’ve another two hours
yet, and this is the last load for Master Guilbert.”
  Mailet nodded, looking over the hall with an expert eye. “I
brought the pointsman—his name’s Nicolas Rathe, out of Point of
Hopes. Sabadie Grosejl, my senior journeyman. Can you spare
Trijntje to talk to him?” He glanced at Rathe, and added, “Trijntje
was probably Herisse’s closest friend.”
  “She’s not much use to me today,” Grosejl said, rather grimly,
and Rathe glanced along the line of girl-apprentices, wondering
which one it was. She wasn’t hard to pick out, after all: even at this
distance, Rathe could tell she’d been crying, suspected from the
hunch of her shoulder and the way she glared at the pepper under
her knife that she was crying still.
  “I’d like to talk to Sabadie as well,” he said, and the journeyman
hesitated.
  “Go on, I’ll take over here,” Mailet said. “Fetch him Trijntje when
he’s done with you, and then you can get back to work.”
  “Yes, Master,” Grosejl answered, and turned to face the
pointsman, jamming her hands into the pockets of her smock
beneath her apron. She was a tall woman, Leaguer pale, and her
eyes were wary.
  “So you’re in charge of the girl-apprentices?” Rathe asked.
  Grosejl nodded. “For my sins.” She grimaced. “They’re not so bad,
truly, just—”
  “Young?” Rathe asked, and the journeyman nodded.
 “And now this has happened. Master Rathe, I don’t know what
Master Mailet told you, but I don’t think Herisse ran away.”
  “Oh?”
  “She liked it here, liked the schooling and the work and the
people—she didn’t tell Trijntje she was going, and she’d have done
that for certain.”
  “Was she Trijntje’s leman?” Rathe asked.
  Grosejl hesitated, then nodded. “Master Mailet doesn’t really
approve, nor the mistress, so there was nothing said or signed, but
everyone knew it. You hardly saw one without the other. If she’d
been planning to run away, seek her fortune on the road, they
would have gone together.”
   Rathe sighed. That was probably true enough—runaways often
left in pairs or threes, either sworn lemen or best friends—and it
probably also told him the answer to his next question. “You
understand I have to ask this,” he began, and Grosejl shook her
head.
 “No, she wasn’t pregnant. That I can swear to. Mistress Fayor
makes sure all the girls take the Baroness every day.”
   “But if it didn’t work for her?” Rathe asked. The barren-herb
didn’t work for every woman; that was common knowledge, and one
of the reasons the guilds generally turned a blind eye to the
passionate friendships between the apprentices of the same gender.
Better barren sex than a hoard of children filling the guildhalls.
  Grosejl hesitated, then jerked her head toward a child of six or
seven who was sweeping seeds into the piles of rubbish at the
center of the hall. “That’s my daughter. There’d have been a place
for her, and the child, if she was pregnant. More than there would
have been with her family.”
  “A bad lot?”
   Grosejl shrugged. “Useless, more like. I met them once. The
mother’s dead, the father drinks, the other two—boys, both of
them, younger than her—run wild. I don’t know where they came
up with the indenture money. But Herisse was glad to be away
from them, that’s for sure.”
  Rathe paused, considering what she’d told him. They all seemed
very certain that Herisse Robion was no runaway, and from
everything they said, he was beginning to believe it, too. And that
was not a pleasant thought. There was no reason to kidnap a
butcher’s apprentice— or rather, he amended silently, the only
reasons were of the worst kind, madmen’s reasons, someone looking
for a child, a girl, to rape, to hurt, maybe to kill. He could see in
Grosejl’s eyes that she’d thought of the same things, and forced a
smile. “There may be a good explanation,” he said, and knew it
sounded lame. “Can I talk to Trijntje now?”
  “Trijntje!” Grosejl beckoned widely, and the girl Rathe had picked
out before put down her knife and came to join them, wiping
furtively at her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. “This is Trijntje
Ollre, pointsman. She and Herisse were best friends.”
  “She was my leman,” Trijntje interjected, with a defiant glance at
the older woman. “And something’s happened to her, pointsman.
You have to find her. I’ve money saved—”
  “I’m looking into it,” Rathe said. “We can talk fees if there’s extra
work to be done.” And there won’t be, he vowed silently. I don’t
take money from poor apprentices. But he had learned years ago
that telling people he didn’t want their money only bred more
distrust and uncertainty: what kind of a pointsman was he, how
good could he be, if he didn’t take the payments that were a
pointsman’s lot? Rathe dismissed that old grievance, and took
Trijntje gently through her story, but there was nothing new to be
learned. Herisse had gone to bed with the others, and had risen
early and gone out, missing breakfast, but had not come back when
Mailet opened the hall for work. She had taken neither clothes nor
books nor her one decent hat pin, and had said nothing that would
make Trijntje or anyone else think she wanted to run away.
  “We were planning to run a workshop together,” Trijntje said,
and gave a hopeless sniff. “Once we’d made masters.”
  That would probably have come to nothing, Rathe knew—he
remembered all too well the fierce but fleeting passions of his own
adolescence—but he also remembered the genuine pain of those
passing fancies. “I—we at Point of Hopes—will be treating this as
more than a runaway,” he said. “We’ll do everything we can to find
her.”
  Trijntje looked at him with reddened eyes and said nothing.
Rathe walked back to Point of Hopes in less than good humor.
Trouble involving children was always bad—of course, by law and
custom, apprentice-age was the end of childhood, but at the same
time, no one expected apprentices to take on fully adult
responsibilities. Herisse had been only in her second year of
apprenticeship; she would have had—would have, he corrected
himself firmly—six more to go before she could be considered for
journeyman. It was still possible that she’d simply run
away—maybe run from Trijntje Ollre, if she, Herisse, had grown
out of that relationship, and been too softhearted, still too fond, to
end it cleanly. Twelve-year-olds weren’t noted for their common
sense, he could see one running away because she couldn’t find the
words to end a friendship… He shook his head then, rejecting the
thought before it could comfort him. Trijntje had spoken of their
plans as firmly in the present tense, though that could be
self-deception; more to the point, the journeyman Grosejl had
treated the relationship as ongoing, and she, if anyone, would have
known of an incipient break. He would ask, of course, he had to
ask, but he was already fairly confident of Grosejl’s answer. And
that left only the worst answer: if Herisse hadn’t run, then someone
had taken her. And there were no good reasons—no logical reasons,
reasons of profit, the understandable motive of the knives and
bravos and thieves who lived in the rookeries of Point of Sighs and
Point of Graves—to steal a twelve-year-old apprentice butcher.
   He took the long way back to the points station, along the
Customs Road to Horse-Copers’ Street, smelling more than ever of
the stables in this weather, and dodged a dozen people, mostly
women, a couple of men, bargaining for manure at the back gate of
Farenz Hunna’s stable-yard. Horse-Copers’ Street formed the
boundary between Point of Hopes and Point of Sighs, though
technically both points stations shared an interest in the old
caravanserai that formed a cul-de-sac just before the intersection of
the Fairs Road and Horse-Copers’. The ’Serry had long ago ceased
to function as a market—or at least as a legal market, Rathe added,
with an inward grin—and the seasonal stables that had served the
caravaners had been transformed into permanent housing for sneak
thieves, low-class fences, laundry thieves, and an entire dynasty of
pickpockets. What the ’Serry didn’t do was trade in blood—they left
that to the hardier souls in Point of Graves—and he turned into the
enclosed space without wishing for back-up. But there had been
trouble of that kind there once before, a child rapist, not officially
dealt with, and he had questions for the people there.
   The ’Serry was as crowded as ever, a good dozen children chasing
each other barefoot through the beaten dust while their mothers
gossiped in the dooryard of the single tavern and the gargoyles
clustered on the low roofs, shrieking at each other. Below them, the
low doors and windows were open to the warm air, letting in what
little light they could. Another group was gathered around the old
horse-pool. Women in worn jerkins and mended skirts sat on the
broad stone lip, talking quietly, while a chubby boy, maybe three or
four summers old, waded solemnly in the shallow basin, holding the
wide legs of his trousers up while he kicked the water into fans of
spray that caught the doubled sun like diamonds. Rathe recognized
at least one of them, Estel Quentier, big, broad-bodied—and, if he
was any judge, at least six months gone with child—and at the
same moment heard a shrill whistle from one of the blank
doorways. He didn’t bother to turn, knowing from experience that
he would see no one, and saw heads turn all across the ’Serry. He
was known—the people of the ’Serry knew most of the senior points
by sight—and was not surprised to see several of the women who
had been sitting by the fountain rise quickly and disappear into the
nearest doorways. More faded back into the tavern, but he
pretended not to see, kept walking toward the fountain. Estel
Quentier put her hands on her hips, belly straining her bodice, but
didn’t move, squinted up at him as he approached.
  “And what does Point of Hopes want with us? This is Point of
Sighs.”
  “Just a question or two, Estel, nothing serious.” He nodded to her
belly. “I take it you’re not working this fair season.”
  Quentier made a face, but relaxed slightly. She was the oldest of
the Quentier daughters, all of whom were pickpockets like their
mother and grandmother before them; there was a brother, too,
Rathe remembered, or maybe more than one, also in the family
business. Estel had been effective mistress of the ’Serry since her
mother’s death three years before, and she was a deft pickpocket,
but a pregnant woman was both conspicuous and slow. “I’m an
honest woman, Nico, I have to work to live.”
  “So you’ll sell what they take?” Rathe asked, and smiled.
  Quentier smiled back. “I deal in old clothes, found goods, all that
sort of thing. I’ve my license from the regents, signed by the
metropolitan herself if you want to see it.”
   “If I’d come to check licenses,” Rathe said, with perfect truth,
“I’d’ve brought a squad.”
   “So what did you come here for, Nico?” Quentier leaned back a
little, easing her back, and Rathe was newly aware of the women
behind her, not quite out of earshot. He knew most of them:
Quentier’s sister Annet, the third oldest, called Sofian for her
ability to charm or fee the judges; the dark-haired singer who was
Annet’s favorite decoy; Cassia, another Quentier, thin and wiry;
Maurina Tacon, who was either Annet’s or Cassia’s leman—it was
hard to unwind the clan’s tangled relationships. They were
dangerous, certainly, he knew better than to underestimate them,
but if there were a fight, he thought, the immediate danger would
come from the hulking man loitering in the tavern dooryard. He
had a broom in his hand, and he drew it back and forth through the
dirt, but his attention wasn’t on his job.
   “There’s a girl gone missing, a butcher’s apprentice over in Point
of Hopes,” he said simply, and was not surprised to see Quentier’s
face contort as though she wanted to spit. Behind her,
Cassia—LaSier, they called her, he remembered suddenly, for the
length of her river-dark hair—said something to her sister, who
grinned, and did spit.
  “What’s that to me, pointsman?” Estel Quentier said.
“Apprentices run away every year.”
  “She didn’t run,” Rathe answered. “She didn’t take her clothes or
anything with her, and she liked her work. No cause to run, no
place to run to.”
  “So why do you come to me?” Quentier’s eyes were narrowed, on
the verge of anger, and Rathe chose his words carefully.
  “Because I remember four or five years ago, in your mother’s
time, there was trouble of that sort out of the ’Serry. We knew who
the man was, raped two girls, both apprentice-age or a little older,
but when we came to arrest him, he was gone. Your mother swore
he’d been dealt with, was gone, and we didn’t ask questions, being
as we knew your mother. But now…”
  He let his voice trail off, and Quentier nodded once. “Now you’re
asking.”
  Rathe nodded back, and waited.
  There was a little silence, and then Quentier looked over her
shoulder. “Annet.”
   Sofian took a few steps forward, so that she was standing at her
sister’s side. She was a handsome woman—all the Quentiers were
good-looking, dark, and strong-featured, with good bones—and her
clothes were better than they looked. “I remember. Rancon Paynor,
that was. He lodged here, he was Joulet Farine’s man’s cousin, or
something like that. A farmer, said he was running from a debt he
couldn’t pay.”
   She looked down at her sister, and seemed to receive some kind
of confirmation. “He’s not your man.”
  “You’re very sure.”
  Sofian met his gaze squarely. “I helped carry his body to the
Sier.”
  Rathe nodded slowly, not surprised. He remembered the case all
too well, remembered both the victims—both alive and well now,
thank Demis and her Midwives—and the frustration, so strong they
could all almost taste it, when they’d come back to Point of Sighs
empty-handed. It was one of the few times they’d all agreed the
chief point shouldn’t have taken the fee. But when Yolan Quentier
said she’d deal with something, it stayed dealt with, and they’d all
had to be content with that, much as they would have preferred to
make the point and watch Paynor hang. It was good to know that
he wouldn’t be cleaning up an earlier mistake, even if it meant he
was back where he’d started.
   “You’ll be going, then?” Quentier asked, and Rathe snapped back
to the present.
  “I told you, that was my business here. This time.”
  Quentier nodded. “The runaways are starting early this year, or
so they say. Girls running who shouldn’t. Is there anything we
should be watching for, Nico?”
  For Quentier to ask for help from a pointsman, even so obliquely,
was unprecedented, and Rathe looked warily at her. What do you
know that you’re not telling me ? he wanted to say, but knew better
than to ask that sort of question without something solid to trade
for her answers. It was enough of an oddity—and maybe a kind of
answer—for her to have asked at all. “Nothing that I know of,
Estel. I don’t have anything to go on right now—the complaint
came to me, oh, maybe an hour ago.” He shrugged. “You know
what I know, right now. She walked out of the hall last night or
this morning early, leaving her goods behind, and she hasn’t come
home. Her master’s worried, and her leman’s distraught, and I
don’t think she ran. Until we know more, yeah, keep an eye on your
kids.”
   Quentier nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll do that. Will you let me know
if there’s more?”
  “I will if you will,” Rathe answered, and Quentier grinned.
  “As far as I’m able, Nico.” The smile vanished. “Anything about
the girl, though—what’s her name?”
   “Herisse Robion, not that that would help, necessarily. They said
she was tall for her age—she’s just twelve—and still pretty skinny.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tablet where he’d
scrawled the description. “Brown hair, blue eyes, sweet-faced, good
teeth, wearing a bottle green suit, linen, bodice and skirt trimmed
to match with darker green ribbon.”
  “There are a hundred girls like that in Astreiant,” Sofian said,
shaking her head, and Rathe nodded.
  Quentier said, “If I hear anything, I’ll send to you, Nico.”
  “Thanks.” Rathe tucked his tablet back into his pocket, then
wondered if he should have betrayed its usual place in this den of
pickpockets. But it was too late to do anything about it; he
shrugged inwardly, and turned away, retracing his steps to
Horse-Copers’ Street.
  “Oy, Nico!” That was a new voice, and he turned to see LaSier
striding after him, her long hair flowing behind her like a horse’s
tail. “Wait a minute.”
  Rathe paused, suppressing the instinctive desire to put his hand
on his purse, and LaSier fell into step beside him. She was younger
than he by a year or two, slim and pretty, with a gait like a dancer.
  “This butcher’s girl,” LaSier began, “she’s not the only child who’s
gone missing who shouldn’t.”
  “Oh?” Rathe stopped, already running down the list of missing
persons they’d received from Point of Sighs. Not that that was
always reliable, as every station guarded its prerogatives and points
jealously, but he couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary.
Runaways, certainly, and more than there should have been, or
usually were, but nothing like Herisse.
  LaSier made a face, as though she’d read his thoughts. “It hasn’t
been reported, I don’t think. But there was a boy here, learning the
trade, and he went out to the markets to watch the crowds and he
never came home.”
  “No one made a point on him, then?” Rathe asked, already
knowing the answer—if it were that simple, the Quentiers wouldn’t
be worrying; prison was an occupational hazard for them—and
LaSier spat on the dust at her feet.
  “We checked that first, of course, though he’d been here just long
enough to learn how much he didn’t know, and I didn’t think he
was stupid enough to try lifting anything on his own. But he’s not
in the cells at Point of Sighs or anywhere southriver. And I’m
worried. Estel’s worried.”
   There was no need to ask why LaSier or Quentier hadn’t gone to
Point of Sighs with the complaint. The Quentiers had always kept a
school of sorts for pickpockets, their own kin and the children of
friends and neighbors—Rathe sometimes wondered if there were
some secret, hidden guild organization for illegal crafts—and he
wasn’t surprised to hear that Estel was keeping up that part of the
business. But she would have no recourse when one of her
“students” disappeared, not without giving Astarac, the chief at
Point of Sighs, an excuse to search the ’Serry and in general look
too closely into Quentier business. “Are you making an official
complaint to me?”
   LaSier shook her head, smiling. “If it were official, we’d’ve gone
to Point of Sighs, they’re the ones with jurisdiction. But I thought
you ought to know. He didn’t have any place to run, that one.
Gavaret Cordiere, his name is, his family’s from Dhenin.”
   “Would he have run back to them?” Rathe asked. “If he—forgive
my bluntness, Cassia—if he decided he didn’t like the business after
all?”
  “It’s possible,” LaSier answered. “But I don’t think he did.” She
smiled again, a sudden, elfin grin. “He liked the trade, Nico, and he
had the fingers for it. I’d’ve put him to work soon enough.”
  Rathe sighed, and reached into his pocket for his tablet. “I’ll
make inquiries northriver, if you’d like, see if he’s in cells there.
And you might as well give me a description, in
case—anything—turns up.”
  A body, he meant, and LaSier grimaced and nodded in
understanding. “He’s fourteen, maybe shoulder height on me,
dark-skinned—not as dark as me, but dark enough—brown hair,
brown eyes. There’s a touch of red in his hair, maybe, and it’s curly.
He cut it short when we came here, he looks like any apprentice.”
  “Your stock in trade,” Rathe murmured.
  “Exactly.” LaSier squinted, as though trying to remember, then
shook her head. “That’s about all, Nico. He’s a bright boy, but not
memorable looking.”
  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Rathe answered, and scrawled the last note
on the face of the tablet, stylus digging into the wax. He was
running out of room on the second page: not a good sign, he
thought, and folded the tablet closed on itself. “And I’ll check with
the cellkeepers northriver. Would he give his right name?”
  LaSier smiled again, wry this time. “He’s a boy, fourteen. Maybe
not.”
  “I’ll get descriptions, too,” Rathe said.
  “Thanks,” LaSier said. “And, Nico: I—and Estel—we’ll take this
as a favor.”
   Rathe nodded, oddly touched by the offer. Besides, this was the
kind of fee that he didn’t refuse, the trade of favor for favor within
the law. “I’ll bear that in mind, Cassia, thanks. But let’s see what I
find out, first.”
  “Agreed,” LaSier said, and turned away. She called over her
shoulder, “See you at the fair!”
  “You’d better hope not,” Rathe answered, and started back
toward Point of Hopes.
  Monteia was waiting for him, the youngest of the runners
informed him as soon as he stepped through the courtyard gate.
The duty point, Ranazy, repeated the same message when he
opened the hall door, and in the same moment Monteia herself
appeared in the door of the chief point’s office.
  “Rathe. I need to talk to you.”
   Rathe suppressed a sigh—it was very like Monteia to make one
feel guilty even when one had been doing one’s duty—but shrugged
out of his jerkin, hanging it on the wall pegs as he passed behind
Ranazy’s desk. “And I need to talk to you, too,” he said, and
followed Monteia into the narrow room.
  It was dark, the one narrow window looking onto the rear yard’s
shadiest corner, and crowded with the chief point’s work table and a
brace of battered chairs. The walls were lined with shelves that
held station’s daybooks and a once-handsome set of the city
lawbooks, as well as a stack of the slates everyone used for notes
and a selection of unlicensed broadsides stacked on a lower shelf.
The latest of those, Rathe saw, with some relief, was over a
moon-month old: hardly current business.
  “Have a seat,” Monteia said, and waved vaguely at the chairs on
the far side of her table.
   Rathe took the darker of the two—the other had been salvaged
from someone’s house, and mended, not reliably—and settled
himself.
 “I hear you had another runaway today,” Monteia went on. She
was a tall woman, with a face like a mournful horse and dark
brown eyes that looked almost black in the dim light. Her clothes
hung loose on her thin frame, utterly unmemorable, if one didn’t
see the truncheon that swung at her belt.
  Rathe nodded. “Only I don’t think it was a runaway. The girl
seemed happy in her work.”
  “Oh?” It was hard to tell, sometimes, if Monteia was being
skeptical, or merely tired. Quickly, Rathe ran through the story,
starting with the butcher’s arrival, and ending with his visit to the
’Serry and the Quentiers’ missing boy. When he had finished,
Monteia leaned back in her chair, arms folded, long legs stretched
out beneath the table. Looking down, Rathe could see the tip of her
shoe protruding from beneath the table, could see, too, the string of
cheap braid that hid the mark where the hem had been lengthened
for her. Monteia might be chief point, but she was honest enough,
in her way, and had children and a household of her own to keep.
  “How many runaways is that so far this season?” she asked, after
a moment.
  “I could check the daybook to be sure,” Rathe answered, “but I’m
pretty sure we’ve had eight reported. Nine if you count Herisse, but
I want to treat that as an abduction. And of course the Cordiere
boy, but that’s not our jurisdiction.”
  Monteia nodded.
   “Of the eight, then, two were apprentices, both brewers, and the
rest ordinary labor,” Rathe continued. “That’s a lot for so early—the
first of the Silklands caravans are only just in, and the trading
ships haven’t really started yet.”
  Monteia said, “We had the points’ dinner last night.”
   Rathe blinked, unsure where this was leading—the chief points of
the twelve point stations that policed Astreiant dined together once
every solar month, ostensibly to exchange information, but more to
help establish the points’ legitimacy by behaving like any other
guild. The points were relatively new, at least in their present form;
it had been the queen’s grandmother who’d given them the
authority to enforce the laws, and not everyone was happy with the
new system.
   Monteia smiled as though she’d guessed the thought, showing her
crooked teeth. “We’re not the only station to be seeing too many
runaways, too early. I went planning to ask a few discreet
questions, see what everybody else was doing this season, and, by
the gods, so was everyone else. So we did a little horse-trading, and
I got some useful information, I think.”
   Rathe nodded. He could imagine the scene, the long table and the
polished paneling of a high-priced inn’s best room, candles on the
table to supplement the winter-sun’s diminished light. The chief
points would all be in their best, a round dozen men and
women—six of each at the moment, all with Sofia, Astree, or
Phoebe, the Pillars of Justice, strong in their nativity—sitting in
order of precedence, from Temple Point at the head of the table to
Fairs’ Point at the foot. He had met all of them at one time or
another, as Monteia’s senior adjunct, but really only knew Dechaix
of Point of Dreams and Astarac of Point of Sighs, the jurisdictions
that bordered Point of Hopes, at all well. And Guillen Claes of Fairs’
Point, he added, with an inward smile. Claes was a solid pointsman,
had come up through the ranks, and took no nonsense from anyone,
for all that he had the unenviable job of handling the busiest and
most junior point station in the city. Most of the southriver points
got to know Claes well over the course of their careers, as the
professional criminals who lived southriver, pickpockets like the
Quentiers and horse-thieves and footpads and the rest, tended to do
their business in Fairs’ Point.
  “Everyone’s got an unusual number of runaways this year,”
Monteia said. “What’s more to the point, there are as many, or
nearly so, missing from City Point as there are from Fairs’ Point.”
  Rathe looked up sharply at that. City Point was one of the old
districts, second in precedence only to Temple Point itself; children
born in City Point were among the least likely to be lured away by
the romance of the long-distance traders—or, if they were, they had
mothers who could afford to apprentice them properly. Fairs’ Point
children, on the other hand, had not only the proximity of New Fair
and Little Fair to tempt them, but good cause to want to better
themselves.
  Monteia nodded. “Aize Lissinain, she’s chief at City Point since
the beginning of Lepidas, was asking if we’d had any increase in the
brothel traffic.”
  “Trust northriver to think of that,” Rathe said, sourly.
  “She was also asking Huyser how the workhouses were doing,”
Monteia went on, and Rathe made a face that stopped short of
apology. Huyser was chief of Manufactory Point; as the name
implied, most of the city’s workhouses and manufactories lay in his
district, and there were always complaints about the way the
merchant-makers treated their day-workers. It was a good
question—as was the one about the brothels, he admitted—so
maybe Lissinain would be better than her predecessor.
  “What did Huyser say?” he asked. “I was thinking that myself.
Children are cheap.”
   “But I wouldn’t want them working with machinery,” Monteia
answered. “Too much chance of them breaking something. Anyway,
Huyser said he was having as much of a problem with runaways as
anyone, though not from the manufactories proper. He hadn’t heard
of any of the makers letting workers go, or hiring new, for that
matter, but he said he’d look into it.” She smiled, wry this time.
“And Hearts and Dreams and I said we’d take a look round the
brothels, just to be sure.”
   Rathe nodded again. “It’s a reasonable precaution. We might even
find one or two of them, at that.”
  “Mmm.” Monteia didn’t sound particularly hopeful, either, and
Rathe sighed.
  “Does anyone know just how many children have gone missing?”
  “Temple’s asked us each to compile a list for her, children missing
and found, to be cross-checked by her people just in case we’ve
found some of them and don’t know it, and then circulated around
the points for general use.” She made a face. “I can’t say I’m
particularly happy with the idea, myself—Temple’s always looking
for an excuse to stick her fingers in the rest of us’s business—but I
think she’s probably right, this time.”
  “It could help,” Rathe said. “As long as everyone gets listed. Did
she say just the missing, or all the runaways?”
  “Anyone reported missing,” Monteia answered. She grimaced. “I
know, you’re thinking the same thing I am, some of them won’t list
everyone—it’s embarrassing, gods, I’m embarrassed myself. But it’s
a start.”
  “Agreed,” Rathe said. “But then what?”
  Monteia shook her head. “I wish I knew. This isn’t right, Nico. It
feels… I don’t know, all wrong somehow. Kids disappear, sure, but
not like this, not from everywhere. I was junior adjunct here when
Rancon Paynor raped those girls, took them right off their own
streets at twilight—it was spring then, right at the end of Limax,
the suns were setting together. I remember what it felt like, and it
wasn’t like this.”
  “No,” Rathe said, and they sat in silence for a moment. He
remembered the Paynor case, too, though he always counted the
year by the lunar calendar, remembered it as the middle of the
Flower Moon. There had been the victims, for one thing, the girls
themselves; they’d disappeared for a day, two, but appeared
again—and we were just lucky they weren’t bodies, he added to
himself. People had been afraid. The women and girls had traveled
in groups for weeks, even after it became clear that Paynor had
disappeared, but it had been clear that something had happened.
Not like this, when they couldn’t even put a name to what was
happening. “I suppose no one’s found any bodies,” he said aloud, and
surprised a short, humorless laugh from the chief point.
  “Not so far. Though if they went in the Sier… the river doesn’t
give up its dead easily.”
   “But why?” Rathe shook his head again. “One madman, another
Paynor, making his kills, yeah, I could believe it, but not with so
many lads gone from so many districts. One man alone couldn’t do
it.”
  “Or woman, I suppose,” Monteia said, “if her stars were bad.”
  “But not one person alone,” Rathe repeated.
  Monteia sighed. “We don’t know enough yet, Nico, we can’t even
say that for certain.” She straightened, drawing her feet back
under the desk. “I want you to draw up the report—get in a
scrivener to do fair copies, I don’t want to waste any more of your
time than I have to, but get it done by tomorrow. We’ll know better
where we stand once the compilation comes in.”
  “All right.” Rathe stood up, recognizing his dismissal. “With your
permission, boss, I’ll make a few inquiries northriver, just in case
the Quentiers’ boy ended up in the cells there.”
  “Go ahead,” Monteia said. “That’d be all we need, to get the
’Serry really roused against us.”
  “People are going to talk,” Rathe said.
  “They’re already talking,” Monteia answered. “At least,
northriver they are. Oh, when you go back to the butcher’s, get the
girl’s nativity from him.”
   Rathe stopped in the doorway, looked back at her. “You’re going
to go to the university?”
  “Do you have any other leads?”
  “No.” Rathe sighed. “No, I don’t.” Usually, a judicial horoscope
was the last resort, something to be tried when all other
possibilities had been exhausted; even the best astrologers could
only offer possibilities, not certainties, when asked to do a forensic
reading.
  “And I’m going to talk to the necromancers, too, see if any ghosts
have turned up. You’ve a friend in their college, don’t you?”
   Rathe winced at the thought—bad enough to be a necromancer,
constantly surrounded by the spirits of the untimely dead, worse
still if it were children’s ghosts—but nodded. “Istre b’Estorr, his
name is. He’s very good.”
  Monteia nodded. “I’ve got a nasty feeling about this one, Nico,”
she said, her voice almost too soft to be heard.
   “So do I,” Rathe answered, and stepped back into the main room
to collect the station’s daybooks and begin the list of missing
children.



                                  2
                                                                «^»
the last muster was nearly over. Philip Eslingen eyed the lines at
the rickety tables set up by the regimental paymasters, making
sure his own troopers got their proper measure, and mentally
tallied his own wages. His pay, a single royal crown, rested in his
moneybag beneath his shirt, a soft weight against his heart; he was
carrying letters on the temples of Areton that totaled nearly four
pillars, his share of the one raiding party: enough for a common
man to live for a year, if he were frugal. It should certainly last him
until spring, when the new campaigns began—unless, of course,
someone reputable was hiring. Whatever he did, it would mean
taking a lower place than the one he’d had.
   His eyes strayed to the temporary platform, empty now, but
bright with banners and heavy patterned carpets, where the Queen
of Chenedolle had stood to receive the salute of Coindarel’s Dragons
and to release them from her service. Even from his place at the
front with the rest of the regiment’s officers, Eslingen had been
able to see little more of her than her elegant suit of clothes, bright
and stiff as the little dolls that stood before the royal judges in the
outlying provinces, visible symbols of the royal authority. The dolls
were faceless, for safety’s sake; for all Eslingen had been able to
see, the queen herself might have been as faceless, her features
completely hidden by the brim of a hat banded with the royal
circlet. He had watched her when he could, fascinated—he had
never seen the Queen of Chenedolle—but she had barely seemed
real. Only once, as he brought his half of the company to a perfect
halt, had he seen her move, and then she had leaned sideways to
talk to the Mareschale de Mourel who was her leman and
acknowledged favorite, a gloved hand lifted to her shadowed face,
as though to hide—a smile? A frown? It was impossible even to
guess.
  “Eslingen.”
  He turned, recognizing the voice, hand going to his hat in
automatic salute. “Captain.”
   Connat Bathias nodded in response and looked past his lieutenant
to the last half-dozen troopers lined up at the paymasters’ table. A
royal intendant stood with them to supervise the payout,
conspicuous in her black-banded judicial robe, and there were three
well-armed men— back-and-breast, short-barreled calivers, swords,
and daggers—at her back, guarding access to the iron-bound chest
that held the money. “How goes it?”
  “Almost done,” Eslingen answered. “No complaints so far.” Nor
were there likely to be: Bathias’s company was made up mostly of
experienced troopers, who knew what their pay should be, and the
royal paymasters were generally honest, at least under the queen’s
eye.
  “And the horses and the weapons?”
   Eslingen looked away again. “As agreed. The Horsemaster took
the mounts in hand, and we let the people who wanted to buy back
their weapons. Those who didn’t already own them, of course.”
Which was well over half the troop, and those that didn’t had
mostly paid the captain’s inflated price to keep their calivers: most
of them would want to hire out again as soon as possible, and this
late in the season most captains would want people with their own
equipment. There was still plenty of fighting to be done, along the
Chadroni Gap and north past the Meis River, and Dragons were
always in demand, particularly for the nasty northern wars, but
there was no time to outfit a man.
  Bathias nodded. The horses were part of his perquisites, to sell or
keep as he chose, and Eslingen suspected he would sell most of
them: with the troop disbanding, there was no point in keeping half
a hundred animals, and there were other captains who would be
willing to buy. Coindarel had persuaded Aimeri de Martreuil to add
an extra company to his Auxiliary Horse, and to take most of the
gentleman-officers, the commissioned officers; he would probably
buy the horses, as well. “I’m willing to let you purchase your
mounts, Eslingen. There’s no point in seeing you unhorsed.”
   Eslingen hesitated, tempted and rather flattered by the offer, but
shook his head. He couldn’t afford to pay for stabling in the city for
more than a month or two, and he had no way of knowing how long
it would be before he found work he liked. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll
have to pass.”
  Bathias nodded again, and looked uneasily toward the empty
platform. He was a young man, the fourth child, Eslingen
understood, of an impoverished Ile’nord noble, with two older
sisters and a brother between him and whatever income the family
estates provided: a commission and an introduction to the
Prince-marshal de Coindarel would be the best his mother could do
for him. Not that an introduction to Coindarel was the worst she
could have done, Eslingen added, with an inward smile. Bathias
was young, and very handsome in the golden Ile’nord fashion; his
hair, long and naturally curling, glowed in the double light of sun
and winter-sun like polished amber, and his skin had taken only
delicate color from the spring campaign. Coindarel notoriously had
an eye for a pretty young man, and was inclined to indulge himself
in his officers. He picked his juniors, the sergeants and lieutenants
who did the real work, with more care, but, all else being equal, a
handsome man could go far in Coindarel’s service. Eslingen had
earned his sergeancy the hard way, but his promotion to lieutenant,
and the royal commission that came with it, had come by way of
Coindarel’s roving eye.
  “Will you be going with Martreuil, Eslingen?” Bathias asked, and
the older man shook himself back to the present.
   “No, sir. There are plenty of other companies still hiring, even
this late in the season.” It was a sore point—Eslingen had lost any
claim to gentility when he lost his commission, and Martreuil, it
had been made very clear, was taking only Coindarel’s
gentleman-officers—and he was relieved when Bathias merely
grunted, his mind already clearly elsewhere. Probably on the
palace, Eslingen thought. Bathias was of noble birth and could
claim board and lodging from the queen on the strength of it, and
he could do worse than to be seen at court, too.
  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Bathias said. “You’re a good officer, and
could do well in the royal service.”
  “Thank you, sir.” Eslingen kept his face still with an effort,
waiting for the dismissal. The line at the paymaster’s table had
dwindled to a single trooper, a skinny, huge-handed former stable
boy whom Eslingen had signed on at an inn outside Labadol
because he’d needed someone who could handle the
major-sergeant’s bad-tempered gelding. Then he, too, had accepted
his pay and made his mark on the muster list, and turned away to
join his fellows waiting at the edge of the Drill Ground. The taverns
and inns where most of the recruiting officers did their work lay
only a few steps away, along the Horse-Gate Road.
   “You’ve served me well,” Bathias said, and held out his hand.
Eslingen took it, startled at this presumption of equality, and then
Bathias had released him, and was reaching into his own wide sash.
“And, Eslingen. I know you’re not a sergeant anymore, but I also
know we didn’t serve out the season. Will you take this from me, as
a token of my appreciation?” He held out a bag the size of a man’s
hand. It was embroidered—not expensively, Eslingen thought,
probably by one of the farm-girls we took on at Darnais—with
Bathias’s arms and the regimental monogram.
   Eslingen took it, stiffly, and felt, through the linen and the coarse
threads of the monogram, the square shape and weight of at least a
pillar. That was more than he could afford to refuse, and he tucked
the purse into his own sash. “Thank you, sir,” he said again,
stiff-lipped, saluted, and turned away.
  The rest of the company’s sergeants were standing by the sundial
that stood at the city end of the Drill Ground, and Anric Cossezen,
the senior sergeant, lifted a hand to beckon him over. Eslingen
came to join them, and Maggiele Reymers said, “You’ve come up in
the world, Philip, if the captain deigned to give you his hand.”
  “He gave me drink-money, too,” Eslingen said, before any of the
others could point it out, and Saman le Tamboer laughed.
  “Betwixt and between, Philip, neither fish nor fowl.”
  Eslingen shot the other man a look of dislike—le Tamboer had a
sharp tongue on him, to match his sharp Silklands eyes—and
Cossezen said, “Have you given a thought to Ganier’s offer? It’s
decent money, and a good chance for plunder.”
  “If,” le Tamboer added, honey-sweet, “the lieutenant doesn’t mind
serving with us peasants again.”
  Eslingen ignored him, said to Cossezen, “I’ve thought about it,
yes, and I’ve wondered why a man with Ganier’s reputation is still
hiring, so late in the year.”
  Reymers laughed. “That had crossed my mind, too.”
  “Ganier always hires his dragons last,” Cossezen said.
  Eslingen shook his head. “I’ve fought in the Payshault, Anric. I’ve
no mind to do it again, not this year. I’ll see who else is hiring.”
  “No one,” le Tamboer said.
  “Then I’ll wait until someone is,” Eslingen answered.
  “How nice to have the money,” le Tamboer muttered.
  Eslingen ignored him, and Reymers said, “If you need lodging,
Philip—”
  “I don’t have any place in mind,” Eslingen said.
  “There’s a tavern in Point of Hopes, south of the river. It’s called
the Old Brown Dog, off the Knives’ Road.” Reymers cocked her
head. “Do you know Astreiant at all?”
  “I can find it,” Eslingen answered. Or if I can’t, I can ask at the
Temples when I change my money . “So I can get lodging there?”
   Reymers nodded. “A woman named Aagte Devynck runs it—she’s
from Altheim, but she served Chenedolle as well as the League
during the War. She’s always glad to house a fellow Leaguer, and
the place is clean and cheap enough.”
  Eslingen grinned. “How’s the beer?” Chenedolle, and Astreiant in
particular, were known for their wines; the measure of a League
tavern was its beer.
  “Good enough,” Reymers answered. “She buys it from a Leaguer
brewer—and he’s got enough custom that he hasn’t had to change
his ways.”
  “Thanks, Mag,” Eslingen said. “I’ll look her up.”
   There was a little silence then, and Eslingen looked away.
Parting was always awkward—you never knew who would die on
campaign, or, worse, come home maimed or blinded—and there was
always that moment of recognition, as quickly put aside. “Good luck
with Ganier, then,” he said aloud, and turned away, lifting a hand
to wave to the cluster of boys who had been hovering at the edges
of the Drill Ground to see the soldiers mustered out. Half a dozen
came running, and Eslingen pointed to the first two who looked big
enough. “You, there, and you. A demming each if you’ll carry my
gear to the Aretoneia.”
   The older of the boys scraped a hasty bow, and answered, “Yes,
sir, to the Aretoneia.”
  The younger said, “May I carry your piece, please, sir?”
   “You may not,” Eslingen answered, striding to the last cart—
almost emptied now—where his baggage was waiting. He tossed
the bigger boy his heavy saddlebags, and the smaller locked case
that held his pistols. The boy slung the bags over his shoulder and
stood waiting, but Eslingen judged he had about as much as he
could carry. He handed the smaller boy his cased swords, also
locked, and the pouch that held his own supply of powder and lead,
and slung his caliver across his shoulder. It felt odd to be without
the engraved gorget of his rank, or the royal monograms on the
caliver’s sling, and he ran his thumb across the darker spot where
the split-silver disks had been removed. But there was no point in
regrets, not yet; he lifted a hand to the other sergeants, still
standing by the sundial, and started down the Horsegate Road, the
two boys following at his heels.
  There were pointsmen on duty at the Horsegate itself, two men
in the heavy leather jerkins that served them for rough-and-ready
armor, crowned truncheons at their belts. At the sight of the little
party, the older of the pair stepped into the gate, holding up his
hand. “Hold it, soldier. Those are well outside the limits.” He
pointed to the caliver, and then to the cased swords. “You’ll have to
leave them, or pay a bond.”
  Eslingen sighed ostentatiously—he had been through this routine
before, every time he came to Astreiant—and slipped his hand into
his purse. “I’m taking them to the Temple for safekeeping,
pointsman, surely that’s allowed.”
  “They’re still oversized,” the older man said. “And that means a
bond. A horsehead a piece, that’s the law—that’s two seillings,
Leaguer, our coin.”
  Eslingen bit back his first answer—there was no point in
antagonizing the points on his first day in Astreiant—and pulled
two of the silver coins from his purse. “Two seillings, pointsman.
May I pass?”
  The pointsman stepped back, bowing too deeply, his plumed hat
nearly brushing the ground. “Have a pleasant stay in our city.”
   Eslingen ignored him, and walked through the sudden cool of the
gate, almost a tunnel in the thick wall, to emerge into the bright
doubled sunlight and the bustle of the city’s center. He took the
easiest route toward Temple Fair and the Aretoneia, down the
broad expanse of the Horsegate Road to the Horsefair itself. No one
sold horses there anymore, of course—Astreiant was too large, too
prosperous, to buy and sell horses within its richest districts—but
the law still kept the space open and beaten flat, the dust damped
three times a day by water-carriers in city livery. At this hour, it
was busy with the afternoon merchants, selling everything except
food from vividly painted pushcarts. Eslingen sighed to himself,
seeing the rolls and figures of lace laid out on the black carts
clustered in front of the Laciers’ Hall, but turned resolutely away.
It would be apprentices’ work—masters’ work was sold within the
hall, free of the dust and dirt of the street—but it was still beyond
his means to have lace at his cuffs and collar.
   He turned instead toward College Street, slowing his steps so
that the boys could keep up with him in the press of people. The
younger boy was breathing hard, but he and his fellow seemed to be
managing their burdens well enough. Still, it was a relief to step
into the shadow of the overhanging buildings of College Street, out
of the cheerful bustle of the Horsefair. This was another of the old
neighborhoods, not as rich as Riversedge or the Mercandry, but
prosperous enough. The shop signs were freshly painted, some
showing touches of gilt and silvering, and more than half displayed
the snake-and-gargoyle design of the Merchants-Venturer above
the doorframe, promising goods brought to Astreiant by the
long-distance traders. He smelled Silklands spices as he passed one
open door, and saw a woman emerge from a side door carrying a
string of bright red peppers; at the next door, an apprentice sat in
the sunlight outside the door, a tray of polished stones balanced on
her lap. It was a nice display, Eslingen acknowledged silently—the
stones were rivvens from Esling, gaudy enough to catch the eye,
but not worth stealing—and touched his hat as he passed. The
girl—young woman, he amended—looked up at him, a smile
lightening her intent face, but then went back to her work.
   The Aretoneia lay on the western edge of Temple Fair, at the
mouth of a street where most of the buildings still carried the
wrought iron lanterns that meant they belonged to the university.
Most of them were rented out, either to shopkeepers and craftsmen,
but here and there the lanterns were still lit and once he saw a
scholar in an ochre-banded gown leading a class in recitation. A
toddler clung to her skirts, and she stooped, lifted it without
missing a beat. Temple Fair was as busy as ever, travellers
clustering around the Pantheon, the broadsheet sellers doing a
brisk business at their tables under the awnings along the east side
of the square, the book-printers and their apprentices trying to look
aloof beyond them. Eslingen hesitated, tempted by the tables of
broadsheets and the sample prophecies displayed on the sun-faded
boards, but turned instead into the narrow door of the Aretoneia:
business, after all, before pleasure. He nodded to the senior of the
two soldiers on duty at the door—both older men, past the rigors of
a campaign season but not too old to put up a decent defense, not
that anyone would be stupid enough to attack the Aretoneia—and
shouldered past them into the temple.
  Tapers blazed in half a dozen hanging candelabra, and stood in
rows in sconces along the walls. More candles, smaller votive lights
the length of a man’s finger, flickered at the foot of the central
statue of Areton, the god of war and courage, throwing odd shadows
across the statue’s archaic leg armor and making the base of his
long spear seem to waver. This was not Eslingen’s favorite
incarnation of the god—he preferred the younger shape, dancing,
before he turned to war—but he touched his forehead dutifully
anyway before turning toward the money changers.
  Their booths lined the side walls of the temple, each one marked
with familiar symbols—the cock-and-hens of Areill, the rose and
wine-cup of Pajot Soeurs—but he made his way to the biggest
booth, the one marked with the ram’s head of Areton’s own
priesthood. Enough of Areton’s old servants retired from soldiering
into banking, drawing on the sense of value and exchange gained
over a lifetime’s fighting in every kingdom from the petty lands
west of Chadron to the Silklands themselves; their commissions
might be higher than some of the others who rented space in the
temple, but the rates of exchange tended to be better.
  “Wait for me here,” he said to the boys who were standing
wide-eyed, staring at the thanks-offerings of guns and swords
pinned like trophies to every pillar, and took his place in line at the
table marked with the ram’s head. The clerk at the next table, a
pretty, dark-skinned boy, smiled at him.
  “I can offer good rates, sir, and no waiting.”
   Eslingen shook his head, but returned the smile. The clerk’s
hands were painted with a pattern of curving vines, black picked
out with dots of red and gold, vivid in the candlelight. If that was
the fashion in Astreiant now, Eslingen thought, it was a handsome
one, though hardly practical. Then the man ahead of him had
finished his business, and he stepped up to the table, reaching into
his pocket for one purse, and under his shirt for the other. The
clerk—greying, one-eyed, ledger and tallyboard in front of him,
abacus laid ready to a hand that lacked part of a finger—looked up
at him shrewdly.
  “And what do you have for me—sergeant, isn’t it, from Esling?”
  “From Esling, yes, but I earned my commission this season,”
Eslingen answered, and set the purses on the table.
   “Congratulations,” the clerk said, busily unfolding the letters of
credit, and Eslingen allowed himself a sour smile. Words were
cheap; the ephemeral commission was unlikely to get him an
improved exchange rate for the Leaguer coins. The clerk poured out
the small horde of coins—the gold disk of the royal crown that had
been this season’s wages, warm in the candlelight; the heavy silver
square of the pillar that was Barthias’s gift; a pair of Altheim
staters hardly bigger than sequins, but bright gold; a scattering of
miscellaneous silver, Chadroni, League, and Chenedolliste equally
mixed. The clerk grunted, fingering them neatly into the holes of
the tallyboard, then spread the letters of credit beside them,
bending close to read the crabbed writing. He grunted again and
flicked the beads of his abacus, the maimed finger as deft as the
others, then chalked something on his slate and flicked the abacus
again.
  “You have four crowns and three pillars by my reckoning,
sergeant—lieutenant—all good coin of Her Majesty. Do you want it
now, or do you want to bank it here and gamble on the exchange?”
   Eslingen sighed. One did not bargain with the ram’s-head
bankers the way one bargained with other merchants; if one tried,
the clerk was as likely to push the coins back to you and send you
searching for another broker. The only question now was whether
he would take the cash—and its attendant worries, theft and
loss—or take a letter of credit on the Astreiant temple and hope
that the exchange between the written amount, the monies of
account, and actual coin shifted in his favor. And when one thought
about it, it was no choice at all.
  “How’s the exchange been so far?” he asked, without much hope,
and wasn’t surprised when the clerk shrugged.
  “Up and down, sergeant, up and down.”
  “Give me two pillars in coin,” Eslingen said, “and a letter for the
rest.”
   The clerk nodded, put two fingers—the undamaged hand—into
his mouth and whistled shrilly. A junior clerk came running,
carrying a case of seals. Eslingen waited while the letter was
drafted, signed, and sealed, then put his own name to it and folded
it carefully into the purse around his neck. He tucked it back under
his shirt, and watched as the clerk counted out two pillars for him.
The coins rang softly against the wood, the heavy disks of heirats,
bright with Heira’s snake, the lighter disks of seillings, marked
with Seidos’s horsehead, and a handful of copper small-coin, spiders
and demmings mixed. He had been born under the signs of the
Horse and the Horsemaster; he tucked a selling with the coppers in
his pocket for luck, and knotted the rest securely in his purse.
   Turning away from the table, he waved to the waiting
boys—they came quickly enough, a little intimidated, he thought,
by the bustling soldiers and long-distance traders—and led them
over to the locked door of the armory. He gave the keeper his name
and the details of his weapons—Astreiant limited the length of
blade a person could carry in the streets, and utterly prohibited
locks except to their pointsmen— and waited while the old woman
laboriously inscribed them in the book. Then he handed them
through the narrow portal, first the caliver and then the swords
and finally the locked case of pistols. That left him with a long
knife, just at the limit, and, tucked into the bottom of his
saddlebag, a third pistol with its stock of powder and lead. The
keeper gave him the sealed receipt, which he slipped into the purse
beneath his shirt, and he turned away, working his shoulders. He
felt oddly light without the familiar weight of caliver and
swords—freer, too, with money in his purse, and for an instant he
considered looking for lodgings north of the river. Then common
sense reasserted itself: the north-river districts were too expensive,
even with four crowns in the bank. He would take himself south of
the river—the Old Brown Dog lay in Point of Hopes, Reymers had
said, which meant doubling back west along the Fairs Road and
across that bridge—and be sensible.
  He looked back at the boys, reached into his pocket for the
promised demmings. “Does either of you know a tavern in Point of
Hopes called the Old Brown Dog?”
  The younger boy shook his head at once; the older hesitated,
obviously weighing his chances of another coin or two, then,
reluctantly, shook his head, too. “No, sir, I don’t know southriver
very well.”
   Eslingen nodded—he hadn’t really expected another answer—
and handed over the coins, the doubled moon, the old in the curve of
the new, glinting in the candlelight. The older boy handed back his
saddlebags, and he and his friend scurried for the door. Eslingen
followed more slowly, looking around for fellow Leaguers. If anyone
would know how to get to the Old Brown Dog, it would be League
soldiers—provided, of course, that Reymers was right about the
quality of the beer. There were plenty of Leaguers in Chenedolle,
for all that League and Kingdom had fought a five-year war
twenty-five years before; he should be able to find someone… Even
as he thought that, he saw a familiar flash of white plumes, and
Follet Baeker came into the light of the candelabra, showing teeth
nearly as white as the feathers in his broad-brimmed hat. As usual,
he had a knife with him, a sullen looking, leather-jerkined man who
looked uncomfortable inside the Aretoneia—as well he might,
Eslingen thought. Baeker was almost the only broker based in the
city who took weapons and armor in pawn; despite Baeker’s
generally decent reputation, his knife might well worry about
protecting him from dissatisfied clients. After all, it would only take
one of them and a moment’s carelessness to end Baeker’s career
permanently.
  “Sergeant!”
  “Lieutenant,” Eslingen corrected, without much hope, and Baeker
continued as though he hadn’t heard.
  “Back so soon? I heard Coindarel was disbanded.”
  Eslingen nodded. “Paid off this noon.”
  Baeker’s expression brightened, though he didn’t quite smile
openly. “Pity that. Should you find yourself in need of funds, of
course—”
   “Not at the moment,” Eslingen answered. “Tell me, do you know
a tavern in Point of Hopes, called the Old Brown Dog?”
  Baeker nodded. “I do. Aagte Devynck’s house, that is, and I heard
she needs a knife, this close to Midsummer and the fairs.”
   “I was looking for lodging,” Eslingen said, a little stiffly—knife to
a tavern-keeper, bodyguard, and bouncer all in one, was hardly a
job to which he aspired. “A friend recommended it.”
  “Well, she rents rooms,” Baeker said, with a shrug. “Do you need
the direction?”
  “All I know is it’s in Point of Hopes.”
  “Which it is, but that won’t get you there,” Baeker said. “Take
the Hopes-point Bridge, and when the road forks at its foot, take
the left-hand road. Then it’s no distance at all to the Knives’
Road—that’s the Butchers’ quarter, you’ll know it by the signs—”
  “And the smell,” Eslingen said.
   Baeker grinned. “It’s mostly vegetables this time of year.
Autumn, now… But the first road to the right off that, take it to
the end, and the Old Brown Dog’s the last house. You’ll see the
sign.”
  Eslingen nodded. “Thanks.”
  “Give my regards to Aagte,” Baeker answered. “And keep me in
mind, sergeant. Should you need coin…” He let his voice trail off,
and Eslingen sighed.
  “I’ll keep you in mind.”
   He turned toward the door, drew back as it swung open almost in
his face. A thin, sharp-faced woman in a drab green suit of skirt
and bodice—better material than it looked at first glance, Eslingen
thought, but cut for use, not show—stepped past with a nod of
apology. The candlelight glinted from the gargoyle-and-snake
pinned to her neat cap, and Eslingen glanced curiously after her.
The vagabond professions were traditionally men’s, and the
Merchants-Venturer were more vagabond than most—but then,
enough women had masculine stars and followed mannish
professions, just as there were any number of men who claimed
feminine stars and worked at the fixed professions. He watched her
as she made her way to the door of the central counting room—the
long-distance traders generally changed their money and letters
through the temple networks; letters on the temples of Areton were
good throughout the world—and then went on out into the sunlight
of the Temple Fair.
Baeker’s directions were better than he’d expected, after all. He
crossed the River Sier by the Hopes-point Bridge, dodging the
two-wheeled barrows that seemed to carry most of Astreiant’s
goods, and followed the left-forking road toward the Butchers’
quarter. Southriver was busier than the northriver districts, the
streets crowded not with neatly dressed apprentices and their
seniors, guild badges bright against their blue coats, but shopwives
and carpenters and boatmen and sailors and members of a dozen
other unguessable trades, all in aprons or working smocks over
ordinary clothes. It was louder south-river, too, voices raised over
the rumble of carts and the shriek of unoiled wheels from the docks,
the shrill southriver accent sharpening their words. The smell of
kitchens and shop fires warred with the stink of garbage. If
anything, it reminded him of the back streets of Esling where he’d
been born, and he found himself walking a little faster, unsure if he
liked the memories.
  At the corner of the next street, a crowd had gathered—largely
children just at apprentice-age and younger, but there were some
adults with them, too, and Eslingen paused, curious, to look over
the bobbing heads into the manufactory yard. It was a
glassblowers’, he realized at once, and the pit furnace was lit in the
center of the open yard, waves of heat rolling off it toward the open
gates. A young woman, her hair tucked under a leather cap, skirts
and bodice protected by a thick leather apron that reached almost
to her ankles, leather gauntlets to her elbows, spun a length of pipe
in the flames, coaxing the blob of glass into an egg and then a
sphere before she began to shape it with her breath. He had seen
glassblowers at work before, but stared anyway, fascinated, as the
sphere began to swell into a bubble, and the woman spun it deftly
against a shaping block, turning it into a pale green bowl like the
top of a wineglass. One had to be born under fire signs to work that
easily among the flames; he himself had been born under air and
water, and knew better than to try. He became aware then that
another woman, an older woman, also in the leather apron but with
her gauntlets tucked through the doubled ties at her waist, was
watching him from the side of the yard. Her face was without
expression, but the young man in the doorway of the shed was
scowling openly. There were still plenty of people in Astreiant who
thought of the League as the enemy, for all that that war had
ended twenty-five years earlier; Eslingen touched his hat, not quite
respectfully, and moved on.
   Knives’ Road was as busy as the other streets, and narrowed by
the midden barrels that stood in ranks beside each butcher’s hall.
Outside one hall, a barrel had overflowed, and gargoyles scratched
and scrabbled in the spilled parings, quarreling over the scraps.
Eslingen gave it a wide berth, as did most of the passersby, but as
he drew abreast of the hall a boy barely at apprenticeship came
slouching out with a broom to clean up the mess. The gargoyles
exploded away, shrieking their displeasure, some scrambling up the
corner stones of the hall, the rest lifting reluctantly on their batlike
wings. Eslingen ducked as a fat gargoyle flew straight at him; it
dodged at the last minute, swept up to a protruding beam and sat
scolding as though it was his fault. The creatures were sacred to
Bonfortune, the many-faced, many-named god of travelers and
traders, but if they weren’t an amusing nuisance, Eslingen thought,
someone would have found justification for getting rid of them
centuries ago. Their chatter followed him as he turned onto the
street Baeker had mentioned.
   The Old Brown Dog stood at its end, completely blocking the
street. It was a prosperous-looking place, three, maybe four stories
tall, if there were servants’ rooms under the eaves. The sign—a
sleeping dog, brown with a grey muzzle—was newly painted, and
the bush that marked the house as Leaguer tavern was a live and
flourishing redberry in a blue and white pot. A gargoyle was rooting
among the dropped fruit but took itself off with a shriek as he got
closer. The benches to either side of the door were empty, but the
main room seemed busy enough for mid afternoon, half a dozen
tables filled and a waiter sweating as he hauled a barrel up through
a trap from the cellar. Light poured in from an open door on the
opposite side of the room— a door that gave onto a garden, he
realized. The air smelled of beer and pungent greenery and the first
savory whiffs of the night’s dinner.
   The waiter got the barrel up onto its stand behind the bar, and
let the trap door down again. He wiped his hands on the towel tied
around his waist, and nodded to Eslingen. “Can I help you, sir?”
  “I understood you rented rooms,” Eslingen answered.
  The man gave him a quick, comprehensive glance, taking in the
heavy soldier’s boots and the saddlebags slung over his shoulder,
but never took his hands from the towel. “That’s up to the
mistress,” he said. “And if we have a room. Adriana!”
  A moment later, the top half of the door behind the bar opened—
the kitchen door, Eslingen realized—and a young woman leaned
out. She had taken the sleeves off her bodice while she cooked, and
her shirtsleeves were pinned back to the shoulder, showing arms as
brown as new bread; her tightly curled hair and broad nose were
unmistakable signs of Silklands blood. “Yeah?”
  “Is Aagte there?”
  “Mother’s busy.”
  “There’s man come about a room.”
  “Oh?” The woman—she was probably about twenty, Eslingen
thought, not precisely pretty but with a presence to her that wasn’t
at all surprising in the tavernkeeper’s daughter and heir—tipped
her head to one side, studying him with frank curiosity. “Who are
you, then?”
  Eslingen stepped up to the bar, gave her his best smile. “My
name’s Philip Eslingen, last of Coindarel’s Dragons. Maggiele
Reymers said the Brown Dog rented rooms.”
   “We do.” The woman—Adriana, the waiter had called her—
returned his smile with interest, showing perfect teeth. “I’ll fetch
Mother.” Before he could answer, she popped back into the kitchen,
closing the door behind her.
   Eslingen set the saddlebags at his feet—the floor looked clean
enough, and he was glad to be rid of their weight—and leaned
against the bar. The waiter had vanished in response to a shout
from the garden, but he was aware of the tavern’s regulars
watching from their tables, and did his best to ignore their stares.
Reymers had said that Devynck kept a Leaguer house; her regulars
must be used to the occasional, or more than occasional, soldier
passing through.
   The kitchen door opened again—both halves, this time—and a
stocky woman came out, pushing her grey hair back under the band
of an embroidered cap. She wasn’t very tall, but she had the
familiar sturdy build and rolling walk of the longtime horse trooper,
and Eslingen touched his hat politely. “Sergeant Devynck?”
  The rank was a guess, but he wasn’t surprised when she nodded
and came forward to lean on the bar opposite him. “That’s right.
And you’re—Eslingen, was it?”
 “Philip Eslingen, ma’am, just paid off from Coindarel’s regiment.
Maggiele Reymers told me you rented rooms.”
  Devynck nodded again. She had a plain, comfortably homely face,
and startlingly grey eyes caught in a web of fine lines. The
daughter, Eslingen thought, had obviously gotten her looks from
her father.
 “That’s right. Three seillings a week, all found, or one if you just
want the room. How long would you want it for?”
  “That depends. Maybe as long as the fall hirings.”
  “I see. No taste for the current season—what rank, anyway,
Eslingen?”
  “I had my commission this spring,” Eslingen answered. “Before
that, I was senior sergeant.”
  “Ah.” This time, Devynck sounded satisfied, and Eslingen allowed
himself a soundless sigh of relief. She, at least, would understand
the awkwardness of his position; it would be a reason she could
sympathize with for sitting out a campaign. Hearing the change in
her voice, he risked a question.
  “Three seillings a week all found, you said. What’s that include?”
   “Use of the room, it’s a bed, table, stove, and chair, and clean
linen once a week. The boy empties your pot and rakes the grate,
and the maid’ll do the cleaning, Demesdays and Reasdays in the
morning. You haul your own water, there’s a pump out back.”
Devynck’s eyes narrowed, as though she were considering
something, but she said only, “I suppose you’ll want to see the room
first.”
  “Please,” Eslingen answered.
  Devynck glanced over her shoulder, as though gauging whether
she could afford to leave the kitchen, then came out from behind
the bar. “Stairs are through the garden.”
   Eslingen followed her out the back door. The garden was bigger
than he’d realized, stretching almost twice the length of a normal
city plot, and there were fruit trees along one wall, the hard green
apples little bigger than a child’s fist. There were tables nearer the
door and the ground around them was beaten bare; beyond that
area, rows of woven fence kept the drinkers out of plots crowded
with plants. Pig apples ripened on their sprawling vines, yellow
against the dark green leaves, and he thought he recognized the
delicate fronds of carrots in the nearest patch. The pump, as
promised, was by the door, a spout shaped like Oriane’s Seabull
roaring above a cast-iron trough; the pump handle was iron, too,
and looked nicely weighted. A well-worn path led between the
fences to an outhouse by the back wall.
   The stairs ran up the side of the tavern, and Eslingen followed
Devynck up past the first floor landing, wondering if he would be
offered a space under the eaves with the servants. She stopped at
the second floor, however, producing a bunch of keys from her belt,
unlocked the door and stood aside to let him past. Eslingen glanced
surreptitiously at the lock as he went by, and was relieved to see a
sturdy double bolt.
  “First on the right,” Devynck said, and Eslingen went on down
the well-scrubbed hall.
   The door she had indicated stood ajar. Eslingen pushed it
open—it too had a solid-looking lock attached—and went on into the
room. It was surprisingly bright, the light of the twin suns casting
double shadows: the single window overlooked the garden, and
there was glass in the casement rather than the cheaper oiled
paper. The bed looked clean enough, the mattress lying bare on its
rope cradle, the plain curtains knotted up to keep away the dust; as
promised, there was a table big enough to seat two for private
dinners, and a single barrel chair. A ceramic stove was tucked into
the corner by the window, its pipe running out the wall above the
casement. It was small, Eslingen thought, but would at least keep
off the worst of the chill in winter, and let him make his own tea
and shaving water. It was all ordinary furniture, clearly bought
second- or thirdhand, or relegated to the lodgers’ rooms when
Devynck’s own family had no further use for them, but still
perfectly serviceable. He could, he thought, be reasonably
comfortable here.
  As if she had read his mind, Devynck said, “I offer lodgers a
break on the ordinary. Two seillings more a week, and you can have
two meals a day below, dinner and supper. You take what we’re
serving, but it’s generally good, though I say it myself.”
   The smell that had come from the kitchen was tempting enough,
Eslingen admitted. He looked around the room again, pretending to
study the furniture, and added up the costs. Five seillings a week
wasn’t bad; that came to two pillars a lunar month—twenty-one
months, if he bought nothing else and earned nothing else, neither
of which was likely, and in practice he should only have to stay in
Astreiant until the spring, thirteen months at most. He glanced at
the whitewashed walls, the well-scrubbed floorboards, and nodded
slowly. “It sounds reasonable, sergeant. I’ll take it.”
  Devynck nodded back. “Meals, too?”
  “Please.”
  “Wise man. You won’t find it cheaper unless you cook for
yourself.” Devynck smiled. “I’ll need the first week in advance.”
  “Agreed.” Eslingen reached into his pocket, took out his purse,
and searched through the coins until he found a single heirat. The
snake coiling across its face gleamed in the sunlight as he handed it
across. Devynck took it, turned it to check the royal mint-mark,
and slipped it deftly into her own pocket.
   “Make yourself at home, Eslingen. I’ll send someone up with your
linens and your key. We lock the main door at midnight, mind, but
one of the boys will let you in if you come back later.”
   “Thank you,” Eslingen answered, and the woman turned away,
skirts rustling. Eslingen shut the door gently behind her, and stood
for a moment contemplating the empty room. As always when he
moved into a new place, either quartered on some stranger or in
lodgings of his own, he felt an odd thrill, half apprehension, half
anticipation; the room, the city, the air, and the sunlight coming in
through the open window, felt somehow thick, heavy with
potential. He set his saddlebags beside the bed—he would need a
clothes press, or at least a chest, he thought, and wondered if he
could borrow something suitable from Devynck—and went to the
window, leaned out into the scent of the fruit trees and spilled beer,
grateful for that note of commonality.
  To his surprise, it was Adriana who appeared with the sheets and
blankets, followed by a pair of waiters carrying a battered storage
chest. At her gesture, they set it down inside the door, and headed
back to their other jobs. Adriana nodded cheerfully and began to
make up the bed.
  “You’re from Esling, then?” she asked.
  Eslingen nodded, watching her work—the sheets were mended,
but looked impeccably clean, and the blankets were only minimally
patched—said, “I left some years ago, though.”
  “Mother left Altheim when she was sixteen.” Adriana loosened
the curtains, slapped them smartly to loosen what little dust had
been allowed to gather, then stooped to the chest, dragging it
further into the room. Eslingen bent to help her, and found himself
looking down the front of her bodice, at the cleavage between two
nice breasts. He smiled, realized she was aware of his stare, and
looked quickly away.
  “Where do you want this?” Adriana asked.
  “Oh, under the window would be fine,” Eslingen answered, more
or less at random, and together they carried the heavy chest across
the room.
   “So you were with Coindarel’s regiment,” Adriana went on, and
lifted the chest’s lid to reveal a squat chamberpot, an equally
unpretentious kettle, and a washbasin and jug. “One hears a great
deal about Coindarel.”
   I wouldn’t be surprised, Eslingen thought. He said, “I doubt all of
it’s true.”
  “Oh?” She smiled, a not quite openly mischievous expression that
started a dimple in one dark cheek. She seemed about to say
something, but then changed her mind, her smile still amused and
secret. “I brought a candle-end for you, but after that, you’ll buy
your own.”
   “Thanks.” Eslingen watched her out of the corner of his eye,
wondering just which of the many rumors she had heard. Probably
the one about Coindarel choosing his officers for their looks, he
thought, and didn’t know whether to be regretful or relieved. She
was pretty—more than pretty, really, and Devynck’s daughter
would have a substantial share in her mother’s business, if not the
whole of it, since he’d seen no other sisters—but he would be wise
to keep hands off until he knew her intentions. Not that he would
be so lucky as to attract an offer of marriage—I think well of
myself, he admitted, with an inward smile of his own, and with
reason, but there’s not a woman alive who’d think I have enough to
offer her to make that contract worth her while. But there were
other obligations, other degrees of interest and desire, and until he
knew more about her, it would be wise to step warily. She was
certainly of an age to be thinking about children.
   Adriana’s smile widened briefly, as though she’d guessed what he
was thinking, but she said only, “That’s your furniture,
sergeant—and Mother does charge for damage. The kitchen’s open
from six o’clock to first sundown, you can eat any time then. I’ve
told the waiters not to charge you.”
  “Thank you,” Eslingen said again, and Adriana answered, “My
pleasure, sergeant.”
  “Certainly mine,” Eslingen replied automatically, and wondered if
he’d been entirely wise. Adriana flashed him another quick grin,
showing teeth this time, and let herself out in a flurry of skirt and
petticoat.
   Left to himself, Eslingen leaned out the window to check the
sundial that stood in the garden below. Past four, he guessed, from
the length of the shadows, but couldn’t see the dial itself. He would
want a timepiece of some sort, he thought, frowning—one needed to
keep rough track of the hours; even the least observant did their
best to avoid their unlucky times—and then a tower clock sounded
from the direction of the Street of Knives, a strong double chime
marking the half hour. There would be no missing that sound;
probably the real difficulty would be learning to sleep through it
every night. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief, and began
methodically to unpack his belongings.
   He had traveled light, of necessity. It didn’t take long to arrange
the borrowed furniture to his satisfaction, and to fold his spare
clothes neatly into the bottom of the chest. The locked case that
held his pistol went beneath his clean shirts: in the morning, he
thought, I’ll buy a lock for the big chest, too. There would be other
errands to run, as well—find the nearest bathhouse and barber, buy
candles of his own, and herbs for the chest, to keep the moths out,
and find a laundress, too, and a decent astrologer, I’ll probably have
to go back to the university for that—but he put those plans firmly
aside for the moment, and reached into the bottom of the
right-hand saddlebag for the carved tablets that were his portable
altar. Like most rented rooms from the League to Cazaril in the
south, this one had a niche set into the wall beside the door, and he
walked over to examine it. It was typical, except for the lack of
dust—Devynck was clearly a ferocious housekeeper—just a space
for an image or two and a shallow depression to hold the hearth
fire, but it was certainly more than adequate for him. He unfolded
the hinged diptych, Areton, painted ochre since Eslingen couldn’t
afford gilt, dancing on the right-hand panel, Phoebe as guardian of
health in solar splendor on the left. He should probably honor
Seidos, too, he thought, not for the first time—he had been born
under Seidos’s signs, the Horse and the Horsemaster—but Seidos
was patron of the nobility, not of common soldiers. Maybe I’ll ask
the magist when I have my stars read, he thought, but he hadn’t
done it yet. He tilted his head to once side, studying the altar. He
would need to buy a candle for the Hearthmistress, along with the
ones for his own use, but those would be easily enough found at any
chandler’s shop. He added that to his mental list, and stretched out
on the bed, settling himself for a nap before dinner.
   The tower clock woke him at five, and again at half past, and at
six. He sighed then, swung himself off the bed, and began to tidy
himself for dinner. The sun was very low as he made his way down
the stairs into the garden, but he guessed it would be another hour
at least before it actually set. The air smelled of the cooking food,
rich with onions and garlic, and he realized suddenly that he was
hungry. Very hungry, he amended, and hoped Devynck’s portions
were generous.
   The main room was only moderately crowded, and he guessed
that Devynck made most of her profit from her beer. He found an
empty table beside one of the streetside windows, and lifted a hand
to signal the nearest waiter. The man nodded back, but took his
patron’s orders before coming over to Eslingen’s table.
  “You’re the new lodger—Eslingen, isn’t it? I’m Loret.”
  “That’s right.” Eslingen eyed him curiously, recognizing a
wrestler’s or blacksmith’s breadth of shoulder beneath the loose
smock, and wondered if Devynck often had trouble here.
  “Then you get the ordinary. Do you want beer with that? It’s a
demming extra for a pitcher.”
  “That’s fine.”
  Loret nodded, and Eslingen watched him walk away, dodging
tables on his way to the kitchen hatch. Loret had the look of
country boys who enlisted out of ignorance and deserted after their
first battle, good boys with all the wrong stars, more often than
not—which was hardly fair, he told himself, considering that Loret
was probably born and bred in Astreiant. And big men weren’t all
gentle; he’d learned that the hard way, years ago.
   It wasn’t long before Loret returned with the tray of food and the
sweating pitcher of beer. He set them neatly down, and waited
until Eslingen had paid for the beer before answering the next
customer’s shout. Eslingen made a face at the caution, but had to
admit it was probably justified. Devynck’s clientele would be no
better than the average. The food was good—a thick stew, Leaguer
style, with a decent serving of beef to supplement the starchy roots
that made up the bulk of the dish, and half a loaf of good wheat
bread with a dish of soft cheese on the side—and the beer was
better. It had been a while since he had eaten Leaguer
food—Coindarel’s quartermasters had been mostly Chenedolliste,
like their men—and he took his time, savoring the rich meat broth.
  “Philip! Philip Eslingen!”
   The voice was unexpectedly familiar, and Eslingen looked up,
startled, to see Dausset Cijntien waving at him from the center of
the room. Eslingen waved back, wondering what the other was
doing in Astreiant—the last he had heard, Cijntien had signed on
with a longdistance trader, leading a caravan-guard on the
six-month overland journey to the Silklands. But then, that had
been almost six months ago, he realized, and in any case, Cijntien
was obviously back, and equally obviously looking for work.
Midsummer was the hiring season for the long-distance traders,
and the sea captains, for that matter; there was rarely any
shortage of work for experienced soldiers.
  Cijntien collected his refilled pitcher, reaching over the heads of
the people at the nearest table, and then threaded his way through
the crowd to Eslingen’s table. The room had filled up since he’d
arrived, Eslingen saw, and glanced at the wall stick. It was blind,
the light no longer falling to cast its shadows, but from the look of
the sky outside the windows, it was getting close to the first
sundown.
  “It’s good to see you again,” Cijntien said, and settled himself on
the stool opposite the other man.
  “And you,” Eslingen answered, and meant it. “You’re looking
well.”
   “Thanks.” Cijntien took a long swallow of his beer, and Eslingen
smiled, watching him. They had served together years
before—more accurately, he had served under Cijntien, had been a
corporal and then a company sergeant under Cijntien, and had
stepped into Cijntien’s office of major sergeant when the older man
had left soldiering for the less dangerous life of a trader’s man. Or
at worst differently dangerous, Eslingen amended. From the looks
of Cijntien’s hands, flecked with the dark specks of a recent powder
burn, long-distance trading had its own hazards.
  “I thought you were with Coindarel these days,” Cijntien went
on.
  “We were paid off,” Eslingen answered. “This morning, in fact.”
   “Hard luck. Or maybe not so hard, depending.” Cijntien leaned
forward, planting both elbows on the table. He was wearing a light
jerkin over a plain shirt, and the grey brown leather matched the
faded brown of his hair. “Have you another place lined up yet?”
  Eslingen shook his head. “Not this season.” He hesitated, but
Cijntien was an old friend, and was probably one of the few who’d
appreciate his promotion. “I had my commission this spring, you
see. I’m not inclined to go back to mere sergeant so quickly.”
 Cijntien nodded in sympathy. “The stars have been against you,
my Philip. Have you tried a good astrologer?”
  Eslingen laughed. “Have you ever met an astrologer who could
alter the stars once they’re risen? Give over, Dausset.”
  “They can mitigate the worst effects,” Cijntien answered, and
Eslingen shook his head. Cijntien was old-fashioned—he had been
born in Guisen, the most conservative of the northern cities, back
when it was part of the League—and undereducated; no one had
ever been able to convince him that even the greatest magists could
work only with what the stars gave them.
  “I’m planning to consult someone,” Eslingen said. “Tomorrow or
the next day. But, no, I don’t have a place, and I wasn’t planning to
look until the winter season.”
  “As it happens,” Cijntien said, and smiled. “As it happens, my
Philip, I’ve a place for you, if you want it.”
  “Oh?” In spite of himself, in spite of knowing what it must be,
Eslingen felt his heart quicken a little. He was a fish out of water
in Astreiant, and that was frightening as well as a challenge; it
wouldn’t be bad to have familiar work, or to be serving with
Cijntien again… Then common sense reasserted itself. He had no
desire to serve six months to a year in a trading company—of
course a shipboard post would probably be shorter, assuming
Cijntien had moved from the caravans to the more prestigious
trading craft, though he himself had never sailed on anything
larger than a river barge, much less fought from one.
  “My principal’s still hiring for this winter’s caravan,” Cijntien
said. “It’s a good trip, I’ve done it five times now, up the
Queen’s-road to Anver, cross the Marr at Breissa and then over the
land bridge into the Silklands.”
  “I thought that was all desert,” Eslingen said, but couldn’t
suppress a surge of curiosity. He had always liked travel—men
were generally wanderers by their stars, and he was no exception.
   “It is, mostly. But the rivers fill in winter, and the
nomads—they’re Haissa, there, mostly, and a lot of Qaidin—come
to the city-sites to trade.” Cijntien looked past him, not seeing the
tavern crowd. “It’s a sight to see, Philip. The sites, they’re nothing,
just the walls for houses, but then the people come in, pitch their
tents, and make a city. They’ve a traders’ peace, too, at least in the
cities, so the various clans can do their business. We were early
once, saw the Haissa setting up at Saatara. It was like magists’
work, I’ve never seen anything like it. We came in at first sundown,
pitched our camp, and there was nothing there, just mud brick
walls and dirt. And then, just before second sundown, we heard the
Haissa arrive—they’d been held up, their camp mother said, a
storm or something—and the next thing we knew the city’d
sprouted roofs and doors. All oil-silk, mind you, and those heavy
carpets everywhere. When the light hit them, at first sunup, gods,
it was like you’d fallen into a jewelbox. And there was nothing there
before, nothing at all.”
   Eslingen shivered, caught by the picture the older man had
conjured for him. He had met Silklanders before, of course, had
served with any number of them, but they were mostly
dark-skinned Maivi, from the center of the empire. He’d never met
a true Hasiri, from one of the tribes, though like all Leaguer
children he’d been raised on stories of the wild nomads who roamed
the roof of the world; it would be wonderful to see.
  “After that,” Cijntien went on, “we take it by easy stages down
the imperial roads to Tchalindor. My principal’s factor is there. And
then we come back by sea.”
  And that, Eslingen thought, was the rub. It would be a glorious
journey, certainly, but it would take the rest of the year and well
into the next spring to reach Tchalindor—the land bridge was only
passable in the winter, when the rivers were full—and by the time
he could get a ship back to Chenedolle or the League, the best
captains would have filled their companies for the spring
campaigns. Still, if the pay was good enough, he could afford to
wait for the winter season… “What’s your principal offering?”
   “Two pillars a lunar month, paid at Tchalindor, plus bonuses. And
of course food, mounts, and shot and powder are his business—and
weapons, too, if you don’t want to bring your own.”
  Which wasn’t enough, not even if he skimped—and besides,
Eslingen told himself firmly, he’d always been a soldier, not some
caravan guard. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dausset. I can’t
afford it.”
  “Can you afford to have your head blown off, somewhere up in
the Ile’nord? Or your throat slit some dark night, more likely?”
  Eslingen laughed. “But I’m good, Dausset. Besides, if it’s in my
stars, it’s in my stars. By all accounts, you can get your throat cut
just as neatly on the caravan roads.”
  Cijntien shook his head, the smile fading from his lips. “I wish
you’d come with me, Philip. This is not a good time for Leaguers in
Astreiant.”
  “What do you mean?” Eslingen reached for the pitcher, found it
empty, and lifted a hand to signal the nearest waiter. The room had
definitely filled while they’d been talking, a mix of Leaguers,
marked by their lighter skin and hair and the wide hats they wore
even in the tavern, and soldiers and former soldiers, equally
marked by their boots and the various scars. But there was a small
knot of people whom he couldn’t identify immediately sitting close
together at the tables by the door, and another larger group—this
one with the leather aprons and pewter Toncarle badges of the
Butcher’s Guild—at the big table closest to the bar. Locals, all of
them, and they didn’t look particularly happy. The waiter—not
Loret, this time—brought a second pitcher, and Eslingen paid,
waving away Cijntien’s perfunctory and insincere offer of coin. “So
what do you mean, this is a bad time for Leaguers?”
  “Haven’t you heard?”
  “I got into the city two days ago,” Eslingen answered. “Not even
Astreiant proper, the camps out along the Horse Road. And I wasn’t
paid off until this morning. So whatever it is, no, I haven’t heard.”
  Cijntien leaned forward again, lowering his voice. “There’s
something very wrong in this city, Philip, let me tell you that. And
the Astreianters are being very quick to blame everybody else
before they’ll look in their own stars.”
  Eslingen made a noncommittal noise.
  “Their children are disappearing,” Cijntien said, leaning forward
even further. “Lots of them, just vanishing, no one knows where or
why. They say—” He jerked his head toward the doorway, the city
beyond it. “—they say it’s Leaguers, or maybe the caravaners and
Silklanders, needing hands for the road. But I say it’s a judgment
on herself, for being childless.”
  Eslingen caught his breath at that, barely kept himself from
looking over his shoulder. “Have a care, Dausset.”
  “Well, she should have an heiress by now,” Cijntien said,
stubbornly. Neither man needed to say who he meant: the Queen of
Chenedolle’s childless state had been the subject of speculation for
years. “Or have named one. The Starsmith is moving, it’ll enter the
Charioteer within the year—”
  “Or next year, or the year after,” Eslingen interrupted, his voice
equally firm. Anyone in Chenedolle—in the known world—knew
what that meant: the Starsmith was the brightest of the moving
stars, the ruler of death, monarchs, and magists, and its passage
from one sign to the next signaled upheavals at the highest levels.
The current queen’s grandmother had died during such a transit,
and the transit before that had been marked by civil war; it was not
unreasonable to fear this passage, when the current queen was no
longer young, and childless. But the tertiary zodiac, the one in
which the Starsmith moved, as opposed to the zodiacs of the sun
and winter-sun, was still poorly defined, its boundaries the subject
of debate even within Astreiant’s university. The Starsmith might
well pass from the Shell to the Charioteer this year, or not for
another four or five years; it all depended on who you asked.
  “At least you don’t say never,” Cijntien muttered. “Like some
godless Chadroni.”
  “Whatever else you may say about me, you can’t call me that.”
  “Godless?”
  “Chadroni.”
  Cijntien laughed. “I have missed you, Philip, and I don’t deny it’d
be good to have you along this trip if only for the company. But I
mean it, this is not a good time to be Leaguer here.”
  “Because of missing children,” Eslingen said. “Missing, you said,
not dead?”
  “No one’s found bodies, at any rate,” Cijntien answered.
  “So how many of them have just decided to take to the roads?”
Eslingen asked. “It’s Midsummer, or nearly, fair season—hiring
season. When did you leave home, Dausset, or did you start out a
soldier?”
  “As it happened, yes, and I left home at the spring balance,”
Cijntien said. “But that’s not what’s happening, or so they say. It’s
the wrong children, not the southriver rats and rabble, but the
merchants’ brats from north of the river. Those children don’t run
away, Philip. They’ve got too much to stay for.”
  Eslingen made a face, still skeptical, but unwilling to argue
further. In his experience, the merchant classes were as likely to
run as any other, depending on their stars and circumstances—he’d
served with enough of them in various companies, even with a few
who had taken to soldiering like ducks to water. “Still, there’s no
reason to blame us. It’s past the campaign season—gods, if I
couldn’t find a company hiring, how will some half-trained butcher’s
brat? If they’re looking to blame someone, let them blame the ship
captains.”
  “Oh, they’re doing that,” Cijntien began, and a hand slammed
down onto the table.
  “And what do you know about butcher’s brats, Leaguer?”
  Eslingen swallowed a curse, more at his own unruly tongue than
at the stranger, looked up to see one of the butchers staring down
at them. He was a young man, probably only a journeyman yet, but
he held onto the table as though he needed its support. Which he
probably does, Eslingen added silently, wrinkling his nose at the
smell of neat spirit that hung about him. Drunk, and probably
contentious— there’s no point in being too polite with him, but I
don’t want a fight, either.
   “Little enough,” he said aloud, and gave the youth his best blank
smile, the one he’d copied from the Ile’norder lieutenants, sixteen
quarterings and not a demming in his pocket. “A—figure of speech,
I think it’s called, an example, a part standing for the whole.”
  “There’s a butcher’s brat gone missing,” the journeyman went on,
as though he hadn’t heard a word the other had said, and Eslingen
was suddenly very aware of the quiet spreading out from them as
people turned to look and listen. “This morning—last night maybe.
And I want to know what you know about it, soldier.”
  “This morning,” Eslingen said, speaking not so much to the
drunken boy in front of him but the listeners beyond, the ones who
were still sober and could cause real trouble, “I was with my troop
at the Horse Road camps, being paid off by Her Majesty’s
intendants— and I was there the night before, too, for that matter,
making ready for it. There’s a hundred men who’ll witness for me.”
He could feel the tension relax—he wasn’t likely quarry anyway,
was too new to the city to be the real cause—and pushed himself
easily to his feet. “But no harm done, my son, let me buy you a
drink.”
  He came around the table as he spoke, caught the journeyman by
the arm and shoulder, a grip that looked a little like linked arms
but made the slighter man gasp sharply. He started to pull away,
and Eslingen tightened his hold. The journeyman winced, subsiding,
and Eslingen propelled him toward the door, talking all the while.
 “No? Well, you’re probably right, you’ve probably had all you
want tonight. I hope you have a pleasant sleep and not too hard a
morning.”
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other young men from
the table of butchers all on their feet, but hesitating, not quite
certain what to do, and he favored them with a broad, slightly silly
smile. “I think he was just going, don’t you? And one of you should
probably see him home, there’s good chap, thank you. Devynck
would want it that way, I’m sure.”
  The senior journeymen exchanged glances, and then the older of
the two nodded. “I’ll see him home, thanks.”
   Eslingen nodded and smiled, but kept his grip on the younger
man until he was actually in the doorway. The senior journeyman
followed him, the rest of the butchers trailing after him, pausing
opposite Eslingen. The wind from the street was cool and smelled of
the middens outside the butchers’ halls, the sharp green scent of
vegetables.
  “You were paid off today? Sergeant, is it?”
   “Lieutenant,” Eslingen answered. “I was. I give you my word on
it.”
   The senior journeyman looked at him for a moment longer, then,
slowly, nodded. “Come on, Paas, let’s get you home.”
   Eslingen released the journeyman’s arm, and let the rest of them
file out past him into the street. They went quietly enough,
embarrassed more than anything, and he was careful not to say or
do anything more. Let them forget as quickly as possible that Paas
disgraced himself, he thought, and that’ll do more to keep the peace
than any threats or arguing. As the last of them left, he turned
back into the tavern, glancing around the room more out of habit
than because he expected more trouble. The conversations were
already returning to normal, nearly everyone more concerned now
with their drinks or a last order of food. He’d pulled it off, then, and
as neatly as he’d ever done. He allowed himself a slow breath of
relief, and Devynck said, “Not bad.”
  Eslingen blinked, startled—he hadn’t seen her there in the
shadows, or the big waiter, Loret, who was tucking a cudgel back
under the strings of his apron—and Devynck went on, “I don’t
suppose you’d care to make a habit of it? Defusing the trouble, not
starting it, that is. I’d pay you or take it off your rent.”
  Whatever else happened, Eslingen thought, he had not been
expecting an offer of employment, but he wasn’t stupid enough to
turn it down, not when he’d already decided to stay in Astreiant for
the summer. He nodded slowly. “I’d be interested, sergeant, but I’d
rather talk terms in the morning.”
  “Good enough,” Devynck said, and turned away. “Your beer’s on
the house tonight.”
   “Thanks,” Eslingen answered, and allowed himself a wry smile. It
was a cheap enough gesture: he wouldn’t be drinking that much
now, not if he wanted to impress her. And he did want to impress
her, he realized suddenly. He wanted this job, wanted to stay in the
city, though he couldn’t entirely have said why. He shook his head,
accepting his own foolishness, and started back to his table and
Cijntien.



                                   3
                                                                «^»
the list of missing children reported to all the points station arrived
within three days—a measure in and of itself of the seriousness
with which all the Points were taking the problem, Rathe
thought— and was enough to silence even the most skeptical of the
pointsmen. There were eighty-four names on the list, a little less
than half of them from the five northriver points—no, Rathe
realized, more than half, if you counted Point of Hearts as
northriver. Which it was, technically; the district lay on the north
bank of the Sier between the North Chain Tower and the Western
Reach, but it was southriver in population and temperament. Still,
he thought, that was not what any of them had expected. Logically,
if children were going missing, either as runaways or because they
were taken, they should come from southriver, where there were
fewer people of influence to protest their vanishing. Or else, he
added silently, turning over the last closely written sheet, I would
have expected to hear of someone paying out money for the return
of an heiress. And there had been none of that; just the opposite, in
fact, merchant parents coming to the points stations to report the
loss of daughters and sons, and to demand that the points find their
missing offspring. There hadn’t been much of that in Point of
Hopes, yet; the majority of their complainants had admitted,
however grudgingly, that their children might well have run
away—except, of course, for Mailet and the Quentiers.
   Rathe sighed, set the list back in its place—Monteia had ordered
it pinned in a leather folder chained to the duty desk, to keep the
names and descriptions ready to hand—and reached for his
daybook, moving into the fall of light from the window to skim
through the pages of notes. There had been no sign of Gavaret
Cordiere in any of the northriver cells—he had even made a special
trip across the river to Fairs’ Point to ask Claes in person, but the
man had just shaken his head. Not only hadn’t they arrested any
boy matching Cordiere’s description, they hadn’t made point on any
pickpockets for nearly four days. And it wasn’t that the pointsmen
and women were taking fees, Claes added, with a quick grin; it was
more that the pickpockets had stopped working. And that, both
men agreed, had to be a bad sign— doubly bad, Claes had said,
when you matched it with the new band of astrologers who were
working the fairgrounds. The arbiters had declared they could stay,
but no one needed any more mysteries just now. Rathe had agreed
and left Cordiere’s description in the station, but he wasn’t relishing
telling Estel Quentier of his failure.
  “Rathe? Have you gotten the Robion girl’s stars yet?”
   Rathe looked up to see Monteia standing just outside the wedge
of light, a thin, dark-clad shadow against the dark walls. “I was
going this afternoon. I wanted to check everything else first.”
  “No luck, then.”
  Rathe shook his head, barely stopped himself from glancing again
through the pages of notes as though he might find something new
there. He had been to the local markets, and to every early-opening
shop on the Knives Road, as well as searching out the rag-pickers
and laundresses who served the street, all without noticeable
result. “A woman who does laundry for the Gorgon’s Head says she
thinks she saw a girl in green going down Knives toward the
Rivermarket, but she can’t remember if it was Demesday or
Tonsday that she saw it—or last year, for that matter. And a
journeyman sneaking in late thinks he might have seen a girl in
green going south, away from the river, but he says freely he was
too drunk to remember his mother’s name.”
  “That’s all?”
  “That’s all.”
  “Nothing at the Rivermarket?” Monteia went on.
  “Not so far. I’ve been through once myself, no one remembers
her, but it was a busy morning. I’ve asked Ganier to keep an ear
out, though.” Ganier was the pointswoman who had semiofficial
responsibility for the complaints that came from the district’s
markets.
  Monteia nodded. “On your way back from Mailet’s—or to it, I
don’t care—I’d like you to stop in the Old Brown Dog. I hear Aagte
Devynck has hired herself a new knife, and I’d like to see what you
think of him. And make sure he understands our position on
troublemakers.”
  Rathe frowned, and Monteia shrugged. “I’m sending Andry to
collect his bond, unless you want the fee.”
   You know I don’t , Rathe thought, but said only, “Thanks anyway.
I’ll talk to him.”
  “It’s not like Aagte to hire outside help,” Monteia said, her voice
almost musing. “I hope we’re not in for trouble there. Not right
now.”
  “So do I,” Rathe answered, and slipped his book back into his
pocket. He collected his jerkin and truncheon from their place on
the wall behind the duty desk, and stepped out into the afternoon
sunlight. The winter-sun hung over the eastern housetops, a pale
gold dot that dazzled the eye; the true sun, declining into the west,
cast darker shadows, so that the street was crosshatched with lines
of dark and lighter shade. He threaded his way through the busy
crowds, turned onto the Knives Road without really deciding which
job to do first. Mailet’s hall was closest; better to get it over with,
he told himself, and crossed the street to Mailet’s door.
   There were no chopping blocks on the street today, or apprentices
showing off for the servant girls, though the shutters were down
and he could see customers within. He paused outside the doorway
to let a matron pass, a covered basket tucked under her arm, then
stepped into the shop. The journeyman Grosejl was working behind
the counter, along with a boy apprentice. She looked up sharply at
his approach, hope warring with fear in her pale face, and Rathe
shook his head.
  “No word,” he said, and she gave a visible sigh.
  “Enas, finish what you’re doing and run tell Master Mailet that
the pointsman’s here.” She forced a smile, painfully too bright, to
Rathe’s eyes, and passed a neatly wrapped package across the
countertop. “There you are, Marritgen, that’ll be a spider and a
half.”
   The woman—she had the look of a householder, gravely
dressed—fumbled beneath her apron and finally produced a handful
of demmings. She counted out five of them, Grosejl watching
narrowly, and slid them across the countertop. Grosejl took them,
gave a little half bow.
  “Thanks, Marritgen. Metenere go with you.”
  The woman muttered something in answer, and slipped out
through the door. The other customers had vanished, too, and
Grosejl made a face.
  “They’ll be back,” Rathe said. He was used to the effect he had on
even honest folk, but the journeyman shook her head.
  “It’s a sad thing, pointsman, when they’re half blaming us for
Herisse vanishing. There’s regular customers who won’t come near
us, like it was a disease, or something.”
  There was nothing Rathe could say to that, and Grosejl seemed to
realize it, looked away. “I’m sorry. There’s still nothing?”
   “Nothing of use,” Rathe answered, as gently as he could. “We’re
still looking.”
 “No body, though,” she said, with an attempt at a smile, and
Mailet spoke from the doorway.
  “That just means they haven’t found it. Well, pointsman, what do
you want this time?”
   “I need some more information from you,” Rathe said, and took a
tight hold of his temper. “And for what it’s worth, which is quite a
lot, in actual fact, we don’t have ghosts, either. Which means
they’re probably not dead.”
  “They?” Grosejl said.
  Mailet grunted. “Hadn’t you heard, girl? We’re not the only ones
suffering. There’re children missing all over this city.” He looked at
Rathe without particular fondness. “Come on back, if you want to
talk. My records are within.”
   “Thanks,” Rathe said, and followed him through the narrow door
into the main part of the hall. This time, Mailet led him into the
counting room, tucked in between the main workroom and the
stairs that led to the living quarters on the upper floors. It was a
comfortable, well-lit space, with diamond-paned windows that gave
onto the narrow garden—not much of a garden, Rathe thought, just
a few kitchen herbs and a ragged-looking stand of save-all, but
then, a dozen apprentices would tend to beat down all but the most
determinedly defended plants. There were candles as thick as a
woman’s ankle on sturdy tripod dishes, unlit now but ready for the
failing light, and an abacus and a counting board lay on the main
table. A ledger was propped on the slanting lectern, and there were
more books, heavy plain-bound account books and ledgers, locked in
the cabinet beside the door.
   “You said you wanted information,” Mailet said, and lowered
himself with a grunt into the chair behind the table. An
embroidered pillow, incongruously bright, lay against the chair’s
back, and the butcher adjusted it with an absent grimace, tucking
it into the hollow of his spine. A bad back, Rathe guessed, an
occupational hazard, leaning over the chopping blocks all day.
 “That’s right,” he said aloud. “My chief wants to know if you have
Herisse’s nativity in your records.”
  Mailet’s head lifted, more than ever like a baited bull. Rathe met
his gaze squarely, and saw the master swallow his temper with a
visible effort. “I have it,” he said at last. “I take it this means you
don’t have the faintest idea what’s happened.”
  “I’ve found two people who might have seen her,” Rathe said, and
took tight hold of his own temper in his turn. “But their stories
don’t match, and I don’t have a way to test who’s mistaken.”
  “Or lying.”
  “Or lying,” Rathe agreed. “But I don’t have reason to think that
yet, either. We’re not giving up, though.”
  “Well, I have some news for you,” Mailet said. “Some oddness
that’s come to my ears. My neighbor Follet brought me the word
yesterday, I’ve been trying to decide what to do with it. But since
you’re here…” He shook himself, went on more briskly. “Follet
knows Herisse is missing—everyone does, we passed the word
through the guild—and he told me one of his journeymen was out
drinking the other night, at the Old Brown Dog. Do you know the
place?”
  Rathe nodded. “I know it.”
  Mailet grunted. “Then you know the woman who runs it, too.”
  “Devynck’s not a bad sort,” Rathe said, mildly. “Honest of her
kind.”
  “Which isn’t saying much,” Mailet retorted. He leaned forward,
planting both elbows firmly on the tabletop. “But that’s neither
here nor there, pointsman. What is important is what Paas—that’s
Follet’s journeyman—heard there. There were two soldiers
drinking, Leaguers, and they were talking about the missing
children. And one of them was saying, if he couldn’t find a company,
how could some half-trained butcher’s brat?”
  “He’d heard of the disappearance, then?” Rathe asked, after a
moment. It was an interesting remark, and certainly suggestive
considering how most of Devynck’s neighbors felt about the League,
but hardly solid enough to be called evidence, or even a lead.
  “If he had, would I be bothering you with it?” Mailet said. “He
couldn’t’ve done, you see, he swore he’d just arrived in the city
today.”
  “So this Paas confronted him,” Rathe said.
  Mailet looked away. “He was drunk, Follet said, the soldier put
him out—and neatly, too, I’ll give him that, no violence offered.” He
looked up again. “And that, pointsman, is why I didn’t come to you
at once. But since you’re here, I thought I might as well tell you.
Devynck’s a bad lot, and there are worse who drink in her house.”
  “I’ll make inquiries,” Rathe said. And I will, too: convenient,
being bound there anyway. It’s not much to go on, but it’s
something. I wonder if he’s the new knife Monteia was talking
about?
   “And you still want Herisse’s nativity,” Mailet said. He sighed
and pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the cabinet that held the
hall’s books. He fished in his pocket for his keys on their long
chain—gold, Rathe noted, from long habit, a good chain worth half
a year’s wages for a poor woman—and unlocked the cabinet, then
ran his finger along the books’ spines until he found the volume he
wanted. He brought it back to the table and reseated himself,
folding his hands on top of the cover. “And what do you want it
for?”
  “We intend to ask an astrologer to cast her horoscope for us,”
Rathe answered. “For her on the day she disappeared, and for her
current prospects.” Knowledge of the girl’s stars would also be
helpful if they had to locate a body, or to identify one long dead, but
there was no need to mention those possibilities just yet. Mailet
would have thought of them on his own, in any case.
   “That’s not likely to do you much good,” Mailet grumbled. Rathe
said nothing—he knew that as well as anyone; it was axiomatic in
dealing with astrologers that as the focus of the question narrowed
the certainties became smaller—and the butcher sighed, and
opened the book. He flipped through the pages, scowling now at the
lines of ink that were fading already from black to dark brown,
finally stopped on a page close to the end. “Here. This is her
indenture, her chart’s there at the bottom of the page.”
   Rathe pulled out his tablet, and swung the ledger toward him to
copy the neat diagram. It was, he admitted silently, almost certain
to be an exercise in futility. Most southriver children knew the date
and the place of their birth, but were less clear about its time. Not
many common women would have the coin to pay someone to keep
track precisely, and their midwives would have enough to do,
tending the birth itself, and after, to make it unlikely that the time
would be noted with the quarter-hour’s accuracy the astrologers
preferred. He himself knew his stars to within a half hour, and
counted himself lucky at that; most of his friends had known only
the approximate hour, nothing more. He incised the circle and its
twelve divisions with the ease of long practice—even the poorest
dame schools taught one how to construct that figure—and glanced
at the drawing in the ledger. The familiar symbols were clear
enough, the planets spread fanlike across one side of the wheel, but
to his surprise there were numbers sketched beside each of the
marks, and along the spokes that marked the divisions of the
houses. He looked up.
  “It’s very complete. Is it accurate?”
  Mailet shrugged. “I suppose—I assume so. She was born on the
day of the earthquake in twenty-one, and she told me her mother
heard the clock strike five the moment she was born. Her aunt, the
one who paid her indenture, had the chart drawn for her as an
apprenticeship gift.”
  Rathe nodded. He remembered the earthquake himself, the way
the towers of the city had staggered; it hadn’t done much damage,
but it had terrified everyone, and untuned all the city clocks so that
the temple of Hesion had been jammed for a solar month afterward,
and the grand resident had built a new tower from the offerings. No
one would forget that date, and the astrologers would know the
stars’ positions by heart. “This was copied from that chart, the one
her aunt bought her?” he asked, and Mailet nodded. “Did she take it
with her, or would it be in her room?”
  “She carried it around with her like a talisman,” Mailet
answered. “You’d think it named her some palatine’s missing
heiress.”
  Rathe sighed. He would have to hope that whoever copied it into
the indenture had been accurate—or pay to have the chart drawn
again, which would be expensive. He drew the symbols one after
the other, then copied the numbers, checking often to make sure he
had it right. Nothing looked unusual, there were no obvious flaws
or traps, and he sighed again and closed the tablets. “Thank you,”
he said, and pushed himself to his feet.
  “For all the good it does you,” Mailet answered, but his
expression softened slightly. “Let us know if you find anything,
pointsman. Send to us, day or night.”
  “Of course,” Rathe answered, and let himself back into the hall.
  The Old Brown Dog lay just off the Knives Road, on the tenuous
border between Point of Hopes and Point of Dreams, and neither
station was eager to claim it. In practice, it fell to Point of Hopes
largely because Monteia was able to deal with Devynck woman to
woman. Or something, Rathe added silently, watching a flock of
gargoyles lift from a pile of spilled seeds beside a midden barrel.
Maybe they’d simply settled on an appropriate fee between them.
  The main room was almost empty at midafternoon, only an
ancient woman sitting beside the cold hearth, her face so wrinkled
and shrunken beneath her neat cap that it was impossible to tell if
she were asleep or simply staring into space. A couple of the waiters
were playing tromps , the table between them strewn with cards
and a handful of copper coins, and a tall man sat in the far corner
reading a broadsheet prophecy, feet in good boots propped up on the
table in front of him. Good soldier’s boots, Rathe amended, and his
gaze sharpened. Devynck liked to hire out-of-work soldiers, and this
just might be her new knife. The stranger looked up, as though he’d
heard the thought or felt Rathe’s eyes on him, and lowered the
broadsheet with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He was
handsome, almost beautiful, Rathe thought, with the milk white
Leaguer complexion that was so fashionable now, and long
almost-black hair. In the light from the garden window, his eyes
were very blue, the blue of ink, not sky, and he’d chosen the ribbons
on his hat and hair to match the shade. And that, Rathe thought,
recalling himself to the job at hand, bespoke a vanity that, while
not surprising, was probably not attractive.
  “I’m here to see Aagte,” he said, to the room at large, and the
handsome man’s smile widened slightly. One of the waiters put his
cards aside with palpable relief—he’d been losing, Rathe saw, by
the piled coins, and scurried through the kitchen door. He
reappeared a moment later, held the door open with a grimace that
wasn’t quite a smile.
  “She says, come on back,” he said, and Rathe nodded, and stepped
through into the hall that led to the kitchen. The smell of food was
much stronger here, onions and oil and garlic and the distinctive
Leaguer scent of mutton and beer, not unpleasant but powerful;
through the open arch he could see Devynck’s daughter Adriana
helping to scour the pans for the night’s dinner. She saw him
looking, and grinned cheerfully, her hands never pausing in their
steady motion. Rathe smiled back, and a side door opened.
  “So, Rathe, what brings you here?” Devynck’s eyes were wary,
despite the pleasant voice. She beckoned him into the little room—
another counting room, Rathe saw, though a good deal smaller than
Mailet’s—and shut the door firmly behind him.
  “A few things,” Rathe answered easily. “Nothing—complicated.”
  “That would be a first.” Devynck leaned against the edge of her
work table, which looked as though it had seen service in the
kitchens, the top scarred with knife marks. There was only one
chair, and Rathe appreciated the delicate balance of courtesy and
status. She wouldn’t sit, and keep him standing, but neither would
she stand when he sat.
  “I understand you have a new knife,” he went on.
  Devynck nodded. “You probably saw him when you came in. His
name’s Philip, Philip Eslingen. Just paid off from Coindarel’s
Dragon’s.”
  “Is that a reference?” Rathe asked, with exaggerated innocence,
and Devynck gave a sour smile.
  “To some of us, anyway. Coindarel’s no fool, and he doesn’t hire
fools.”
   Rathe’s eyebrows rose, in spite of himself. Coindarel was known
to choose his junior officers for their looks, and the man in the main
room was easily pretty enough to have caught the prince-marshal’s
eye.
  Devynck sighed. “Not for his sergeants—not for the men who do
the real work, anyway. And Philip came up through the ranks.”
   “It wasn’t his sleeping habits that worried me,” Rathe answered.
“I hear you had a little trouble here the other night.”
  “We did not,” Devynck answered promptly, “and that’s precisely
why I hired the man. There could’ve been trouble, easy, but he
nipped it in the bud.”
  “What I heard—what’s being said on the Knives Road,” Rathe
said, “is that he was talking about missing butcher’s brats before he
could’ve known about it.”
   Devynck sighed again, and shook her head. “Paas. He’s a bad lot,
that one, be a journeyman all his life—if he doesn’t drink himself
right out of the guild.”
  “So what happened?”
  “You’d have to ask Philip for the details,” Devynck answered,
“but what I saw was, Paas came over to their table—Eslingen was
drinking with a man, looked like an old friend. I don’t know his
name, but he’s a Leaguer, too, works for one of the
caravan-masters. But anyway, they were drinking, and Paas comes
over their table, says something I don’t hear except for the tone.”
She smiled suddenly. “And the next thing I know, Philip’s got him
by the arm and is leading him gently out the door. The rest of the
butchers’ boys went with him, pretty well abashed. Everyone knows
Paas drinks too much.”
  Rathe nodded. “I’ll want to talk to Eslingen, of course—Monteia
wanted me to be sure he understood the situation, anyway, with
the fair and all.”
  “Reasonable enough,” Devynck answered.
  “And I wanted to say, if you hear anything, anything at all, that
might have to do with the missing children, I expect to hear from
you.”
  Devynck’s eyes narrowed. “Did you think otherwise, Rathe?”
  Rathe shook his head. “No. But people are starting to talk, up on
the Knives Road. If you have any trouble, I also expect to hear from
you.”
  “That you certainly will,” Devynck said. “Who’ll be taking Philip’s
bond?”
  “Andry. You don’t mind if I talk to him?”
  “Philip? No.”
  “Thanks, Aagte.”
  Devynck nodded, pushed herself away from the table. “I hope I
won’t be seeing you, at least not by way of business, Nico.”
   “So do I,” Rathe answered, and went back out into the main
room. Eslingen—it had to be Eslingen, with those looks—was
standing with the remaining waiter, flipping idly through the cards
left on the table. “You’re Eslingen, I presume. Can we talk?”
  The dark-haired man nodded, letting the gesture serve for both
answers, moved toward the windows. Rathe looked back at the
waiter. “I think you’re wanted in the kitchen.” The man made a
face, but moved slowly away, closing the kitchen door behind him.
Beside the hearth, the old woman stirred slightly, then subsided
again. “The chief point asked me to have a word with you, seeing
that you’re new in Astreiant—and seeing that it’s fair time.”
 “Ah.” Eslingen smiled, the expression consciously cynical. “How
much?”
  “You might hear me out,” Rathe answered.
  “Sorry.” Eslingen reseated himself at the corner table, flipping
the skirts of his coat out of his way, and gestured vaguely to the
stool opposite. Rathe accepted the invitation with a nod, and leaned
both elbows companionably on the table.
  “What Monteia—she’s the chief at Point of Hopes—what Monteia
wants is for this fair to go off peaceably. Like last year, if not
better, in point of fact, which, since you weren’t here, you might
want to ask Aagte about. And to that end, seeing as Aagte’s felt the
need to hire a new knife—” Eslingen flushed at that, the color clear
on his pale skin. So he thinks himself above that title, Rathe
thought, but went on without comment. “—she, Monteia, has asked
me to tell you that we don’t get a lot of trouble in Point of Hopes.
Devynck’s is a soldiers’ place, true enough, but it doesn’t get what
you might call soldiers’ business.” Rathe paused, eyeing the other
man’s politely impassive face. “Which means, in plain words, if you
run into trouble, send a kid to Point of Hopes. That’s the only way
we can guarantee everyone will get treated properly, when it’s
soldiers’ troubles, is taking the points and letting us bear witness.”
  “And the fee for the service?” Eslingen asked, but he sounded less
cynical than the words implied.
   Rathe shrugged. “I don’t generally take fees.” He smiled
suddenly, unable to resist. “You see, I like my points too much, or
so they tell me—I get a great deal of satisfaction out of my job, and
taking money to let someone go, well, that would spoil it, wouldn’t
it? And there’s not much point in feeing me when it won’t buy you
off, and when I already enjoy my work. You can ask Aagte for the
truth of it, or anyone in the point, they’ll tell you.”
  “I’ll probably do just that,” Eslingen said.
  “A wise move.” Rathe leaned forward again. “I do have some
questions for you, though.”
  Eslingen made a face. “That butcher’s journeyman, right?”
  Rathe nodded, not surprised that the man had guessed. He didn’t
seem stupid, and it would be a stupid man who failed to make that
connection. “You want to tell me what happened?”
  Eslingen shrugged. “Not much.”
  He went through it quickly, concisely—he told the story well,
Rathe thought, plenty of detail but all in its place. It was the same
story Devynck had told, the same that Mailet had recounted,
barring the butcher’s automatic suspicion of the Leaguer woman.
And it sounds to me, Rathe thought, as though he handled an
awkward situation rather well. He said aloud, “So why’d you pick a
‘butcher’s brat’ for your example?”
   Eslingen’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “I wish to all the gods
I’d picked anything else. I don’t know—there were, what, near a
dozen of them, butchers, I mean, sitting by the bar. I suppose that
made it stick in my mind. That and being near the Knives Road.”
   Rathe looked closely at him, but the Leaguer met his eyes
guilelessly. It was a plausible explanation, Rathe admitted. And I
have to say, I think I believe him. Stealing children, for whatever
cause—it’s just not Devynck’s style, and she’d never put up with
that traffic in her house. He nodded. “Fair enough. But remember,
if you have trouble here, send to Point of Hopes. It’ll pay you better
in the long run than feeing me.”
 “I’ll do that,” Eslingen said again, and this time Rathe thought he
meant it. He pushed himself to his feet, and headed for the door.
Eslingen watched him go, impressed in spite of himself. Rathe
wasn’t much to look at—a wiry man in plain-sewn common clothes,
hands too big for his corded arms, with a scar like a printer’s star
on one wide cheekbone and glass grey eyes with a Silklands tilt to
them—but there was something in his voice, an intensity, maybe,
that carried conviction. He shook his head, not sure if he was
annoyed with himself or with the pointsman, and crossed to the
kitchen door, pushing it open. “Oy, Hulet, you can come out now.”
  “Thanks,” the waiter answered, without notable conviction.
“Aagte wants to see you.”
  “What a surprise. So who is he, the pointsman?”
   The other man shrugged, and went to pick up the coins that lay
still untouched on the table among the scattered cards. “Nicolas
Rathe, his name is. He’s adjunct point at Point of Hopes.”
  “How salubrious,” Eslingen murmured.
  “Oh, Point of Hopes isn’t bad,” Hulet answered. “Monteia’s
reasonable, for a chief point.”
  Or bribeable , Eslingen thought. His experience with the points
had been minimal, but unpleasant; for all their boasting, Astreiant’s
vaunted points seemed to make a very good thing out of the
administration of justice. He nodded again, and stepped through the
kitchen door.
   Devynck was waiting in the doorway of her counting room, arms
folded across her chest. She jerked her head for him to enter, closed
the door behind him, then seated herself behind the table. “So Point
of Hopes is already taking an interest in your exploits. Did he tell
you about Andry?”
  Eslingen shook his head.
  Devynck snorted. “Andry’s one of the pointsmen. He’ll be along to
collect your—bond, he’ll call it. Tell me what he charges, I’ll pay
half.”
  Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, but said, “Thanks. Is this trouble?”
  “Not the bond, no,” Devynck answered, “but these kids… that
could be.”
  Eslingen nodded at that, thinking about his own brief
explorations in the neighborhood. The people hadn’t been precisely
unfriendly, the bathhouse keeper and the barber had been glad of
his custom, but he’d been aware of the eyes on him, the way that
people watched him and any stranger. He’d walked across the
Hopes-point Bridge that morning to the Temple Fair, to visit the
broadsheet vendors who worked there, and the talk had been all of
this child and that one, gone missing from their shops or homes.
Half the prophecies tacked to the poles of the stalls had dealt with
the question, and the lines had been five or six deep to read and to
buy. “People are worried.”
  “And ready to blame the most convenient target,” Devynck said,
sourly. She shook her head. “I can’t see the recruiters bothering,
damn it. There’re usually too many people wanting a place, not the
other way round.”
  “Do you suppose it’s the starchange?” Eslingen asked, and
Devynck looked sharply at him.
  “I don’t see how it could be, these are common folks’ kin who are
going missing.”
  Eslingen lowered his voice, despite the closed door. “The queen is
childless, and the Starsmith is about to change signs. There is
talk—” He wasn’t about to admit it was Cijntien’s idea. “—that that
might be the cause.”
  Devynck winced, looked herself toward the closed door. “That’s
dangerous talk, from the likes of us, and I’ll thank you to keep it to
yourself.” Eslingen said nothing, waiting, and the woman shook her
head decisively. “No, I can’t think it. If the queen were at
fault—well, there would have been some sign of it, surely, some
warning, and she wouldn’t have ignored it. Besides, the gossip is,
she’s barren. She couldn’t be blamed for that.”
   Eslingen nodded. He was less convinced by the benevolence of the
powerful—though Devynck was a skeptic by nature, certainly—but
he acknowledged the wisdom of her advice. This wasn’t speculation
to be voiced openly, at least not now.
  “In any case,” Devynck went on, “I want to make sure we don’t
have any trouble here for a while. I’ll tell Hulet and Loret, too, of
course, but I’d like you to keep a special eye on the soldiers,
especially any newcomers. If they haven’t heard what’s going on,
they may do something stupid.”
  “Like I did?”
  Devynck smiled. “Not everyone has your—tact, Philip.”
  Eslingen laughed. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”
  “It’s what I pay you for,” Devynck said, without heat, and
Eslingen made his way back into the main room.
   The broadsheets he had bought that morning still lay on the table
by the garden window, and he collected them, shuffling them back
into a tidy pile. The one on top caught his eye. It was a petty thing,
one of the two-for-a-demming sort, offering predictions for the next
week according to the signs of one’s birth. He had been born under
the signs of the Horse and the Horsemaster, and the woodcut that
covered half the page—the most professional thing about the sheet,
he acknowledged silently—showed a horse and rider, and the rider
held a gambler’s wheel, balancing it like a top in the palm of his
outstretched hand. The fortune lay crooked across the page beneath
it: chance meetings are just chance and chancy, bring chances, take
chances. chance would be a fine thing! Eslingen allowed himself a
smile at that, wondering if his encounter with the pointsman,
Rathe, was covered in that prediction, then headed for the garden
stairs and his own room.
Rathe took the long way back toward Point of Hopes, through the
Factors’ Walk, with its maze of warehouses and shops and sunken
roads and sudden, unexpected inlets where the smaller, river-bound
lighters could tie up and discharge their cargoes in relative privacy.
He was known here, too, was aware of people slipping out of sight,
staying to the edges of his vision, but they weren’t his business
today, and he contented himself with the occasional smile and
pointed greeting. Some of the factors dealt in human cargo—there
would always be that trade, no matter what the law said or how
many points were scored— but they had been the first to be
searched and questioned, from the first report of missing children,
and all their efforts, both from Point of Hopes and Point of Sighs,
had turned up nothing more than the usual crop of semiwilling
recruits. A few of the more notorious figures, the ones who’d
overstepped the bounds of tolerance bought with generous fees,
were spending their days in the cells at Point of Sighs, but Rathe
doubted the points would be upheld at the next court session.
  “Rathe!”
  He looked up at the shout to see a tall woman leaning over the
edge of one of the walkways that connected the warehouses at the
second floor. He recognized her instantly: Marchari Kalvy, who
made her living providing select bedmates for half the seigneury in
the Western Reach, and owned a dozen houses in Point of Hearts as
well. He admired her business sense—how could he not, when she’d
had the sense to provide not just bodies but the residences where a
noble could keep her, or his, leman in comfort, taking their money
at all stages of the relationship—but couldn’t like her, wished he’d
had the sense to pretend not to hear.
  “Rathe, I want to talk to you.” Kalvy bunched her skirts and
scrambled easily down the narrow stairs that led to the wooden
walkway that ran along the first-floor windows of Faraut’s
ropewalk. “Will you come up?”
  She was more than capable, Rathe knew, of coming down, and
making a scene of it, if it suited her. “All right,” he said, and found
the nearest stair leading up again.
  The smell of hemp was strong on the walkway, drifting out the
open windows of the ropewalk, and he could hear the breathless
drone of a worksong, and the shuffle of feet on the wooden floor.
There was a smell of tar as well, probably from the floor below, and
he wrinkled his nose at its sharpness. Kalvy watched his approach,
hands on her hips.
  “So what is it you want?” Rathe asked.
  “Do you want to discuss it in the street?” Kalvy returned.
   “It was you who wanted to talk to me,” Rathe said. “I’ve business
to attend to. It’s here, or come in to the station.”
  “Suit yourself, pointsman.” Kalvy leaned against the rail, looking
down onto the cobbles a dozen feet below. “It’s about Wels.”
   “I assumed.” Wels Mesry was Kalvy’s acknowledged partner and
the father of at least two of her children—though not, malicious
rumor whispered, of the daughter who bade fair to get the family
business in the end. Mesry had been arrested for pandering to a
landame from the forest lands north of Cazaril. The boy in question,
a fifteen-year-old from Point of Hopes, had claimed he was being
held against his will, though Rathe personally suspected that he’d
exaggerated the degree of force Mesry had used while his mother
was listening.
   “You know the point won’t hold,” Kalvy said. “The boy wasn’t half
as unwilling as he claims—hells, how could he be, gets the chance
to live in luxury for a moon-month, maybe two, and it’s not like she
was that unattractive.”
  “Old enough to be his mother,” Rathe muttered.
  “Sister, maybe.” Kalvy shook her head. “I tell you, Rathe, the
brat was glad of the chance, losing his virginity that way.”
  “She paid extra for that?” Rathe asked, and shook his head in
turn. He would have liked to claim a point on the landame as well,
but Monteia had flatly refused to countenance it, saying it was a
waste of time and effort. She was probably right, too, but it didn’t
make it any better.
  Kalvy glared at him. “The landame’s childless, poor woman, that
hits high as well as low. The boy had the right stars to be fertile
with her, and he was well paid.”
  “Practically a public service,” Rathe said, and Kalvy nodded,
ignoring the irony.
  “Just so.”
  Rathe shook his head. “I won’t release him til the hearing—and
neither will Monteia, so you needn’t bother walking all the way to
the station. Think of it this way, Kalvy, I’m doing you a favor,
keeping him in. This way, he can’t be blamed for any of the other
kids who’ve gone missing.”
  “That’s not my trade, and you know it,” Kalvy said. “You can’t
blame that on me.”
   In spite of herself, her voice had risen slightly. Rathe glanced at
her, wondering if it meant anything, but decided with regret it was
probably just the general climate. Anyone would be nervous, these
days, at the thought of being linked to the missing children. “See
you keep out of it, then,” he said aloud, and pushed himself away
from the rail. He thought for a moment that she was going to
follow him, or call after him, but she stayed where she was, still
staring down at the cobbles. He went down the far stairs, past the
ropewalk’s lowest doors where the smell of tar was strongest,
mixing with the damp of the river.
  The Factors’ Walk ended in the crowds and noise of the
Rivermarket, where the merchants’ carts and pitches had spilled
out onto the gentle slope of the old ferry landing. There was no
ferry anymore—no need for it, since the Hopes-point Bridge had
been built fifty years before, in the twenty-fifth year of the previous
queen’s reign—but a number of the merchants brought their goods
in by boat, and the brightly painted hulls were drawn up on the
smooth damp stones at the bottom of the landing, watched by
apprentices and dogs. Rathe skirted the edge of the market,
watching with half an eye for anything out of the ordinary, but saw
and heard only the usual cheerful chaos. Except, he realized, as he
reached the top of the low slope, there were fewer children than
usual in sight. There were a couple by the boats, a third buying
vegetables at one of the cheaper stalls, and a fourth, a slight boy in
patched shirt and breeches, stood talking to a man in a black
magist’s robe. The magist wore neither hood nor badge, unusually,
but then a man with a handcart trundled by, blocking Rathe’s view.
When he had passed, the magist was gone, and the boy was
running back down the slope to the river, wooden clogs loud on the
stones. Rathe shook his head, wishing there were something he
could do, and lengthened his stride. It was past time he was getting
back to the station.
  As he turned down Apothecary’s Row, he became aware of a new
noise, low and angry, and a crowd gathering in front of one of the
smaller shops. Squabbling among the ’pothecaries? Rathe thought,
incredulously. It hardly seemed likely. He started down the street
toward the commotion, and was met halfway by a woman in the
long coat of a guildmaster, open over skirt and sleeveless bodice.
  “Pointsman! They’re trying to kill one of my journeymen!”
   Swearing under his breath, Rathe broke into a run, drawing his
truncheon. The guildmaster kilted her skirts and followed. Outside
the shop—one the points knew well, sold more sweets and potions
than honest drugs—a knot of people had collected, hiding the group,
maybe half a dozen, scuffling in the dust. With one hand, Rathe
grabbed the person nearest him, and hauled back. “Come on, lay
off. Points presence.”
   His voice cut through the confused noise, and the people on the
fringes of the trouble gave way, let him through to the knot at the
center. They—mostly men, mostly nondescript, laborers and clerks
rather than guild folk—stopped, too, but at least two of them kept
their hands on the young man in a blue shortcoat who seemed to be
at the center of the trouble. His lip was split, a thread of blood on
his chin, but he glowered at his attackers, jerked himself free of
their hold, not seriously hurt. Rathe laid a hand on his shoulder, a
deliberately ambiguous grip, and one of the men, tall, sallow-faced,
in an apothecary’s apron, spat into the dust at his feet.
   “Almost too late to save another child, pointsman, or is that part
of the plan?”
  Rathe set the end of the truncheon in the the man’s chest and
pushed. He gave way, glowering, and Rathe looked round. “Get
back, unless you all want to be taken in for riot. Now—one of
you—tell me what in hell is going on. You, madam”—he pointed to
the guildmaster—“is this your journeyman?”
   “Yes,” the woman answered, and glared at the crowd around her.
“And there’s no theft here. One of my apprentices stole off this
morning in the middle of his work. When children are being stolen
off the streets, what master wouldn’t worry, wouldn’t send someone
to try to find that prentice? Only this lot took it on themselves to
decide that my journeyman was the child-thief.”
  “Maybe you both are,” a woman’s voice called, from the shelter of
the anonymous crowd.
  “Well, there’s one way to find out, isn’t there?” Rathe snapped.
He looked around, found a boy, thin and dark, his blue coat badged
with Didonae’s spindle: no mistaking him for an apothecary, Rathe
thought, that was unambiguously the Embroiderers’ Guild’s mark.
He nodded to the woman who had him by the shoulder. “If you don’t
mind, madam. What’s your name, child?”
  The boy glowered up at him, half sullen, half scared—frightened,
Rathe realized suddenly, as much by what he’d unleashed as by
being caught. “Dix.”
  “Dix Marun, pointsman, he’s been my apprentice for little more
than a year now…” The guildmaster broke off as Rathe held up a
hand.
  “Thank you, madam, I want to talk to the boy.” He looked down
at Marun, feeling the thin shoulder trembling under his hand. “Are
you her apprentice? Think carefully, before you answer. If you’ve
been mistreated in your apprenticeship, you might want revenge.
But it won’t be worth it, because there are laws in Astreiant to deal
with liars who send innocent people to the law.”
  The child’s dark eyes darted to the journeyman who was nursing
his lip and would have a badly bruised face in a few hours. That
young man was damned lucky, Rathe thought, and looked as
though he knew it. And if it was him the boy was running from,
well, maybe it would be a salutary lesson for all concerned. He fixed
his eyes on the apprentice then, his expression neutral, neither
forbidding nor encouraging, refusing either to condescend or
intimidate. Finally, Marun looked up at him, looked down again.
   “All I wanted was to go to the market,” he said, almost
voicelessly, more afraid now of the crowd that had come to his
‘rescue.’ “It’s almost the fair, I wanted my stars read, before the
others. I needed to see my fortune.”
 “Does your master mistreat you?” Rathe asked, gravely, and
Marun shook his head.
  “No. Not really. She’s hard. Sometimes she’s mean.”
  “And the journeymen?”
  The child’s lip curled. “They can’t help it. They think they’re
special, but they’re not masters, not yet. They just think they are.”
  “Do you want to return to your master’s house, then?”
  “I wasn’t running away, not really.” This time, the look Marun
gave the journeyman was actively hostile. “I would’ve traded my
half day, but he wouldn’t let me.”
  Rathe sighed. “I see. And you see these people just wanted to
make sure you weren’t harmed. But are you willing to go back with
them?”
  Marun looked at his feet, but nodded. “Yes.”
  Rathe glanced around him, surveying the crowd. It was thinning
already, as the people with business elsewhere remembered what
they’d been about. “I take it no one here has problems with that?”
  “Give him a good hiding, madame, for deceiving people like that!”
  It was a man’s voice this time, probably one of the carters at the
edge of the crowd. Rathe rolled his eyes, looked at the guildmaster.
  “Then, madame, there’s the question of harm done your
journeyman. There is a point here, if you want to press it.”
   “It was the boy’s fault, surely,” a woman called from the doorway
of a prosperous-looking shop, and Rathe shrugged.
  “You should have sent to Point of Hopes, mistakes like this
happen more easily when you don’t know the questions to ask. It
wasn’t Dix here who beat the journeyman.” He looked back at the
guildmaster. “It’s up to you, madame.”
  The woman sighed, reached out to take Marun by the shoulder of
his coat. “No, pointsman. An honest mistake. Let it go, please.”
  “As you wish.” Rathe slipped his truncheon back into his belt. “I’ll
see you to the end of the street, madame, if you want.”
  “Thank you, pointsman.” She was reaching for her purse, and
Rathe shook his head.
  “Not necessary, madame. Despite what some think, it’s what I’m
paid for.”
  “Probably not enough,” she retorted, assessing shirt and coat
with a practiced eye.
  Rathe managed a smile in answer, though he was beginning to
agree with her. “A word in your ear, madame. Keep an eye on your
journeyman there.”
  She nodded. “I’d a mind to it, but thank you.” They had reached
the end of the street, where a pair of low-flyers had pulled up to let
the drivers gossip. She lifted a hand, and the nearer man touched
his cap, slapped the reins to set the elderly horse in motion. “I count
myself in your debt, though, pointsman.”
  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Rathe answered, and stepped back as the
low-flyer drew to a halting stop. The journeyman hauled himself
painfully into the cab, and Marun followed. The guildmaster
hesitated on the step.
  “I meant it, you know,” she said.
  “So did I,” Rathe answered, and the woman laughed. She pulled
herself into the low-flyer, and Rathe turned back toward Point of
Hopes.
  The rest of his walk back to the station was mercifully
uneventful, and he turned the last corner with a sigh of relief. The
heavy stone walls turned a blind face to the street—the point
stations, especially the old ones like Point of Hopes, had originally
been built as militia stations, though they had lost that exclusive
function a hundred years ago—and the portcullis was down in the
postern gate, barring entrance to the stable court. He pushed open
the side door, the bells along its inner face clattering, and walked
past the now-empty stable to the main door. No one at Point of
Hopes could afford to keep a horse; Monteia used the stalls for cells
when she had a prisoner to keep.
  “The surintendant wants to see you, Rathe,” the duty-point said
the moment the man stepped into the station. “As soon as you
returned, the runner said. Of course, that was over an hour ago…”
  “Yeah, well, some of us had work to do,” Rathe muttered, but
grinned. Barbe Jiemin at least had a sense of humor, unlike some of
their colleagues. “And if it was over an hour ago, another few
minutes won’t kill him. Is Monteia in?”
  “Trouble?” Jiemin asked, and Rathe shrugged.
  “A—disturbance—over a runaway apprentice that could easily
have gotten someone killed.” Rathe ran his hands through his hair,
feeling the sweat damp beneath the curls. It was still hot in the
station, and the air smelled more than ever of someone’s inexpert
cooking. “Guildmaster set a journeyman to bring the runaway
home, and the good citizens along Apothecary Row decided this was
our child-thief.”
  “Not good, Nico.” Jiemin looked down at the daybook, trained
reflex, checking the day’s events. “You managed all right, though?”
  “This time.” Rathe shook his head again. “Next time, I’m not so
sure.”
   Jiemin nodded, soberly. Before she could say anything, however,
the door of Monteia’s office opened and the chief point looked out.
She had removed her coat and neckcloth and loosened her shirt, but
still looked hot and irritable, a few strands of hair straggling across
her forehead.
  “Didn’t the surintendant send for you?”
  Rathe suppressed a sigh. “I just got in. And I need to talk to you.
We nearly had a riot in the Apothecaries Row over a runaway
apprentice.”
  Monteia grunted. “Can you say you’re surprised? Come on in.”
  Rathe followed her into the little room, sweltering despite the
wide-open window. There was little breeze in the back garden at
the best of times, and the river breeze never reached this far into
Point of Hopes.
  “So what’s this about a riot?” Monteia asked.
  Rathe told the story quickly, but wasn’t surprised when Monteia
grunted again.
  “Guildmaster should take better care of her apprentices, if you
ask me. Bah, it’s not good, any way you look at it.”
  “No. And there’s more.”
  “There would be,” Monteia muttered.
   “The butchers are blaming Devynck for their missing children,”
Rathe said, bluntly. “No cause for it, I don’t think, but they’ve never
liked having a League tavern on their doorstep.” He ran through
that story quickly, too, and Monteia muttered something under her
breath.
  “Chief?”
 She shook her head. “Never mind. So, you think this knife—what
was his name, Eslingen?”
  “Philip Eslingen, yes.”
  “You think he was telling the truth there, about what he said?”
  Rathe nodded. “I do.” I rather liked him, he added, silently,
almost surprised by the thought, but said only, “He seems to be
sensible.”
  “He’d better be,” Monteia said. She sighed. “Well, we expected
this, didn’t we? Or should have done. And you shouldn’t be keeping
the surintendant waiting, though I wish to all the gods he wouldn’t
keep drawing off my best people when they’re supposed to be on
duty.” She reached under her skirts, flipped a coin across the
desktop. Rathe caught it, surprised, and she went on, “Take a
low-flyer. Doesn’t do to keep the sur waiting, does it?”
   Jiemin had anticipated the order, and the youngest of the
runners arrived with word that a cart was waiting as Rathe
stepped out into the main room. Rathe tossed the boy a
half-demming—not that he could spare it easily, but that was how
the runners earned their bread, taking tips from the
pointsmen—and went out to meet the driver. She was a woman,
unusually, but as she leaned down to take the destination, Rathe
saw she had the wide-set, staring eyes that often marked someone
born when Seidos was in his own signs of the Horse and
Horse-master. That made her stars not merely masculine but ideal,
and he stepped up onto the iron bracket that served as a step with a
slight feeling of relief. The low-flyers didn’t have a wonderful
reputation— half of the drivers drank the winters away just to keep
warm, and the other half earned their charcoal-money in less than
legal ways—and it was somewhat comforting to think the driver
had been born to her position.
  “The Tour de la Cité, please,” he said. The woman nodded,
straightening easily, and Rathe climbed into the narrow cab behind
her, wondering if it wouldn’t ultimately have been faster to take a
boat. She threaded her way through the traffic that jammed the
Hopes-point Bridge quite competently, however, and then through
the maze of the Old City, drawing up at last in the cleared square
in front of the Tour in no more time than it would have taken him
by the river ways. He climbed out, handing over the spider Monteia
had given him, and made his way across the court to the main gate.
   The Tour had been built five hundred years ago as the gatehouse
of the then-walled city, and no matter how much the city’s regents
and the various royal and metropolitanate officials who had
inhabited it over the intervening years had tried to change it, the
building still had the feeling of a fortress. Rathe’s heels echoed on
the stone floors, and even the red-coated judiciary clerks seemed
chastened by the heavy architecture. At least it was cooler inside
the massive walls, Rathe thought, as he made his way through the
narrow, badly lit halls, and at least the regents had the sense to use
mage-fire lamps instead of oil or candles. Or maybe it was the
judiciary: he didn’t have clear idea who paid for what inside the
Tour.
  The surintendant’s rooms were at the midpoint of the south
tower and boasted two narrow windows overlooking the city square.
Rathe gave his name to one of the hovering clerks and settled
himself to wait. To his surprise, however, the surintendant’s voice
came almost at once from behind a half-open door.
  “Ah, Rathe, good. Come in and sit down.”
   Rathe did as he was told, his eyes on the surintendant. Rainart
Fourie was a merchant’s son from the Docks by Point of Sighs, had
begun by buying his place as an adjunct point, but had risen to chief
on his own merit, as even the most grudging critics were forced to
admit. His appointment was still something of a novelty—until
him, the surintendancy had generally been held by gentry, the sons
of landames and the like whom the queen owed favors—and he was
sometimes more aware of the politics of his situation than Rathe
felt was good for either him or his people. At the moment, Fourie
was dressed very correctly, the sober tailored black of the judicial
nobles, his haircut as close as a Sofian renunciate’s. Though that,
Rathe added silently, probably had less to do with devotion or
politics than with the fact that his mouse brown hair was thinning
rapidly, and the fashionable long wigs would have looked ridiculous
on his long, sharp-boned, and melancholy face. Fourie lifted an
eyebrow, as though he’d guessed the thought, and Rathe schooled
himself for whatever was to come.
   “Your former patronne sent for me this morning,” Fourie said. “It
seems one of her clerk’s apprentices is missing, and she wants you
to handle the case.”
 Rathe exhaled. One thing about Fourie, he reflected, he always
was direct. “You mean Maseigne de Foucquet?”
  “Do you have another patronne?”
  Rathe shook his head. He had begun his working life as a runner
for the court, before he’d been a pointsman; Naudin de Foucquet
had been a young intendant then, and as a judge she’d taken a
benevolent interest in his career. It never hurt to have well-placed
connections, but he had not been entirely sorry when Foucquet had
been assigned to the courts at Point of Hearts. Friends in the
judiciary could be a liability, as well as an asset, in his line of work.
“That would be Point of Hearts’ business, surely.”
  “She asked for you specifically,” Fourie said.
  Rathe sighed, acknowledging the ties of patronage and obligation,
wondering, too, why Fourie, who usually defended his people’s
autonomy, seemed willing to countenance this interference. “So
who is— he, she? How old, what’s the family?”
   “He’s thirteen, and his name is Albe Cytel. His mother is assizes
clerk at Point of Hearts.”
  So it really isn’t my business at all, Rathe thought. He said,
“When did he go missing?”
  “Yesterday afternoon, according to Foucquet, and I would
imagine her people keep a keen eye on their apprentices,” Fourie
answered.
  Rathe nodded.
  “He had the morning off, it was his regular half-day, which he
was supposed to use in studying. When he didn’t show up for the
afternoon session, they sent a senior clerk around to his room. He
wasn’t there, but nothing of his was missing, either.” Fourie looked
up from his notes, and gave a thin smile. “Under the circumstances,
they felt it was a points matter.”
  Rathe nodded again. “It sounds like half a dozen cases I know of,
two I’m handling personally. Does maseigne know how many cases
there are like that in the city right now?”
  “I imagine she does,” Fourie answered. “I daresay that’s why she
wants you. It makes no difference, Rathe. The judge-advocate
wants you handling this case, and so do I. Can you tell me honestly
you don’t want it?”
   Rathe made a face. He owed Foucquet for patronage that had
been very useful when he was starting out; more than that, he
liked and respected her, and beyond that still, any missing child had
claim on him. “No, sir, it’s not that, of course it isn’t. It’s just…” He
paused and ran a hand through his hair, wondering just how far he
could go. “Gods know, yes, I owe maseigne in any case, and at least
she’s not asking me to drop any southriver cases for some clerk’s
apprentice—” He had gone too far there, he realized abruptly, and
stopped, shaking his head. “Sorry, sir. It’s been a bastard of a day.”
  Fourie inclined his head in austere acceptance of the apology, but
said nothing. Rathe watched him warily, not quite daring to ask the
question in his mind, and Fourie leaned back in his chair, steepling
his fingers. “What’s your theory on it all, Rathe?”
  “I haven’t got one,” Rathe answered. As you well know. None of
us have any theories, or at least nothing solid, from the newest
runner to the dozen chief points . “With respect, sir, why are you
taking this case out of Point of Hearts? I’m not unwilling, but
they’re not going to like it, and I can’t say I blame them.”
  Fourie ignored the question. “What about politics?”
  “Politics?” Rathe repeated, and shook his head. “I don’t see it. I
mean, I know this is a tricky time, with the starchange and all,
but— what do these children have to do with that? They’re not well
enough born for blackmail—they don’t have anything in common,
as far as I can see.”
   “I know,” Fourie said. “I’m not—fully—sure myself. Maybe
nothing. But there are factions seeking to influence Her Majesty’s
choice of a successor. Too many things are happening at once for it
all to be a coincidence, Rathe.” He leaned forward, as though he had
reached a decision. “I want you to check out Caiazzo’s involvement.”
  “Caiazzo?” Rathe leaned back in his chair. Hanselin Caiazzo
was—officially, at least—a long-distance trader, an up-and-coming
merchant-venturer who had almost escaped the taint of his
southriver origins. He was also, and less officially, the paymaster
for or master of a good dozen illegal businesses both south and
north of the Sier, with interest that ranged from the Court of the
Thirty-Two Knives to Point of Graves to the Exemption Docks. No
one had yet proved a point on him, and not for want of effort.
Customs Point was doing very well from his fees, or so the rumor
had it. “I don’t see it… ”
  “Caiazzo has a good many business interests in the north,” Fourie
said. “Especially in the Ile’nord.”
  “That’s not illegal.”
  “Not in and of themselves, no,” Fourie agreed. “But when one of
the likeliest choices for the succession is Palatine Marselion, for
whom Caiazzo has acted on more than one occasion…” He let his
voice trail off, suggestively, and Rathe shook his head.
  “I don’t see a connection with the missing children, sir.”
  “Caiazzo’s been known to bankroll unlicensed printers,” Fourie
said. “Well known for it, in fact, even if we’ve never proved the
point. And astrologers. If Marselion is up to something, what better
way to distract the city, and by distracting the city, the queen’s
government? If that’s the plan, you have to admit, it’s working.
What have all the broadsheets been talking of for the past week?
The nobility? The succession? Politics or ordinary predictions at all?
No—it’s these missing children.”
  It’s very thin . Rathe bit back the instinctive response, said, more
carefully, “Look, politics just isn’t a game Caiazzo’s interested in
playing, he never has been. Frankly, sir, the return just isn’t good
enough.”
   “Backing the next Queen of Chenedolle is bound to have a
sizeable return, Rathe, whether it be in immediate wealth or favor
and influence.”
  “Sir, is this really about the children, or is this just a chance to
get Caiazzo?”
  The surintendant gave another thin smile. “ ‘Just’ a chance to get
Caiazzo, Rathe? The man’s behind at least half the illegal activities
in Astreiant. We—you personally—have been after him for, what,
three, five years now? If we can get him on treason and trafficking
in children, he won’t get free of it.”
  It made a kind of sense, Rathe knew, but couldn’t pretend he was
happy with it. He hesitated, searching for a diplomatic way to say
what had to be said, then shook his head. “I won’t find evidence
that isn’t there, sir.”
  Fourie nodded. “I know. That’s why I picked you for the job.” It
was, Rathe supposed, meant as a compliment, however
backhanded. “But I want you to look into this—Foucquet’s more
important than her rank would suggest, she has a great deal of
influence with the judiciary, and so far she hadn’t said who she
supports. This apprentice of hers could have been taken to force her
hand. Look into it, Rathe, with particular attention to Caiazzo.”
   Rathe stared at him with some frustration. This wasn’t Caiazzo’s
style, he’d fenced with the man long enough to know that; Caiazzo
stayed away from politics and political business as only a commoner
would. And Caiazzo was southriver born and bred, he of all people
would know better than to risk stirring up the smouldering angers
there. Unless he was a Leveller? Rathe added silently, but
dismissed the thought as soon as it was formed. Caiazzo was no
Leveller: society suited him very well in its present form, and he’d
be the first to say as much. But there was no ignoring the
surintendant’s direct order. “Very well, sir,” he said, and made no
effort to keep the skepticism from his voice.
  Fourie ignored it, nodded in dismissal. “And keep me informed.”
  Rathe walked back from the Tour to Point of Hopes, grumbling
that he had better things to spend his money on. He was tempted to
avoid the station entirely, tell Monteia about this new case and the
surintendant’s new interpretation of the old one in the morning, but
his mother had always said that unpleasant duties were best dealt
with as quickly as possible. He sighed, and went on through the
courtyard into the station.
  Jans Ranazy was on duty again, and Rathe made a face, quickly
concealed. He wasn’t fond of the other man, and knew the feeling
was mutual; Monteia had done her best to keep them working
apart, but the station staff was too small to make her efforts
completely effective. Ranazy’s dinner sat on a tray on top of the
daybook, and Rathe grimaced again, recognizing the Cazaril Grey’s
horsehead stamped into the cheap pottery. Only Ranazy, of all the
points, including Monteia herself, managed to afford to have his
dinner brought over from the inn. All the others, fee’d or not,
brought cold dinners when they had the night shift, or cooked over
the stove. But that didn’t suit Ranazy’s opinion of himself.
  Ranazy looked up then, and smiled, not pleasantly. “Still on duty,
Nico?”
   “It’s been a busy afternoon,” Rathe answered. “Is the chief in the
office?”
  “She’s out back, in the yard.” Ranazy would clearly have loved to
ask more, but Rathe ignored his curiosity, and pushed open the
back door of the station.
  The space behind the points stations was, more properly, open
ground intended as defensible space, but forty years of civil peace
had turned it into a back garden, lightly fenced, and sporting a few
haphazardly tended garden plots. Monteia was sitting on a bench
under a straggling fruit tree in the reddened light of the first
sunset, the winter-sun’s shadows pale on the ground around her.
She held a lit pipe negligently between her first two fingers, and
the air was redolent of the mixed herbs. She looked up as the back
door closed.
  “Dare I ask what the sur wanted?”
   “You won’t like it. It seems Judge-Advocate Foucquet has lost one
of her clerk’s apprentices. It’s the same as the others. No sign that
the boy ran. He just—disappeared, yesterday afternoon. His mother
is assize clerk in Point of Hearts.” He took a breath. “And the
judge-advocate and the surintendant both want me to take the case
on my book.”
  “Oh, that’s just marvelous, Rathe. As if you haven’t enough to
do…” Monteia broke off. “And how am I supposed to justify your
poaching to Hearts?”
  “It was the sur’s direct order,” Rathe answered. “And aside from
that, I do feel as though I owe this to maseigne.” He had kept his
tone as respectful as possible, but from the look she gave him,
Monteia was not appeased.
  “For a southriver rat, you certainly have a lot of friends in high
places.” She picked up a sheaf of papers that had been lying at her
feet, weighted with a slate against the nonexistent breeze. “Well,
then, since you’re taking on extra work, you can look into these.
The whole city’s getting a rash of these unlicensed sheets, and
they’re not helping things. About half of them are blatantly
political—hells, they’ve backed every possible candidate for the
succession, including a couple I’ve never heard of—and the rest of
them are passing hints about the children, but they’re none of them
operating under a bond license. You can add these to your daybook.”
   Rathe took the papers mechanically. If Monteia’s assessment was
correct—and it would be, he had no doubt of that—then Caiazzo
could well be connected at least to the printing. He would take
these home with him, and tomorrow he would begin the delicate job
of tracking down their source. After, he added mentally, after I’ve
spoken to Maseigne de Foucquet and found out exactly why she
doesn’t want to go to Point of Hearts.
   Along with the papers, he took a batch of nativities Salineis had
collected for him out through the station onto the front steps,
unwilling to intrude on Monteia’s quiet work in the yard, even more
unwilling to remain in the still, hot air of the station—made hotter,
if not stiller, he thought, by the presence of Ranazy. He sat down
on the broad front step of the station, stretching his legs out with a
sigh of relief, and started leafing through the nativities, settling the
broadsheets under his hip. A knot of the station’s runners were also
playing in front of the building, despite the sun that still beat down
hard in the later afternoon. Laci looked up at him from his game of
jacks, a smile like the sun glinting off a bright knife blade. Jacme, a
rough-boned twelve-year-old who had been thrown out of his home
in the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, was sitting in the lower
boughs of one of the few trees that survived in the street; Ranazy
would scold him out of it, but Rathe just turned a blind eye. He’d
seen few enough fruit trees ruined for being a good climbing tree as
well. Fasquelle de Galhac was lazily tossing a ball back and forth
with Lennar, their constant rivalry temporarily forgotten. Asheri,
Rathe’s favorite, sat in her usual place on the edge of the dry
trough, her hands for once not busy with any needlework. He
smiled at her as he sat down, and she returned the smile, lighting
up her thin face. She had, he reflected, a stillness none of the others
had, or rather, a capacity for stillness; Rathe had seen her fully as
rambunctious as any of the others. A quiet, aloof child would have
found no favor with the rest of the runners, and she had learned
that quickly, despite her own personality. She was a daredevil by
necessity, and a sound one, taking risks that were quickly and
carefully calculated. That calculation wasn’t, some of the other
points thought, natural in a child of twelve. It was, Rathe thought,
an attribute of a sound pointswoman.
  He read through the nativities, poring over them for any
similarities, anything at all that he might have missed the times he
had read through his and the other points’ notes, knowing it was
fruitless, knowing he didn’t make that kind of mistake and even if
he did, it was unlikely that every other pointswoman and man in
the city would overlook anything that was there. He looked at two
he held in his hands— in his left, the nativity of an eight-year-old,
in his right, that of a twelve-year-old.
  He realized, with a sick knot in his stomach, that the station’s
runners were all in the age range of the children who had gone
missing, from Laci, the youngest, to Jacme, the oldest. It was
surely just luck that they hadn’t lost any of them yet. He carefully
stacked the papers, weighting them with a rock, and cleared his
throat. Instantly, their attention was focused on him, on the
possibility of a job to be run, of earning a few extra coins. Well, he
hated to disappoint them, but…
  “Sorry, no job at the moment, I just want to talk to you. Come on
over here,” he invited, and the runners, some eagerly, some warily,
joined him by the table, dropping to sit on the ground beneath the
tree. Jacme was still in the tree, above his head, and Rathe looked
up. “Sorry, Jacme, but I’d like you down here for this, all right?”
  “Right, Nico,” the boy said, cheerfully enough, and dropped to the
ground with a solid thud. He sat down next to Asheri. “What’s up?”
   These were streetwise children, for the most part, probably a lot
wiser in the ways of the streets than many adults, certainly more
so than most of the children who had been stolen. But like most
children, they had a sense of invulnerability, despite the fact that
their lives had been a great deal harder than that of most of the
missing children. “All right,” he said. “You lot know what’s been
going on, these disappearances. We’re doing everything we can to
find out what’s happened to these kids, and, just as important, find
those children who have already disappeared.” He looked at them,
their faces grave, but not frightened, not even worried. They were
street urchins, southriver rats who faced this kind of threat most
days of their lives. “And you’ve probably all heard all the rumors
going about, maybe even some we haven’t yet.”
  “Like the ones who say the points are doing it, Nico?” Laci chimed
in, and Rathe gave him a sour look that fooled neither one of them.
   “I had heard that one already, yes, thank you, Laci.” He paused,
not quite certain how to proceed, wanting to find the words that
would reach them, and not simply send them squirming into
paroxysms of impatience. “The thing is, the thing you may not have
realized, is that all the missing children are between the ages of
eight and twelve.” He stopped, and looked at each of them in turn.
They understood, he could see that, but still, he had to say it, make
it explicit. “So you lot are in the exact age range of the children who
have disappeared.” He shrugged. “All I’m saying is, be careful. You
know the city better than a lot of people, you see things other
people would miss, or would dismiss as unimportant. If you see
anything, no matter what you think I might think of it, let me
know, or anyone else here.”
  “ ’Cept Ranazy,” Jacme muttered.
  “Yes, well, just do it, all right?”
 There were mumbles of assent, and looks were exchanged that
made Rathe frown. “And if you’ve already noticed anything, now
might be a good time to tell me.”
  Fasquelle was drawing lines in the dirt; Jacme was shredding
some grass that had been struggling to exist. Rathe saw Asheri look
at each of them, and then she stood up.
  “I don’t know if anyone else has mentioned it, Nico…” she began,
and then frowned, closing her teeth on her lower lip in thought.
  “Mentioned what, Ash?” Rathe asked, quietly, encouragingly,
glancing at each of the other runners. They seemed content to let
Asheri speak for them.
   “I was waiting for Houssaye the other afternoon at Wicked’s—he
wanted me to run some of those nativities back to the station, since
he was on his way home—and there were some students there. And
they were complaining about these new astrologers working the
fair this year.”
  “New astrologers?” Rathe asked, and Asheri nodded.
   “The students were complaining that they’re taking business
away from them because they’re doing readings for people for less
than the students charge—a half-demming, they say. Which would
be ridiculously low,” Asheri added, “since you can barely buy a loaf
of bread for that.”
   “They’re not with the university, then.” It was a privilege of the
fair for university students to augment their stipends by working
the various temple booths, casting horoscopes and doing star
readings. They charged what the market would bear—not usually
exorbitant, but certainly more than half a demming. “Who are they
aligned to?” he asked.
   Lennar burst in eagerly. “No one, Nico—they wear long robes,
like a magist, but the robes are black, and they don’t carry any
badge or insignia, and they don’t belong to any temple. They say
they can offer people charms to protect their children from the
child-thieves.”
  And at that, Rathe felt a cold anger within him. Bad enough that
parents and guildmasters were worried sick about their children
and apprentices, bad enough that the broadsheets were having a
field day with it all, blaming any group with less influence than
another, but for these hedge-astrologers to prey on these fears for
the sake of coin… a half-demming wasn’t much, admittedly, but
when you multiplied it by the number of fearful adults—and
adolescents—they could be making a very tidy sum. And he had
seen one of them, too, he realized, at the Rivermarket. The
description was too precise, a magist’s robe with no insignia, and he
wished he had known enough to stop the man. That was probably
why he had vanished so quickly. He wondered, briefly, if this might
not be Caiazzo’s style, Caiazzo’s hand at work, but then he
dismissed the thought. Too petty, surely, for a man with the vision
and ambitions of Hanselin Caiazzo. Caiazzo thought to rival the old
trading house Talhafers within the next several years; it would be a
fool’s game to antagonize the temples.
  “What else have you heard about these astrologers?” he asked,
and knew that some of his anger came through in his voice, because
the runners seemed to draw back. He took a breath. “No, look, I’m
sorry. It’s not you I’m angry with, truly. I’m glad you told me about
this—if nothing else, they’re probably violating bond laws, and we
should look into it. But has anyone heard anything else about
them? Seen them? Spoken with any of them?”
  “I think I saw one of them near the fair, Nico, but I can’t be
sure… It was a long black robe, but it might have had a badge, I
just couldn’t see.” That was Lennar, speaking slowly, carefully. A
couple of the others were nodding, Asheri included.
   “Have any of them approached any of you?” he asked, and was
relieved to see them all shake their heads definitively. “Right, then.
It’s probably nothing, they probably just don’t want to pay the
temple bond for casting horoscopes. But thanks for letting me
know. And what I said before, I meant—be careful.”
  There were shrugs, looks of bravado, but these kids were smart,
they wouldn’t take any risks, they’d do as they were told. And that,
Rathe told himself, was the best he could do, wishing that there
were some sort of charm to protect them from danger.
                                 4
                                                              «^»
eslingen leaned against the bar of the Old Brown Dog, letting his
gaze roam over the crowd filling the main room. It was smaller
than the night before’s, and that had been smaller than the crowd
the night before that: Devynck’s regular customers had been
dwindling visibly for the past week. First it had been the butchers’
journeymen and junior masters, the ones who had passed their
masterships but not yet established their own businesses, who had
vanished from the tap, then it had been the rest of the locals, so
that Devynck was back to her original customers, soldiers and the
few transplanted Leaguers who lived within walking distance in
either Point of Hopes or Point of Dreams. And there were fewer of
the latter every night. Eslingen looked around again, searching for
familiar faces. Marrija Vandeale, who ran the brewery that
supplied the Dog, was still there, holding court under the garden
window, but her carter was missing, and Eslingen guessed it would
only be a matter of time before Vandeale took her drinking
elsewhere.
  There were still a sizable number of soldiers in attendance, the
half dozen who lodged with Devynck and a dozen or so others who
had found rooms in the neighborhood, and Eslingen wasn’t
surprised to see a familiar face at the corner table. Flory Jasanten
had lost a leg in the League Wars, though no one knew which side
he’d served— probably both, Eslingen thought, without malice—and
had turned to recruiting to make his way. At the moment, he was
contracting for a company of pioneers that had lost a third of their
men in a series of skirmishes along the border between Chadron
and the League, a thankless job at the best of times, but
particularly difficult in the summer, when the risk of disease was
greatest. And given the pioneer’s captain, a man generally
acknowledged to be competent, but whose unlucky stars were
almost legendary… Eslingen shook his head, and looked again
toward Jasanten’s table. Jasanten would be lucky to get anyone
with experience to sign on.
  As he’d expected, there was only a single figure at the table, a
gangly blond youth with a defiant wisp of beard that only managed
to make him look younger than his twenty years. As he watched,
the young man nodded, and reached across the table to draw a
careful monogram on the Articles of Enlistment. Well, one down,
Eslingen thought, and Jasanten looked up then, meeting his eyes.
Eslingen lifted his almost empty tankard in silent congratulations;
Jasanten smiled, mouth crooked, and then frowned as a slim figure
leaned over the table to speak to him. It was a boy, Eslingen
realized, looked maybe fourteen or fifteen—just past
apprentice-age, at any rate—and felt himself scowl. That was all
Devynck needed, to have kids that age using the Old Brown Dog to
run away to be soldiers, and he pushed himself away from the bar,
intending to tell Jasanten exactly that. Before he could reach that
table, however, the older man shook his head, first with regret, and
then more firmly, and the boy stalked away toward the kitchen
door.
   Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief—he didn’t really want to
alienate any of Devynck’s few remaining customers—but seated
himself on the stool opposite Jasanten anyway.
  “You’re not looking for work,” Jasanten said, but smiled again.
   “Not with Quetien Filipon,” Eslingen agreed. “Besides, I had my
fill of pioneering by the time I was nineteen.”
   Jasanten grunted. “I wish you’d tell that one that.” He tipped his
head sideways, and Eslingen glanced casually in the direction of the
miniscule gesture. The boy was back, carrying a half pint tankard,
and hovering on the edge of a table of soldiers, three men and a
woman who’d been paid off from de Razis’ Royal Auxiliaries the
same day that Coindarel’s Dragons had been disbanded. The tallest
of the men saw him, and grinned, edged over to make a place for
him at the table.
  “Who is he?” Eslingen asked. He was well dressed, for one thing,
that jerkin was good linen, and the embroidery at his collar and
cuffs— black and red, to hide the dirt—had cost a few seillings even
second hand. Some mother had paid well for her son’s keep, and
would not take kindly to his hanging about here listening to
soldiers’ tales, or worse.
  “He said his name’s Arry LaNoy,” Jasanten answered, “but I
doubt it. He wanted to sign on—hells, he wanted to sign on with me
last season, and I told him then he needed to grow. So he’s back
this year, and he’s not much bigger.”
  “I doubt he took kindly to that.”
   “No more did he.” Jasanten made a noise that was almost a
chuckle. “And I’m not unaware of what’s going on in Astreiant,
either.”
  “You’d have to be deaf and blind not to be,” Eslingen muttered.
  “Just so. So I told him he’d need his mother’s permission to sign
on, Filipon wasn’t taking drummers or runners without it, and he
swore me blind he was an orphan.”
  “Not in that shirt, he’s not.”
   “I’m not blind,” Jasanten answered. “And I told him so, so he
stalked off in a sulk.” He nodded to the table of soldiers. “My guess
is, he’s trying to talk them into taking him on, and he won’t be
particular about what he offers them.”
  Eslingen sighed. “That’s all we need.”
  “That’s rather what I thought,” Jasanten said, and leaned back to
summon a passing waiter. “And seeing as you’re Aagte’s knife—”
  “It’s my business to deal with it,” Eslingen finished for him.
“Thanks, Flor, I won’t forget it.”
  Jasenten smiled, and the younger man pushed himself to his feet,
one eye still on the table where the soldiers and the boy were
talking. By the look of them, it would be a while before the boy
could get around to making his request; he could tell from the way
the three exchanged looks that they were just showing off, enjoying
an audience that wasn’t all that much younger than the youngest of
them. And they might have the sense not to listen—the woman,
certainly, had a commonsense grace to her—but at the moment
Devynck couldn’t afford to take the chance.
  Eslingen reached across the bar to catch Loret’s shirt as the big
man worked the tap of the biggest barrel. “Is Adriana in the
kitchen?”
  “Yes.” Loret barely paused in his work. “You want her?”
  “Yes. Or Aagte.”
  “I’ll tell them,” the other waiter, Hulet, said, from behind him,
and disappeared through the kitchen door. Eslingen leaned his
weight against the heavy wooden counter, resisting the desire to
look back at the boy—LaNoy, or whatever his name really was—to
be sure he was still sitting with the soldiers. At last the door
opened, and Adriana came out, wiping her hands on her apron.
  “What is it? Mother’s busy.”
  “Trouble in potential,” Eslingen answered. “You see the table
there, the three from de Razis’ Auxiliaries? Do you know the boy
with them?”
  Adriana sighed, the air hissing through her teeth. “Oh, I know
him, all right. Felis Lucenan, his name is, his mother’s an
apothecary down by the river. Mother told him he wasn’t welcome
here anymore.”
  “Shall I throw him out?” Eslingen asked. “Or, better yet, take
him home myself.”
  The kitchen door opened again before she could answer, and
Devynck herself came out. “Trouble, Philip?”
  “Felis Lucenan’s back,” Adriana said.
  “Areton’s—” Devynck broke off, shaking her head. “The little
bastard’s more trouble than he’s worth.”
  “I’ll take him home,” Eslingen offered, and Devynck shook her
head again.
  “You will not. I don’t want you accused of child-theft. No, I’ll send
a runner to his mother, tell her to come and retrieve him. You just
keep him here.” She smiled then, bitterly. “And maybe I’ll post a
complaint at Point of Hopes, make her keep her spawn at home.”
  “Good luck,” Adriana muttered, and Devynck glared at her.
  “You go, then, tell Anfelis he’s here and I don’t want him. Get on
with it, it’ll take you a quarter-hour to get to the shop, and then
you’ll have to wake the woman.”
  “Yes, mother.” Adriana stripped off her apron, bundling it under
the bar.
  “And as for you—” Devynck turned her gaze on Eslingen. “See
that he doesn’t get away—and doesn’t sign on to anything we’ll
regret later.”
   “Right, sergeant,” Eslingen answered, automatically. Devynck
nodded, turned back to the kitchen. Eslingen rested his elbows on
the bar, let his gaze wander over the crowd again, though he kept
half an eye on the boy, still sitting at the table, leaning forward
eagerly to hear the soldiers’ stories. A quarter of an hour to his
mother’s shop, Devynck had said, and the same back again, plus
whatever time it took to wake the apothecary—say three-quarters
of an hour, if not an hour, he thought, and heard the tower clock
strike half past ten. The winter-sun would be setting soon, and he
hoped Adriana walked carefully. Astreiant’s streets were as safe as
any, better than many as long as the winter-sun shone, and
besides, he told himself, Devynck’s daughter would know how to
use the knife she carried at her belt. Still, he wished it had been
him, or one of the waiters, to go, though that would probably have
warned the boy that something was up.
   He sighed, shifted his elbows to a more comfortable position on
the scarred counter. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than
to go lay a hand on the brat, make sure he couldn’t get away before
his mother arrived to claim him, but the thought of the boy’s
probable reaction was enough to keep him where he was. All he
would need was for the brat to accuse of him of being the
child-thief, and even the other soldiers would be inclined to believe
it, if only to defend themselves from similar accusations. Better to
wait, he told himself, do nothing unless the boy tries to leave, at
least not until his mother’s here.
  Luckily, the boy seemed engrossed in the trio’s stories. Eslingen
made himself relax, stay still, counting the minutes until the clock
struck again. Not long now, he thought, and in the same moment,
heard the clatter of hooves and the rattle of a low-flyer drawing up
outside the door. The boy heard it, too, and looked up, the color
draining from his face. No one took a carriage to the Old Brown
Dog, and he guessed instantly what it must be. He started up from
the table, the soldiers staring after him, heading for the back door,
but Eslingen stepped smoothly into his way, caught him by the
shoulder.
  “Hold on, son, what’s your hurry?”
  Behind them, the inn’s main door opened, and Eslingen felt the
boy slump under his hand.
  “Philip?” Adriana called, from the doorway, and Eslingen turned
in time to see a stocky woman sweep past her.
  “Felis! How many times have I told you, I won’t have you coming
down here like this.”
  The boy rolled his eyes, and allowed himself to be transferred to
her hold. Eslingen felt a sudden, sneaking sympathy for him, and
suppressed it, ruthlessly. The stocky woman—Lucenan, her name
was, he remembered—looked him up and down, and gave him a
stern nod.
  “I’m grateful for your intervention, sir.”
   The “sir,” Eslingen knew, was more a response to the cut of his
coat than to his service. He said easily, “I doubt you had anything
to be concerned with, madame, no one’s hiring boys this late in the
season.”
  “It wasn’t the hiring I was worried about,” Lucenan said, grimly.
   Eslingen nodded. “A word in your ear, madame,” he said, and
eased her toward the door. She went willingly, though her hand on
her son’s shoulder showed white knuckles, and the boy winced at
her grip. “If the boy’s this determined—there’ll be places after the
fall balance, for the winter campaigns, good places for a boy to
start. Let him sign on then, til the spring. He may not like the taste
of it.”
   “No son of mine,” Lucenan began, and then visibly remembered
to whom, or what, she was speaking. “Thanks for your concern, sir,
but Felis—what he does when he comes of age, well, I can’t stop
him, but until then, I won’t help him get himself killed.”
  Eslingen sighed, recognizing a familiar attitude, and held the
door for her. As he’d expected, the low-flyer was waiting, the driver
keenly interested in the proceedings. He handed them into the
coach—the woman seemed surprised and pleased by the gesture,
though the boy rolled his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking,
and earned a slap for his presumption—and stepped back to watch
it roll away.
   Adriana was waiting by the bar, a glass, not the usual tankard,
in her hand. As he approached, she slid it toward him, and he took
it with a nod of thanks. There was a dram or so of a clear,
sweet-smelling liquor in the bottom of it, and he drained it with a
smile. The fiery liquor, distilled grain spirit with a strong flavor of
mint, burned its way down his throat, and he set the glass down
with a sigh.
  “The next,” Adriana said, “you pay for.”
   “That’s all right, then,” Eslingen answered. Menthe was imported
from Altheim, and wasn’t cheap there. He shook his head. “I hope
it’s done some good.”
  “Can’t hurt,” Adriana answered. “Tell me something, Philip, what
do your stars say about your death?”
  Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a personal question, surely—or
were you planning something I should know of?”
  “Neither killing nor bedding you, so get your mind off it,” Adriana
said, but he could see the color rise in her dark cheeks. “No, I’m
sorry, I know it came out wrong, but Felis—” She stopped, took a
breath, looked suddenly younger than her years. “Anfelis told
Mother why she won’t let Felis go, aside from he’s her only kid. His
stars are bad for war, he’s likely to die by iron.”
   Eslingen sighed, the menthe still hot on his tongue. “Then he’d be
a fool to sign on, surely. You’d be surprised how many of us have
those stars, though.” It was an ill-omened thought. He smiled, and
said brightly, “I, however, am like to live to a ripe age, comforting
women and men to my last days.”
  “Comfort seems unlikely,” Adriana retorted, and swung back
behind the bar. Eslingen watched the kitchen door close behind her,
his smile fading. Returning the Lucenan boy to his mother could
only improve the Old Brown Dog’s reputation—he hoped. There
were a handful of butchers, the journeyman Paas chief among
them, who seemed to go out of their way to find something bad to
say about anything Devynck did. Eslingen sighed again, suddenly
aware that it was nearing midnight, and turned to survey the
thinning crowd in the taproom. Everything seemed quiet enough,
the three soldiers leaning close over an improvised dice board,
Jasanten limping in from the garden, his crutch loud on the wooden
floor, the woman musician who worked in one of the theaters in
Point of Dreams nodding over her pint and a plate of bread and
cheese, and Eslingen hoped that things would stay that way, at
least until tonight’s closing.
Eslingen woke to the sound of someone knocking on his door. He
rolled over, untangling himself from the sheets, and winced at the
sunlight that seeped in through the cracks in the shutters. He could
tell from the quality of the light that it was well before the second
sunrise, and as if to confirm the bad news, the tower clock sounded.
He counted the strokes—eight—before he sat up, swearing under
his breath.
  “Eslingen? You awake?”
 Eslingen bit back a profane response, said, as moderately as he
was able, “I am now.”
  “There’s a pointsman to see you.”
  “Seidos’s Horse!” Eslingen swallowed the rest of the curse. “What
in the name of all the gods does he want with me?”
  “Didn’t say.” The voice was definitely Loret’s. “Aagte says, will
you please come down?”
  Eslingen sighed. He doubted that Devynck had been that polite—
unless of course she was trying to impress the pointsman—and he
swung himself out of bed. “Tell her I’ll be down as soon as I put
some clothes on.”
  “All right,” Loret said, and there was a little silence. “It’s Rathe,”
he added, and Eslingen heard the sound of his footsteps retreating
toward the stairs.
  And what in all the hells do I care which pointsman it is?
Eslingen swallowed the comment as pointless, and crossed to his
chest to find clean clothes. His best shirt was sorely in need of
washing, and his second best needed new cuffs and collar, and the
third and fourth best were little better than rags. He made a face,
but shrugged on the second best, hoping the pointsman wouldn’t
notice the frayed fabric and the darned spot below the collar. He
finished dressing, winding his cravat carefully, and thought that
the fall of its ends would hide the worst of it. There was no time to
shave, but he tugged his hair into a loose queue, and then made his
way down the stairs to the tap.
  Rathe was standing in the middle of the wide room, the light of
the true sun pouring in through the unshuttered windows and
washing over him, turning his untidy curls to bronze as he bent his
head to note something in his tablets. Devynck stood opposite him,
arms folded across her chest, and the two waiters were loitering
behind the bar, trying to pretend they were doing something useful.
Jasanten, the only one of the lodgers who had his breakfast at the
tavern, as a concession either to past friendship or to his missing
leg, was watching more openly from his table in the corner.
  “—complaint,” Devynck was saying, and Eslingen hid a grin. So
she was going to go through with her threat of the night before.
  “Oh, come on, Aagte,” Rathe said, but kept his tablet out.
“Complaint of what? You keep a public tavern, you can hardly
accuse the boy of trespass for coming here.”
  “Felis Lucenan’s been told more than once that he’s not welcome
here,” Devynck answered. “He comes around, makes a nuisance of
himself—lies to the recruiters when they’re here, tries to get
someone to take him on as a runner. I told him a moon-month ago
not to come back, and last night, well.” She fixed Rathe with a
sudden stare. “I want it on the books, the times being what they
are, that I don’t invite him.”
  Rathe grinned, showing slightly crooked teeth. “I can’t say I
blame you, at that. All right, I’ll note it down, see it’s posted on the
station books. And I’ll send someone round to Lucenan’s shop to
make sure she knows you want her to keep the boy at home.”
  Devynck made a face, but nodded. “I suppose you have to do that,
not that it’ll win me friends.”
  “Fair’s fair, Aagte. Maybe it’ll make the boy a little warier, if he
knows we’re taking an interest.” Rathe looked toward the doorway
then. “Good morning, Eslingen.”
  “Morning.” The pointsman had the look of someone who relished
early rising, and Eslingen sighed. “Though I don’t usually get up til
the next sunrise.”
  “I’m sorry,” Rathe said, without much sincerity.
  “That was all I wanted with you, Nico,” Devynck said. “People
around here are starting to look sideways at me, and it’s not my
doing.”
  “I know,” Rathe answered. “So does Monteia. We’re doing what
we can.”
  Devynck made a face, as though she would say something else,
but visibly thought better of it. “I hope it gets results,” she said
instead, and went back to the kitchen, slamming the door behind
her.
 “So what can I do for you, pointsman?” Eslingen said, after a
moment.
  Rathe gave another quick grin. “I heard you had another bit of
difficulty last night.”
   “That’s right.” Eslingen took a breath, preparing himself to
launch into the story, and Rathe lifted a hand, at the same moment
folding his tablets.
  “You don’t need to go through it again unless you want to, I got
the bones of it from Adriana. And Felis is—known to us, as they say
in the judiciary. We’ve had this trouble with him before.”
 “Then what—” Eslingen swallowed his words, went on more
moderately, “What do you need me for, pointsman?”
  “Why’d I get you out of bed at this hour?” Rathe asked,
disconcertingly, and Eslingen nodded.
  “Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.”
  “A couple of reasons,” Rathe answered, and nodded toward one of
the tables by the garden windows. “I asked Adriana if I could get a
bite while I’m here, you want to join me?”
   “Why not?” Eslingen settled himself on the nearest of the well
worn stools, tilting it so that his back rested against the cool plaster
of the wall. At the moment, the sun was pleasant on his booted feet,
but he knew that within an hour or two it would be uncomfortably
hot. And I should find a cobbler as well as a seamstress, he added,
and shook the thought away. With things as uncertain as they were
in Astreiant right now, it seemed foolish to spend money on things
he didn’t really need.
  Rathe perched gracelessly on the stool opposite him, resting his
elbows on the tabletop. “First, I wanted to ask you if you’d seen or
heard anything that might have a bearing on these missing
children.”
  “Why ask me?” Eslingen demanded, and let his stool fall forward
with a thump as Adriana appeared from the kitchen.
   “Bread and cheese and a good pot of tea,” she announced. “That’s
all we’ve got at the moment.”
  “It looks lovely,” Eslingen said, and meant it.
  Rathe nodded his agreement, and, to Eslingen’s surprise, reached
into his pocket for his purse, came out with a handful of copper.
“How much?”
  Adriana waved away the proffered coins. “No charge—and not a
fee, either.”
  “Aagte’s not going to like it,” Rathe said.
  “It’s on me, not the house,” Adriana answered, and winked at
Eslingen. “And I won’t say who for.”
  “Fair enough,” Rathe said, to her departing back, and slipped the
coins back into his purse. He seemed about to say something more,
reached instead for the fat teapot and the nearer of the cups. “Why
ask you—lieutenant, right?”
  “Right.” Eslingen accepted the cup of tea, wrapped his hands
around the warming pottery. “I’m practically a stranger here,
Rathe.”
   “That’s partly why,” Rathe said, indistinctly, his mouth full of
bread. He swallowed, said, more clearly, “There’s a chance you
might notice something a local might not—someone acting odd, say,
when it’s a change that’s happened slowly enough tüat everyone
else has just gotten used to it.”
  For a wild moment, Eslingen considered blaming the butcher’s
journeyman Paas, but put the thought aside instantly. “Not a thing,
and I wish I had. The neighbors are starting to look sideways at us,
and I can’t find a laundress I’d trust for love nor money.”
  Rathe grinned at that. “I didn’t really tüink you had, but it was
worth asking.”
  “Then it’s true what they’re saying—” Eslingen broke off, tardily
aware of what he had been about to say. What the neighborhood
gossips were saying was that the points didn’t have any more idea
than anyone else of what was happening to the children.
   “That we don’t have a clue what’s happening?” Rathe finished,
and Eslingen saw with some relief that he didn’t seem offended.
“It’s no secret. Kids’ve gone missing from all over the city, and no,
there’s nothing in common among them, and no one’s found a body
or seen a child being stolen, for all the talk of child-thieves. Which
brings me to the other reason I’m here. You’ve heard the rumor
that the kids are being taken by recruiters?”
  Eslingen snorted, swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese.
“Yeah, I’ve heard it. I’ve heard a lot of other tales, too.”
  “I’m not accusing you or any soldier,” Rathe said, mildly, and
Eslingen grimaced at his own haste.
  “Sorry. It’s a sore point.”
   Rathe nodded. “I daresay. But my question for you is, all right, if
it’s not recruiters, why not?”
  Eslingen stared at him for a minute, wondering where to begin,
and Rathe held up a hand.
  “I’ve never been a soldier, and we don’t get much soldiers’
business in Point of Hopes. Aagte’s is about the only tavern that
caters to your custom. Now, in other businesses I know of, children
are cheap, cheaper than adults, but not for you, it seems.”
  “It takes strength to trail a pike,” Eslingen said, “and height
helps, too. The same for a piece, to stand the recoil. You want a
man grown, or woman, or something close to it.”
  “How old were you when you signed on?” Rathe asked, and
Eslingen made a face.
  “Fourteen, but I joined as a sergeant’s runner. And, yes, you don’t
need much skill or size—or anything—for that, but you don’t want
dozens of them, either.” He took a breath. “Besides, there were
three royal regiments paid off a week ago, and the recruiters can
have their pick of them. No one wants kids.” That wasn’t quite
true—there were regiments, like the pioneers Jasanten was
recruiting for, that had a bad reputation, or lacked any reputation
at all, that wouldn’t attract any but the most desperate veterans.
Even the most spendthrift wouldn’t need money yet. He met
Rathe’s eyes squarely, and hoped the pointsman would believe him.
  “There must be jobs an experienced man wouldn’t take,” Rathe
said, and Eslingen swore under his breath. “What about them?”
  “Why don’t you ask Flory, there?” he asked, and heard himself
turn sharp and irritable. “He’s recruiting for a company like
that—and it was him who turned the Lucenan boy down flat,
pointsman.”
  “I will,” Rathe answered, imperturbably. “If you’ll introduce me.”
  Eslingen sighed, let the stool fall again. “Come on.”
  Rathe followed him easily, still carrying his cup of tea, and
Eslingen wished for a moment he’d had the sense to do that
himself. But it made Rathe look as though he rarely got a decent
meal—the crumpled coat, worn to shapelessness over the
pointsman’s leather jerkin, added to that impression—and Eslingen
refused to show himself that needy. Even when he had been close to
starving, years back, he had known better than to betray himself
that way.
   Jasanten looked up at their approach, narrowed eyes flicking
from Rathe to Eslingen and then back again, taking in the royal
monogram on the truncheon tucked into Rathe’s belt. He didn’t
move, and Eslingen said, hastily, “Flor, this is Nicolas Rathe, he’s a
pointsman—sorry, adjunct point—at Point of Hopes. Flory
Jasanten.”
  Jasanten nodded, still distant, and Eslingen wished he’d kept his
own mouth shut. It was too late for that, though, and he contented
himself with saying, “Rathe’s all right, Flor.”
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rathe give him a quick
glance, though whether it was startled or grateful he couldn’t be
sure, and then Jasanten grunted, and used his crutch to push a
couple of stools away from his table.
  “Sit down, then, why don’t you.”
  Rathe did as he was told, his expression cheerfully neutral, but
Eslingen wished suddenly that he knew what the other was
thinking behind that mask. “I heard you had a bit of trouble, last
night.”
 Jasanten snorted, looked at Eslingen. “You, too, Philip, I may
want a witness of my own.”
  “And will you need one?” Rathe murmured. His voice was still
just as neutral, but Eslingen could almost feel him snap to inward
attention.
  “It’s all right, Flor,” he said again, and settled himself on the
second stool. I hope, he added silently. But Aagte seems to trust
him.
   Jasanten nodded once, looked back at Rathe. “I saw you talking
to Aagte. If you talked to her, you know what happened, and you
know I’m not hiring children. So what do you want with me?”
   “The same thing I wanted with Eslingen—the same thing I want
with anyone here,” Rathe answered. “First, anything you might
know about these kids—someone who might be recruiting them, or
claim to be recruiting, anything you’ve heard.” He paused then, and
Eslingen glanced sideways to see the grey eyes narrowed slightly
under the bird’s-wing brows, as though the pointsman was
searching for something in the distance. “The lad who’s gone
missing from the Knives Road—you’ll have heard about that, that’s
the case that’s got this neighborhood up in arms. She’s twelve, got
no family to speak of, just walked out of a good apprenticeship—left
everything she owned sitting in her chest, and she was a girl who
appreciated her things—and all I’ve got to go on is a drunk
journeyman who says he might’ve seen her going south from the
street, and a laundress who says she might’ve seen her, too, but
going north. Now, you know as well as I do what this could mean,
some madman killing or hurting for the sake of it, though so far we
haven’t found bodies, and no necromancer has reported a new
ghost.”
  “They can bind ghosts,” Jasanten said, almost in spite of himself,
and Rathe nodded.
  “So they can. It’s not easy, or so I’m told. I’m not a scholar, but it
can be done.”
  “A madman might have the strength for it,” Eslingen said.
“They’re stronger physically than they ought to be, maybe it works
the same for a magist.”
  Rathe looked at him, the thin brows drawing down. “Now there’s
a happy thought.”
  Eslingen shrugged, and Jasanten said, “That’s right, you were
with Coindarel three years ago.”
   Eslingen sighed—it was a subject he preferred not to think
about—but nodded. Rathe cocked his head to one side in silent
question, and Eslingen sighed again. “There was a man, a new
recruit, out of Dhenin—he was a butcher by his original trade, in
point of fact— he raped a woman and murdered her. It was pretty
clear who it was, and the prince-marshal hanged him, Rathe, so you
needn’t look sideways at everyone who was paid off from the
Dragons, either. But it took seven men to hold him, when they
came to arrest him. And he was mad, that one.”
  “I remember the broadsheets,” Rathe said. “It was a nine-days’
wonder.” He sighed, then. “And I hope to Demis you’re wrong about
madmen being magistically stronger, but I’ll check that out. It’s a
nasty thought.”
   Jasanten nodded, leaning forward to plant both elbows on the
table. “You’ll find it’s someone like that. It has to be. No one else
would have cause. Areton’s beard, I’m recruiting for Filipon’s
Pioneers, and they’ve had two years of hard luck now, but I can still
find grown men, even experienced men, who need a place.”
  “The business,” Rathe said, with a straight face, “just hasn’t been
the same since the League War ended.”
 “No more it has,” Jasanten agreed, and then shot the younger
man a wary look.
  Rathe kept his expression sober, however, and said, “Eslingen
here tells me you don’t want kids because they’re too small to
handle the weapons and they don’t have skills you want. What
about kids who knew how to handle horses, would you want them?”
  “Ah.” Jasanten smiled. “Now that’s another matter, I admit. If
you’ve got kids missing from stables, Rathe, yeah, I’d look to the
recruiters. A boy with the right stars and the knack for it, or a girl,
for that matter, there are girls enough born under Seidos’s signs,
they could find a place if they wanted it. Or with the caravans, for
that matter.”
  Rathe glanced again at Eslingen, and the dark-haired man
nodded, reluctantly. “A kid would come cheaper than a trooper, and
you always need people to tend to the horses. But a butcher’s brat
wouldn’t be my first choice.”
  “No,” Rathe agreed. He drained the last of his tea, and stood up,
stretching in the fall of sunlight. “Thanks for your help, Jasanten,
Eslingen—and, Eslingen, remember. If you have any trouble,
anything you can’t handle, that is, send to Point of Hopes.”
  “I’ll do that,” Eslingen answered, impressed in spite of himself,
and the pointsman nodded and turned away. Eslingen watched him
go, and Jasanten shook his head.
  “I don’t hold with that,” he said, and Eslingen looked back at him.
  “Don’t hold with what?”
  “Pointsmen.” Jasanten shook his head again. “It’s not right,
common folk like him having to tend the law. That’s the seigneury’s
job, they were born to protect us—and you mark my words, Philip,
this business won’t be settled until the Metropolitan gets off her ass
and does something about it.”
   Eslingen shrugged. He himself would rather trust a common man
than some noble who had no idea of what ordinary folk might have
to do to live, but he knew there were plenty of people who agreed
with Jasanten—and it was, he had to admit, generally harder to
buy a noble. “Maybe,” he said aloud, and stood, slowly. “I have to
go, Flor.”
  Jasanten looked up at him, an odd smile on his lips, but he said
only, “You don’t want to waste a free breakfast.”
  “No,” Eslingen agreed, and decided not to ask any questions.
Good luck to you, Rathe, he thought, and went back to his table and
the bread and cheese and the cooling pot of tea.
He finished his breakfast quickly enough, and returned to his room
to shave, and to change shirts. He had errands to run, and he was
not about to risk one of his two good shirts on the expedition—and
besides, he added silently, he might have the good fortune to find a
laundress who’d be willing to take his business. He tucked it back
with the others in his chest, and shrugged himself into an older,
coarser shirt, well aware that the unbleached fabric was less than
flattering to his complexion. But that was hardly the point, he
reminded himself, and slipped into the lightest of his coats. He
should also probably find himself an astrologer as well, see what
guidance she or he could provide— the broadsheets did well enough
for entertainment, and for general trends, but these days, with the
climate of the city less than favorable toward Leaguers, it might be
wise to see what the stars held for him personally.
  He went back down the stairs and through the main room, where
Jasanten was drowsing over the remains of his breakfast, and
ducked through the hall behind the bar. There was no sign of
Devynck herself, but Adriana looked up as he peered around the
kitchen door.
 “Do you want me this morning?” he asked, and heard the girl
who helped with the cooking giggle softly.
  Adriana’s smile widened, but she shook her head, and tumbled a
bowl of chopped vegetables into a waiting pot. “Mother will want
you back at opening, but there’s no reason for you to kick your
heels around here all morning. Off to fetch more broadsheets?”
  Eslingen shrugged. “Probably. But I feel in need of more—
personal guidance. Where does one go to get a good reading done?”
  She moved away from the table, wiping her hands clean on her
coarse apron. “Depends on how flush you’re feeling, now that you’re
gainfully employed, Lieutenant. There are the temples, of course,
but they’re expensive, and you might not want to attract the Good
Counsellor’s attention just now by visiting one of his people.”
  “Not particularly,” Eslingen answered. The Good Counsellor was
one of the polite, propitiating names for the Starsmith, god of death
and the unseen, as well as patron of astrologers, and no soldier
wanted to draw his gaze, not even in peace time.
   “You could go to the Three Nations,” Adriana went on. “It’s what
they’re there for, especially this time of year.” Eslingen blinked,
utterly confused, and she smiled. “The university students—they
call themselves the Three Nations, every student claims allegiance
to one of them, Chenedolle, the North, or Overseas.”
  “It sounds to me as though they’re leaving out a few people.”
   “Oh, the students lump Chadron and the League in with the
Ile’nord, though a lot of Leaguers call themselves Chenedolliste,”
Adriana answered. “And Overseas is the Silklanders and anybody
who doesn’t want to be bothered with politics. It’s all political,
really, a game for them and a royal pain for the rest of us.” She
shook her head. “Anyway, the Three—the students have always
had the right to cast horoscopes at the fairs, both the little fair,
which is what’s happening now, and the great fair. It’s supposed to
just be augmenting their stipend, but they tend to charge what the
market will bear.”
  There was a distinct note of—something—in her voice, Eslingen
thought. Disapproval? Contempt? Neither was quite right. “Aren’t
they any good?” he asked, cautiously, and she made a face.
  “It’s not that, they’re good, all right—they’d better be, or the
university would have a lot to answer for. No, it’s just that… well,
the fees are supposed to be a supplement, but they tend to charge
what they can get, which can be quite a lot, and the students—well,
they’re students. They think well of themselves. Extremely well of
themselves, in actual fact, and not nearly so well of the rest of us.”
She shrugged. “They’re all right, they just get my back up—get
everybody’s backs up, really, but it’s mostly because they’re young
and arrogant. If you can afford it, and you want the cachet of the
university, such as it is, you can go to them.”
  “And otherwise?”
   Adriana’s smile was wry. “Otherwise, of course, there are the
failed students who set themselves up casting charts for the
printers, they’re easy enough to find, or ex-temple servants who
claim they know what they’re doing, or—you get the idea.” She
stopped then, tilting her head to one side. “Talk’s been of some new
astrologers working the fair—not affiliated with either the temples
or the university, and the word is they’re a lot cheaper than the
Three Nations. Shame and all that, but a lot of people are cheering
the change. It’s nothing important, it’s just nice to see the students
taken down a peg or three. Loret had his stars read by one of them,
and he seemed to think they knew what they were doing.”
  “But where did they train? They must be connected with some
temple,” Eslingen said. He’d never heard of a freelance astrologer
who was any good—but then, this was Astreiant. Anything could
happen here.
   Adriana was shaking her head. “They don’t claim any allegiance.
They read the stars, they say, and the stars belong to all gods and
all women—and not just to the Three Nations. The arbiters must
have approved them, or they’d have been chased off. So my advice
to you, my Philip, is to save your money where you can, and see if
you can find one of these astrologers to read for you.”
  “And how do I find one?” Eslingen asked.
  Adriana spread her hands, and the girl looked up from the
hearth.
  “They say they find you, if you want them.”
  “Nonsense,” Adriana answered, and rolled her eyes at Eslingen.
  “Well, they do,” the girl said, sounding stubborn, and Eslingen
said quickly, “How do I tell them from the Three Nations?”
  “They’re older, for one thing, or so I hear,” Adriana said. “I heard
they dress like magists, but without badges, so look for black robes,
not grey, and no temple marks.”
  Eslingen nodded, intrigued in spite of himself. “I think I’ll look for
them, then. Thanks.”
   It was a long walk from Devynck’s to the New Fairground,
almost the full length of the city, but Eslingen found himself
enjoying it, in spite of the heat and the crowds. Hundreds of people
jostled each other in the lanes between the brightly painted booths,
or clustered in the open temporary squares to bargain over
goods—spices, silks, wool cloth and yarn, dyestuffs, once stacks and
stacks of beaten-copper pots—spread apparently piecemeal across
the beaten dirt. It was already bigger than the Esling fairs he had
attended as a boy; what, he wondered, would the real fair be like
when it was fully open?
   He had no idea how the booths were laid out, though it was
obvious that like trades were grouped together, but let himself
wander with the crowd, listening with half an ear for the chime of
the clock at Fairs’ Point. He would have to head back to Devynck’s
when it struck eleven, but until then, at least, his time was his
own. He found Printers’ Row easily enough, a dozen or more tables
set out under tents and awnings and brightly painted umbrellas,
and stopped to browse. Already he recognized some of the house
names and the printer’s symbols, thought, too, that he recognized
some of the sellers, relocated temporarily from Temple Fair. The
sheets tacked to the display boards or pinned precariously to the
sides of the tents were the usual kind, a mix of weekly almanacs
and sheets of predictions according to each birth sign as well as the
more general prophecy-sheets. Most of the last dealt directly or
obliquely with the missing children, and a good number of those
blamed the League, but there was one big tent, its red sides faded
to a dark rose, that seemed to deal entirely with politics. And
impartially, too, Eslingen added, with an inward grin. Whoever sold
or printed these sheets played no favorites; Leveller tracts hung
side by side with sheets touting the merits of the various noble
candidates. Among the nobles, the Metropolitan of Astreiant
seemed to be the popular favorite—he could count half a dozen
sheets openly supporting her, though whether that was genuine
liking or mere proximity was impossible to tell. However, there
were also a scattering of sheets pointing out the virtues of the
various northern candidates. He picked out three of those, paid his
demming, and stepped back to study them. Marselion’s was the
least interesting, full of more bluster than scholarship, and the one
supporting Palatine Sensaire was crudely done, a mere half dozen
verses beneath a stock blockprint of a seated woman. But Belvis’s
was something different, and Eslingen paused, frowning, to read it
again. It was better printed than the others, and if the verses told
the truth, Belvis certainly had the appropriate stars. He knew little
about her, except that she was from the Ile’nord, but the
broadsheet writer had clearly gone out of her way to reassure
Astreianters wary of the old-fashioned north. Palatine Belvis, it
implied, kept to the best of both worlds; besides, the stars favored
her, and Astreiant should do well to accept the inevitable.
Eslingen’s eyebrows rose at that, and he glanced automatically for
the imprimatur. It was there, if blurred, and he smiled, and tucked
the papers into his cuff.
  The clock struck the quarter hour, and he made a face, recalling
himself to his real business. If he wanted to have his stars read, he
would have to hurry, at least if he wanted the job done
properly—and the way the broadsheets were running, he thought, I
might do well to reconsider Cijntien’s offer. He glanced at another
as he passed, and controlled his temper with an effort. This one
openly blamed the League cities, claiming that the children were
being stolen for revenge, and possibly to form the backbone of a
new army that would avenge the League’s defeat. From the size of
the remaining stack, it hadn’t sold as well as its neighbors, but even
so, it was all he could do to control his anger. The League Wars had
ended twenty years before, and had been about trade; since then,
League and Kingdom had been close allies, and there were plenty of
Leaguers like himself who’d shed their own blood in the queen’s
service. He shoved past a stocky man who was reaching for another
sheet, and turned down the nearest path between the stalls.
   His anger cooled as quickly as it had flared, and he paused at the
next intersection, looking for some sign of the astrologers Adriana
had mentioned. He saw a trio of grey-gowned students clustered by
a food stall, but before he could consider approaching them, an older
woman tapped one of them on the shoulder, only to have her coins
waved away. Apparently, Eslingen thought, the students were
otherwise engaged at the moment. He turned away, too, threaded
his way past a group of blue-coated apprentices, and found himself
in a row of linen-drapers. In spite of himself, he sighed at the sight
of the bolts of expensive fabric, wishing he could afford a shirt from
them, and then, at the end of the row of shops, he caught sight of a
man in a black scholar’s gown. The sleeves were empty of badges,
and he stood deep in conversation with a woman and a boy, a plain
disk orrery held to the sunlight. One of Adriana’s astrologers? he
wondered, and moved closer. The man was ordinary enough
looking, middle-aged, middling looks, his rusty black robe open to
reveal a plain dark suit and equally plain linen. There was no
temple badge at his collar, either, and Eslingen took a step closer.
Even as he did, the woman nodded, and turned away. The boy
followed more reluctantly, looking back as though he had wanted to
ask something more. Eslingen smiled in sympathy—the woman, the
boy’s mother, probably, hadn’t looked like the sort to spend her
hard-earned coins on more than the absolute necessities, which was
probably why she was consulting one of the freelances rather than
a student or a Temple astrologer.
 “Pardon me, magist,” he said. He didn’t know if the astrologer
was indeed actually a magist as well, doubted it, in fact, but there
was no harm in inflating the man’s rank.
  The astrologer gave a slight smile. “No magist, sir, but an
astrologer, and a good one.” He tilted his head. “Are you looking to
have a reading done?”
  His accent was pleasant, Chenedolliste, but without the city’s
sharp vowels. Eslingen smiled back, and said, carefully, “Indeed, I
was wanting that, the temper of the times being what they are, but
I was also wondering what temple you served.”
   The astrologer seemed to study him for a long moment, the smile
widening almost imperceptibly. “No temple, sir, the stars are free to
all. But, as we serve no one master, our fees are low—and fixed.”
  Eslingen hid a sigh—he had hoped to talk the price down a little,
on the grounds that the astrologer had no affiliation—and said,
“How much?”
  “Two demmings for a man grown,” the astrologer answered
promptly. “In advance.”
   The price was much lower than he had expected, and Eslingen
blinked. It probably wouldn’t be a brilliant reading—in his
experience, one generally got what one paid for—but at that price,
he could hardly refuse. “Agreed,” he said, and reached into his purse
for the coins.
  The astrologer accepted them calmly. “A wise course, sir—
especially given that you’re a Leaguer, from your accent?”
 Eslingen nodded, his expression wry. “As I said, the times being
what they are…”
 The astrologer smiled again, and lifted his disk orrery. “And
when were you born, sir?”
  “The fifth day of Sedeion, a little past half-past ten in the
morning,” Eslingen answered. “In the second year of this queen’s
reign.”
  The astrologer nodded, and began adjusting the rings of the
orrery.
  It was double-faced, Eslingen saw; the other side would be
already set to this day’s planetary positions, and the astrologer
would take his reading from a comparison of the two. “Do you know
the time any more closely—was it closer to the half hour, or to the
next quarter?”
  Eslingen shook his head. “Past the half hour is all I know.” His
mother had lost interest in keeping precise track after her third or
fourth child was born, and there had never been money for a decent
midwife; he had been lucky to know this much.
  “Unfortunate,” the astrologer said, almost absently, and held the
orrery to his eyes. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise a
precise accounting.”
  Eslingen sighed, but said nothing. The astrologer turned the
orrery from one side to the other, then went on briskly. “Well. You
were born under the Horse and the Horsemaster, good signs for a
soldier, and the sun is still in the Horse, which is also good for you,
though it left the Horsemaster four days ago. The moon is against
you just now, in the Spider and the Hearthstone, but that will
change with the new moon, when it returns to the Horse. Astree
stands in the Horse and Horsemaster still, which is good for seeing
justice done—” He smiled at that, thinly, and Eslingen’s smile in
return was wry. “—but it and the sun stand square to the
winter-sun. Seidos is well aspected for you, both at your birth and
presently; I’d say you were due to rise in the world, possibly
through your trade.” He shook his head then, and slipped the orrery
back into his pocket beneath the rusty gown. “With the moon and
the winter-sun against you, I would advise you to stay away from
lunar things for the next few days, at least until the new moon.
Don’t travel by water until then, and be cautious once the true
sun’s down. All of that should end by the new moon, and you should
see a change of fortune then.”
  And that, Eslingen thought, was that. It wasn’t much, when you
boiled it down to the essentials—be careful after sundown, a
reasonable enough statement in a large city, and a chance that he
would change his status, possibly through his trade, with the new
moon. But it was something, and the statement that Astree was
placed to insure that justice would be done was a little reassuring.
“Thanks,” he said aloud, and the astrologer gave an odd, almost
old-fashioned bow.
  “My pleasure to serve,” he said, and turned away.
  Eslingen watched him go, and was startled at how fast the man
seemed to vanish in the crowd, despite the conspicuous black robe.
Still, it made sense to be inconspicuous when the trade was new,
especially when they were undercutting an established group. More
power to you, he thought, and heard the Fairs’ Point clock strike
the hour. He turned back toward the Old Brown Dog, and hoped
that the astrologer’s prediction was right about things changing at
the new moon.
Rathe left the Old Brown Dog in an odd mood. He believed what
the recruiter had said, that he wouldn’t take children when he could
get adults, believed, too, that he would only want the ones with
Seidos in their stars, or at least practice with horses, if he were to
take children. But it was quite obvious that Jasanten hadn’t quite
trusted him, and wondered if he should make further inquiries
about the recruiter. It was probably nothing, he decided—if nothing
else, he couldn’t see a one-legged man having much success taking
children against their will—but he made a mental note to speak to
Eslingen again, find out what he knew about Jasanten. Devynck’s
new knife seemed a decent sort, and, more than that, he seemed to
have the happy faculty of resolving potentially difficult situations
without bloodshed. He’d never thought of that as a soldier’s skill
before, but he suspected Devynck would be glad of it.
  The tower clock at the north end of the Hopes-point Bridge
struck the hour, and he quickened his pace. He wanted to talk to
Foucquet before she left for the judiciary, which meant, practically
speaking, any time before nine o’clock. If she had been willing to
ask Fourie to intervene in the matter of this missing clerk, rather
than going through the usual channels, she would certainly be
willing to be a little late to the courts to talk to him. And after
that… he sighed, contemplating the day’s work. After that, he
would swing through Temple Fair, see if he could track down some
of the broadsheets that had so annoyed Monteia. Publishing
without a license was a nuisance in good times, but in bad, and
these were beginning to be undeniably bad times, the unlicensed
printers seemed to take positive glee in spreading predictions of
disaster.
   Foucquet lived in the Horsegate District, outside the city walls,
an easy walk from the judiciary and the lesser courts that met at
the Tour de la Cité. Rathe had been there many times before, first
in Foucquet’s service, and then during his time at University Point,
but he always took a guilty pleasure in walking the wide,
well-swept street, walled on either side by the multi-colored bricks
of the grand-clerks’ houses. Most of them had gardens attached,
nothing as extensive as the park-lands of the Western Reach, but
enough to perfume the air with the hint of greenery. Rathe lifted
his head as he passed,under the shadow of a fruit tree. The flowers
were long gone, the fruit hard green knobs among the darker
leaves, but he could imagine the scent of their ripening. He heard
children calling behind an iron gate, and glanced sideways to see a
girl, maybe six or seven, gesturing imperiously over the head of her
hobbyhorse, directing a trio of younger children as though she were
a royal marshal. Their nursemaid saw him, too, and the sharpened
stare and quick frown were enough to erase his pleasure. No
children that young had gone missing—yet—but the woman was
wise to take no chances. He moved on, never breaking stride, but
he was aware of the woman’s eyes on him for some time after, and
looked back at the corner to see her standing in the gate, watching
warily.
 Foucquet’s house was in the middle range, better than her
mother’s house had been, certainly, but far from the most expensive
the Horsegate had to offer. Rathe rang the bell at the side door, the
appellant’s door—there was no point in alienating her household
just now—and nodded to the red-robed clerk who came scurrying to
answer. “Nicolas Rathe, Point of Hopes,” he said. “I need to speak
with Her Excellency.”
  The clerk’s eyes widened. “You haven’t—” she began, and Rathe
shook his head.
  “No, mistress, no word. I just need to get some information.”
  The clerk relaxed slightly, her disappointment evident, but held
the door a little wider. She was young for her post, a bright-eyed,
round-cheeked girl with a complexion like milk and roses,
copper-gilt hair tucked imperfectly under her tall cap. “Come in,
pointsman. Her Excellency’s just dressing.”
   Rathe followed her down the narrow hall, past familiar painted
panels, flowers, and fruiting trees that were almost invisible in the
morning shadow, and then up the curved main staircase to the first
floor. Foucquet was waiting in her bedroom, arms lifted to let one of
her women lace the stiff corset into place over shirt and petticoats.
A second woman was waiting with skirt and bodice, and a clerk sat
on a low tabouret, reading from a sheaf of notes. She broke off as
Rathe appeared, and Foucquet waved her away.
   “All right, we can finish that later, thank you. What do you want
with me this time, Rathe?” She gestured to the hovering maid, who
dropped the massive skirt over her head, fastening it deftly over the
flurry of petticoats. Foucquet shrugged on the bodice offered by the
second woman, stood still while she fastened the dozens of buttons.
  “I wanted to talk to you about this missing clerk of yours,” Rathe
answered.
  “Ah.” Foucquet nodded to the second maid, who had collected the
massive scarlet robe of office and stood waiting with it. “No, leave
that for now. All of you, that’s all for the moment, thank you.
Tefana, warn me at the half hour, if we’re not done by then.”
  “Yes, Excellency,” the older clerk answered, collecting her papers.
The younger clerk and the maids followed her from the room, the
last of the maids closing the double doors behind her. Foucquet
crossed to her dressing table, skirts rustling, seated herself in front
of the array of pots and brushes.
 “You’ll forgive me if I go on making ready,” she said, “but I’m
more than willing to answer any questions.”
   “Thanks,” Rathe said. Her hands were painted, he saw without
surprise, saw too the graceful movements with which she opened
the tiny vials and began repairing blemished spots with the touch of
a tiny brush. He had known forgers less deft, but then, Foucquet
was always careful of her appearance.
   “I would have thought you’d gotten the case from Point of
Hearts,” Foucquet went on, and added a dot of gold leaf to the
painted arabesques coiling across her right hand. “I told them what
I thought when they were here.”
  Rathe shook his head. “Haven’t had the chance, Excellency. The
surintendant only told me last night you wanted me to handle this.”
   Foucquet looked up sharply, her brush, laden this time with a
drop of red paint bright as blood, poised in midair. “I—?” She broke
off, touched the brush to its proper place in the design. “I didn’t
make any such request, Nico. I know how jealous the points are of
their territories. Besides, as I told Hearts, I have a shrewd idea
where the boy’s gone.”
  “You didn’t ask the sur to have me take the case?” Rathe asked.
  “No.” Foucquet’s eyes narrowed, deepening the lines at their
outer corners. “What’s he up to, Nico?”
   “I wish I knew.” Rathe frowned. It was hard to see what Fourie
might gain from assigning him to this particular case—if he’d
wanted me to look into Caiazzo’s maybe-connection to all of this, he
could’ve just told me to do it, he added, with a feeling of genuine
grievance. Or was he worried that someone would find out what I
was supposed to be doing? If there’s a political dimension to all of
this, which he seems certain there is, then maybe he’s wise to treat
it this way. He put those concerns aside for later consideration,
looked back at Foucquet. “You say you think you know what
happened to the boy?”
  Foucquet smiled, a rueful expression. “Albe’s theater-mad—and
talented, too, though his mother won’t see it. I think he ran away to
join one of the companies. It’s not a bad time of year for it, they
always need extra help for the fair.”
   That was true enough, and Rathe nodded. “How would he know
where to run, though? The players aren’t quite a closed guild, but
they tend to stick together.” And they don’t much like northriver
kids coming in and taking places away from their own, he added
silently.
  Foucquet sighed, stared for a moment at the paint now drying on
her hands. “I have been—seeing—someone recently. An actress in
Savatier’s troupe.”
  “Her name?” Rathe reached for his tablets.
  “Anjesine bes’Hallen. She lives in Point of Dreams.”
  “Chadroni, by her name.” Rathe didn’t bother commenting on her
residence; most players lived where they worked.
  Foucquet nodded. “Born there, yes, but she’s lived here a long
time.” She looked away again. “She was here the night Albe ran, he
might have gone with her.”
  “And you haven’t asked her?” Rathe knew he sounded
incredulous, and Foucquet made a face.
  “We’ve parted ways, and not entirely happily, either. And with
Albe’s mother as set against it as she is, I didn’t want to cause her
trouble. I confess, I’m not sorry to see you handling this, even if I
didn’t ask for it.”
  Rathe nodded. “What did you tell them at Hearts, about
bes’Hallen?”
  “That she and I were, or had been, friends,” Foucquet answered.
“And I told them the boy wanted to be a player.”
   “Well, that should give them plenty to work with,” Rathe said.
“I’ll make a few inquiries of my own, if you’d like, though.”
   “I’d be grateful,” Foucquet answered. “I’m afraid Hearts will be
too blinded by these other children to look closely at Albe. And he’s
still well under age, I suppose it’s his mother’s right to say what
she’ll have him do.”
  “I suppose,” Rathe said, with less conviction. He had met too
many mothers, and fathers, too, who seemed determined to set
their children’s feet on the wrong paths to agree easily with the
judge-advocate. “I’ll do what I can.”
  “Thank you,” Foucquet said. “And, Nico. Do let me know what
happens, whatever the hour. I won’t forgive myself if he’s not at the
theaters.”
  Rathe nodded, and Foucquet reached for a bell to summon one of
her servants. The younger clerk appeared almost at once, quickly
enough that Rathe half suspected her of listening outside the double
doors. She said nothing, however, and let him out into the rising
warmth of the morning with quick courtesy.
  Rathe squinted at the sky, but there was no point visiting either
theaters or actors until the second sunrise, and he was unlikely to
get real sense from anyone until late afternoon. That left Caiazzo
and the unlicensed printers on his book: the Pantheon was closer,
and more or less on his way, and he knew one or two stall-keepers
in Temple Fair who should be able to give him some of the
information he needed. He sighed, and started back toward the
Horsegate.
   It wasn’t a long walk to Temple Fair. Rathe made his way across
the open square, dodging travellers and the usual crowd of idlers,
and climbed the three steps to the gallery that surrounded the
Pantheon itself. There, he leaned against the sun-warmed stone,
one booted foot braced against the wall, and tried to pretend that he
was reading the crudely printed broadsheet nailed to the pillar in
front of him. It was typical of its kind, obscure astrology married to
bad poetry, embellished with an illustration of Areton in full armor
confronting Dis-Aidones across a shield marked with a device that
might have been intended to be a map of the kingdom. The
dozen-plus-three couplets analyzed the position of the Areton-star
in the heavens, and concluded that Chenedolle must stand adamant
against unspecified enemies. It also predicted earthquakes at the
equinox, but more as an afterthought. Rathe glanced automatically
for the imprimatur, and found it—but then, he thought, either the
printer or the astrologer had been careful to leave no grounds for
refusal. Areton was a neutral god, patron of soldiers and sportsmen,
and giver of courage; his worship was either specialized or cut
across class and national boundaries, and his temples served as
strongboxes for long-distance traders worldwide. If it had shown
Seidos standing against the Starsmith, or one of the Seideian
Heroes, or even Seidos’s Horse, then it would have been political:
Seidos was the protector of the Ile’nord and of the nobility, and the
Ile’norders had been vociferous in their support for Marselion. But
Areton was safe.
   He let his eyes range out between the pillars, squinting a little
into the sunlight of the Temple Fair. Beyond the steps that led up
into the Pantheon, the flat grey flagstones were drifted with dust
and debris. The booksellers’ apprentices had swept it into tidy piles
beside the shopfronts, but in the center of the fair the dust lay pale
as straw against the bluestone flags, swirled into patterns by
passing feet. Of all Astreiant’s fairgrounds, only Temple Fair was
paved; the horses’ hooves rang loud on the stones, and the
horsebrats were busy, their shrill cries— Horse, ma’am, hold your
horse ?—greeting the passing riders. Even this early, the fair was
busy, a crowd of shopkeepers and their servants clustering beneath
the booksellers’ bright red awnings, their bright finery shadowed
here and there with the solid black of a student’s gown. Another
pair of scholars, thin, serious women in their dusty gowns, arms
weighted with books, crossed the fair by the most direct route,
heedless of the traffic: heading for the college, Rathe guessed, and
an early class. A young man with a parasol, finely dressed, with
painted hands and face, paused to listen to the ballad-singer on her
platform in the fair’s southeastern curve, joining for a moment an
audience of two chubby boys and a barefoot servant girl. The
woman’s voice, and the fiddler’s scratching accompaniment, blended
into the hum of the crowd, barely audible above that general noise.
The ballad sellers weren’t doing their usual business, despite the
singer’s best efforts. Most of the customers were clustered at the
line of makeshift stalls between the Queen’s-road and the northern
Highway where the vendors of prophecies plied their trade. Rathe
let his eyes slide along the line of tables, picking out familiar
faces—Ponset de Ruyr, whose wife owned two presses and a brothel
southriver; the Leaguer Greitje vaan Brijx, red-faced and sweating
under her wide-brimmed hat; a thin-faced boy who had to be the
son of Saissana Peire, minding the store while his mother was
serving her latest two months for unbonded printing; and, finally,
the man he was looking for, a big man, sweating freely in the heat,
his thinning hair hanging lank around his heavy face. Gallabet
Lebrune had gone grey since he got his bond, Rathe noted, with a
certain satisfaction, and pushed himself away from the wall.
  Lebrune was doing a brisk business, and enjoying himself at it.
His big hands moved deftly among the piled sheets of his stock,
selecting and rolling each chosen prophecy into a tidy cylinder to be
handed across the table in exchange for a demming or two quickly
pocketed, as though it was beneath his and his customers’ dignity to
notice the exchange of coin. And I’d wager he makes a tiny sum
shortchanging them that way, too, Rathe thought, and couldn’t
quite suppress a smile. Lebrune was a petty thief and a liar, but he
had a style about him that you couldn’t help admiring.
   Copies of the various prophecies were tacked to the tabletop;
three more, the newest or the most popular, were pinned to an
upright board, and Rathe joined the crowd waiting to read them,
insinuating himself neatly into the group behind a pair of
blue-coated apprentices who should have known better. He peered
past a feathered hat at the smeared lines of verse—Lebrune’s
printing skills hadn’t improved, at any rate—and a crude woodcut
of an astrologer hunched over a writing desk, and a woman jostled
him, turning instantly in apology.
  “Sorry—”
  The rest of whatever she would have said died on her lips as she
saw the jerkin and the crowned truncheon tucked into Rathe’s belt.
She smiled nervously, licked her lips, and turned quickly away. The
nearer apprentice saw her abrupt departure, and glanced up and
back, eyes widening as he took in the pointsman’s uniform. He
nudged his friend, not subtly. The second boy looked back, scowling,
and the first one said, “Come on.”
   The second apprentice’s eyes widened almost comically, and his
friend grabbed him by the elbow, dragging him away. “Pardon,
pointsman—”
  That word was enough to turn heads all along the tabletop. A
young gentleman—would-be gentleman, Rathe amended, with an
inward grin—paused in the act of handing his demmings to
Lebrune, but then drew himself up to complete the transaction with
outward composure. He accepted the neatly rolled papers, and
stalked quickly away, flicking open his parasol to put its shield
between himself and the pointsman.
  “You’re bloody bad for business, you’re poison, you are,” Lebrune
snarled, watching his customers vanish. “What do you want?”
  Rathe took an idle step closer, still looking at the prophecies
pinned to the standing board. “Paid your bond yet?”
  “You know I have, pointsman, so I take it poorly you frightening
away my customers.”
   Rathe shrugged, unpinned one of the sheets to look at it more
closely. “If you’re bonded, Lebrune, what reason did they have to be
afraid of me?”
  “Maybe they think you’re stealing children,” Lebrune muttered.
Rathe dropped the sheet and reached across the table to seize
Lebrune by his jerkin collar.
  “That’s not funny at the best of time. If you’ve got reason to
believe there are pointsmen behind these disappearances, you tell
me.”
  “I don’t, Rathe, it’s nothing more than you’ll hear in half a dozen
taverns!”
  Rathe released the man with an oath. “North or southriver?”
  “North. ’Course, southriver, they think it’s northriver merchants.
When it’s not Leaguers. But it’s all pretty ugly, and the, um,
independent printers are having a field day with it.” Lebrune spoke
with the contempt of the recently legitimized, and Rathe
acknowledged it with a sour smile.
  “Caiazzo used to fee you, didn’t he? Who’s he fielding these days?”
Rathe asked, overriding the other’s inarticulate protest.
  “I’m bonded, Rathe, how should I know who’s printing under
Caiazzo’s coin?”
 Rathe just looked at the other man, eyes hooded. After a
moment, he said, “Just what kind of a fool do you take me for,
Lebrune? No, I’m curious.” He put his hands down on the table edge
and leaned forward. The wood creaked slightly, and Lebrune
grimaced.
   “I’ve heard,” he said, with delicate emphasis that suited oddly
with his oversize frame, “that he’s supporting a number of
free-readers who are doubtless printing their findings.”
  “A name?” Rathe asked gently.
  Lebrune gave him a fulminating look, but said, “One I know of is
Agere. You’ll probably find her working the Horsefair these days.
Or she may have moved to the New Fair by now, she usually works
there at Midsummer.”
  “So which is it?”
  “How would I—?”
  “Oh, Lebrune,” Rathe said, and the printer sighed.
  “New Fair, probably. Certainly.”
  Rathe nodded and straightened his back. “Thanks, Lebrune. Have
a busy day.”
  Lebrune’s response was profane. Rathe grinned and turned away.
  It made sense, he thought, as he joined the traffic heading east
along the Fairs’ Road. The fair didn’t officially open for another
three days, but there were always a few dozen merchants who
managed to get permission to open their stalls a day or two early in
exchange for an early closing, and there were even more
Astreianters eager to get a start on the semiholiday. What better
place to sell unlicensed broadsheets than in the middle of that
confusion?
  He found the row of printers’ stalls easily enough, set into the
shade of a stable on the western end of the New Fair itself. At the
moment, they were encroaching on the spaces generally held by the
painter-stainers, but that guild’s representatives had yet to make
their appearance, and the fairkeepers were currently more
concerned with dividing the prime space at the center of the fair to
everyone’s satisfaction. Administering the fair was a thankless
task, falling to each of the major guilds in turn, and not for the first
time Rathe was glad there was no pointsman’s guild. They had
enough to do to keep the peace without having to administer the
fair as well.
   Unfortunately, it was early enough that the broadsheet sellers
hadn’t collected many browsers, and Rathe was conspicuous in his
jerkin and truncheon. For a moment, he considered trying to hide
at least the truncheon, but put that aside as impractical. Agere, and
any of the others who were printing without a bond, would be
watching for just that kind of trouble; better to keep out of sight,
and think of something better. Before he could think just what,
however, a voice called his name.
  “Rathe! I hope you’re not poaching, my son.”
  Rathe turned to see a stocky man, his truncheon thrust into a
belt that strained over his barrel-shaped body. His jerkin, white
leather, not the usual brown or black, was stamped with a floral
pattern that sat rather oddly on his bulk. “Chief Point,” he
answered, warily. Anything that brought Guillen Claes to the fair
in his own person had to be of significance; Claes preferred to leave
the fairgrounds to his subordinates, and concentrate his attention
on the rest of Fairs’ Point.
  “So, if you’re not poaching, what possessed Monteia to give you a
day off so early in the fair season?” Claes went on.
   “It’s not poaching,” Rathe answered. “We’ve had some problems
with illegal broadsheets being sold in Point of Hopes; I’ve traced one
of the printers here.”
  “You think,” Claes said, and Rathe grinned.
  “I think. But I’m pretty sure.”
  “Who?”
  “The name I have is Agere,” Rathe said.
  “Franteijn Agere,” Claes repeated. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
  “I’ve also heard that she’s printing under Caiazzo’s coin,” Rathe
went on, and the other man snorted.
  “Also wouldn’t surprise me. But I’d be astonished if you proved a
point on him.”
  “Frankly, so would I,” Rathe answered. He glanced around,
seeing only the usual early fair-goers, mostly merchants, small and
large, buying their goods before the general crowd. He thought he
caught a glimpse of a black robe—one of the runners’
astrologers?—but it whisked out of sight behind a stall before he
could be sure. He sighed and lowered his voice before going on. “I
came here mostly to see what she was printing, see if she is the one
we’re after, but there’s not enough of a crowd. And I’m a little
conspicuous to do my own shopping. I was going to send one of our
runners, but, seeing as you’re here, I wonder if I might borrow one
of yours. We’d be willing to split the point.”
   Claes nodded, appeased. “I trust you’ll remember that when the
time comes.” He lifted a hand, and a skinny boy seemed to appear
out of thin air. He was barefoot, toes caked with dirt, and shirt and
breeches were well faded, imperfectly patched. He looked like any
one of the dozens of urchins who gathered to run errands at the
fairs, and Rathe nodded in appreciation of the disguise. The boy
grinned back at him, showing better teeth than Rathe would have
expected, but the eyes he fixed on Claes were wary.
  “This is Guillot,” Claes said. “He’s one of our runners—not the
best, not the worst.”
   Rathe nodded, and fished in his purse for a couple of demmings.
“I’m looking for a broadsheet, printed without license, and I think
you’ll find it at Agere’s stall. That’s the one with the three gargoyles
for its sign.”
  The boy nodded. “I know Agere. Was it a particular sheet, or will
any one do?”
  “The one I want shows a horse and rider, a woman rider, and a
tree behind her that’s full of fruit. I think they’re supposed to be
apples.” Rathe held out the demmings, and Guillot took them
eagerly. “Pick up any others that look interesting.”
  Guillot nodded again, and scurried away, to disappear between a
pair of canvas-walled stalls. Claes watched him go, turned back to
face the younger man only when he was out of sight. “How are
things in Point of Hopes?”
  “Nothing new,” Rathe answered. There was no point in
pretending to misunderstand. “Our missing ones are still missing,
and the locals are blaming a Leaguer tavern.”
  “Which it isn’t?”
  “Which it isn’t, at least not as far as I or Monteia can see,” Rathe
said. “Anything new here?”
   Claes shook his head. “Not a thing. I’ve been keeping a watch on
the caravaners, of course, but there aren’t that many in yet—more
coming in every day, of course, but the stalls aren’t more than half
filled. And we’re watching the ship-captains.” He shook his head
again, mouth twisting into a bitter smile. “I’ve a pair of twins
missing, I thought sure we’d find them on the docks—they’re
river-mad, the pair of them, but they’ve got Phoebe in the Sea-bull’s
house.”
  “Not good for travel by water,” Rathe said, and Claes nodded.
  “So you can understand they wouldn’t find a riverman willing to
take them on as apprentices. But then Jaggi—Jagir, his name is,
he’s one of our juniors, bright, too—he tells me the Silklanders don’t
read that configuration the same way, so I thought sure we’d found
them.” He sighed. “But my people have been up and down the docks
and not a sign of them. No one remembers them, and you’d think
someone would, a pair of identical redheaded thirteen-year-olds.”
  “Paid not to remember?” Rathe asked, without much hope.
  “By whom? Besides, there are too many people on the docks.
Someone would have noticed.”
  Rathe nodded. Redhaired twins would surely be noticed. “I’ll have
our people ask along the Factors’ Walk and the Rivermarket, just in
case, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
   “Nor will I,” Claes answered, sourly, then said, “but I would take
it kindly, Rathe. Thanks. It’s just—we’ve got these printers, and
then the bloody astrologers to deal with on top of it all.”
  “And about those astrologers,” Rathe began grimly. Claes lifted a
hand.
  “Freelances, no temple, no training, and they’re infesting the
grounds like a pack of black gargoyles,” he said. “The arbiters say
they’re all right, but the Three Nations are getting mutinous. And
that’s all we need, student riots, to round out a really exciting fair.”
  Rathe nodded his agreement, and the boy Guillot appeared from
between a different pair of stalls, a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Sir? Were these the ones you wanted?”
  Rathe took the smeared pages from him, flipped quickly through
them. Agere was a better printer than Lebrune, but she’d obviously
worked in haste. The images—woodcuts, from the look of them,
easily made and as easily burned, eliminating evidence—lay
crooked on the page, and here and there a letter sat askew, or had
been put in upside down. The message, however, was clear enough:
the stars said the queen should name her heir, and the clear
implication was that she should name Palatine Marselion. “These
are the ones.”
  “They’ve all got a bond mark,” Guillot said.
  “Forged,” Rathe said. “Look closer.”
   The boy did as he was told, and grinned suddenly. Rathe smiled
back—it took a certain sense of humor to replace the wand of
justice carried by the hooded Sofia at the center of the seal with
Tyrseis’s double-headed jester’s stick—and looked at Claes. “As I
said, we’ll split the point with you, but it doesn’t seem the best time
to be playing politics.”
  Claes nodded. “Leave Agere to me, Rathe. You catch your sellers,
and we’ll be ready.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe answered, and turned away. Neither man
mentioned Caiazzo: proving his involvement, that it was his coin
that paid for ink and paper, would require either a stroke of luck or
a major mistake on Caiazzo’s part, and that was more than anyone
dared hope for at this point.
  Caiazzo lived in a low, sprawling house in the river district of
Customs Point, a new-style house, not one of the old half-fortresses.
Rathe ignored the discreet alley that led to the trades’ entrance and
instead climbed the three broad steps that led to the main door.
They were freshly washed, too, he noticed, as he let the striker fall,
not just swept. But then, Caiazzo was a great believer in matching
his surroundings. Rathe let his gaze run the length of the street,
surveying the other houses that stood there. Caiazzo’s was exactly
as well kept as the rest, his brickwork as neatly pointed, the glass
in his windows no better— and no worse—than his neighbors.
Strictly, geographically speaking, Customs Point was southriver,
and more established merchants, even the ones who had been born
here, would never dream of having their houses there. These were
homes of the up-and-coming, people whose fortunes were still
precarious, who still feared going back to reckoning their wealth in
silver rather than gold. Caiazzo was better off than that, but he
made his own rules, and he chose to live at the heart of his
business, a bare five minutes’ walk from the wharves at Point of
Sorrows. Which made a good deal of sense, Rathe thought, given
how much of that business depends on the ability to slip goods and
coin discreetly between one place and another. Caiazzo was
southriver born and bred, and he hadn’t forsaken his heritage; some
of his business methods were pure southriver, the sort honed and
polished to perfection in the Court of the Thirty-two Knives. Not
that Caiazzo was just any court thug, Rathe added silently, and
kicked a piece of mud off the freshly washed stone.
  The door opened at last to reveal a young woman in a clerk’s dun
suit. She looked at him inquisitively, a little dubiously, and said,
“Can I help you?” She bit off the honorific, seeing the jerkin, and
then her eyes widened as she saw the pointsman’s truncheon in his
belt. Rathe hid a grin. Caiazzo’s people were mostly as southriver
as himself; a northriver clerk, from a family of unbroken,
unblemished history of service, would have a very different attitude
toward any pointsman who presumed to knock at the front door.
   “Would you tell Caiazzo that Rathe, from Point of Hopes, is here
to speak with him?”
  “Yes, that is…” She paused, and started over. “I’ll see if he’s in.”
  “Ah, now, we’re not going to play that game, are we? Just tell
him—tell him he’ll be happier seeing me than not.” Rathe let the
smile fade from his face.
  The clerk hesitated, then stepped back grudgingly to allow Rathe
into the tiled hall. “Wait here,” she said, and disappeared through a
side door. Rathe settled himself to wait.
  It was only a few minutes before the clerk was back, emerging
onto the gallery at the top of the main staircase. “If you’ll come up,”
she said, “he says he can see you now.”
  She sounded a little breathless—from surprise, Rathe guessed,
which means you know about the second set of books, and the
printers at the fair, and maybe a few other things. He filed the
thought for future use, and climbed to join her.
   Caiazzo’s workroom was at the end of the gallery, looking across
a side street and his neighbor’s garden to the river and the
crowding masts of the docks. The trader worked not at a desk but
at a kind of attenuated clerk’s counter than ran the length of the
front wall, broken only by the double windows that reached almost
to the ceiling. It was littered with papers, charts and logs and
ledgers scattered along its length. Caiazzo flipped over one of the
sheets just as the clerk paused in the open door, and said,
“Pointsman Rathe, sir.”
   Caiazzo turned, smiling genially enough, but Rathe had seen the
frown fading from his eyes. “Hello, Rathe, come in and stop
intimidating my people, will you? All right, Biblis, thanks, I should
be safe enough. And it’s adjunct point, by the way.”
  The clerk flushed, but made no comment, and slipped out of the
room, closing the door softly behind her.
  “Gods, Rathe, what did you say to her?” Caiazzo held up a hand.
“Not, of course, that you’re ever anything but welcome here.”
  Rathe shrugged, crossed the room to look at the books in their
case, came to rest within easy reach of the narrow counter. “Didn’t
have to say much, really. I suppose she was in just awe of the
system.” There was a manifest on the sun-warmed wood beside
him, and he tilted his head to look at it. With a faint smile, Caiazzo
reached across and turned it facedown.
  “Not feeling cooperative this week?” Rathe asked. “That’s too bad.
’Cause things are turning nasty out there, Hanse, and there’s some
even betting on you being involved.”
  “And here I was hoping you’d come to offer me your services,”
Caiazzo answered easily. The winter-sun was just rising, and the
doubled light leached the color from his skin and dark eyes. “You
owe me, Nico. That was a good man you arrested. I still haven’t
found a replacement for him.”
  “And I wonder why. Come on, Hanse, it’s not that he called
himself a duellist, though the laws frown on that, it was his
methods,” Rathe said, with a boredom he didn’t entirely feel.
“Crying a fair fight’s bad enough, bare murder’s something else. I
did him a favor. Many more kills like that, and his mind would
have gone. It can in duellists, you know.”
  “For a southriver rat, you know a lot about a very high-class
sport,” Caiazzo said.
  “Blood sports aren’t all that high class. If I ever leave the points,
you’ll be among the first to know.” Rathe took his weight off the
counter, and reached into his jerkin, left-handed, careful to keep his
knife hand in view, and produced the broadsheets Guillot had
bought for him. He freed the least offensive one and handed it
across. “I want you to have a look at this. Recognize the printer’s
seal?”
  Caiazzo gave him a glance from under lowered eyebrows, but
took the proffered paper. “Forged bond mark,” he said, turning the
page from front to back. “A direct violation of the law, pointsman,
I’m shocked you’re reading something like this.”
   Rathe smiled sourly, and gestured for him to continue. Caiazzo
lifted an eyebrow, but went on reading. He finished the brief text,
and handed it back to Rathe. “Pretty good stuff. Popular, you know.
Very dramatic. Why?”
  “Lebrune tells me this Agere is printing under your coin,” Rathe
said.
  Caiazzo shook his head sadly. “Some people get so self-righteous
when they recover their long-lost status, don’t they? They need to
cast blame wherever they can, see villainy where there’s just… free
enterprise. I’m told the license fees are fearsome, these days.”
  “You’re denying it.”
  “Off the books, Nico?”
   Rathe hesitated. He’d good information, useful information, from
Caiazzo before now, and always off the books, but if Fourie was
right, and Caiazzo was involved with the missing children, he
couldn’t afford to make any deals with him. But it wasn’t Caiazzo’s
style to meddle in something that didn’t turn a tidy profit, and
neither the children nor the politics was going to bring anything but
trouble to a long-distance trader. “All right, Hanse. Off the books.”
And your word against mine, if I have to, if I find you are involved
with these kids, he added silently.
  “Yes, I’ve loaned Franteijn Agere the coin she needs. She’s sound,
hires decent readers, they cast their own horoscopes and stay
strictly away from political matters. Agere prints to the popular
interest, and that’s it.”
   “Politics are a popular interest these days, with the starchange,”
Rathe said. He found the second paper, and handed it across,
shaking his head. “Stays strictly away from the political? I bought
this off her an hour ago. I’d say you need to do some housecleaning,
if you can’t keep a printer in line.”
  Caiazzo’s lips tightened as he skimmed the paper. “I appreciate
your concern, pointsman, but I assure you it’s quite unnecessary.”
  Rathe sighed. “It would be very bad timing—I would take it
personally—if any of Agere’s astrologers, or Agere, for that matter,
were to disappear just now.”
   “Don’t tell me my business, Rathe.” Caiazzo took a deep breath,
handed the paper back. “I’m not a fool, how ever many of my people
are. So. Why are you really here? Unauthorized printers aren’t your
line at all, Adjunct Point, especially when there’s something more
important troubling the city. Unless you’ve fatally annoyed your
superiors at last?” He sounded vaguely hopeful.
  Rathe shook his head. “Not so far. But, as you say, there are
more important things on my mind than unlicensed printers and
politically minded astrologers. And since you—loan money—to more
than one of them, I thought I’d warn you, it could go hard if you
don’t control them better.”
  “Warning me, Nico? Not your habit at all. You’d love to catch me
dead to rights and score a point or two off me.”
   “Wouldn’t I just,” Rathe agreed. “But I’m more interested in
finding out who’s stealing these children, and putting a stop to it.
And to tell you something I probably oughtn’t, I don’t think you’re
involved in that.” He fixed his eyes on Caiazzo’s face, watching for
any shift, any flicker of expression that might give the trader away.
“Of course, if I find you are, it’ll just go that much harder for you.
Keep your astrologers and printers in line, Hanse. Or they’ll go
down for a lot more than the usual two months.”
  “Oh, come on, Rathe. On what charges?”
  “Incitement to riot. Petty treason. Possibly great treason, if this
one”—he held up Agere’s sheet touting the Palatine Marselion’s
candidacy—“is any example. I could name a few others, if I were
pressed, and the judiciary will hear all counts. Just a friendly
warning, say.”
   Caiazzo blinked once, and Rathe knew the warning had been
heard. The trader sighed, and turned away from the window. “Why
would I be involved with stealing children, Nico? There’s no profit in
it, not like this.”
  “I don’t know that you are,” Rathe answered. “I’ve no reason to
think you are. But you didn’t use to dabble in politics, either.”
  Caiazzo laughed, a short, harsh sound. “I still don’t. That”—he
nodded to the broadsheet still in Rathe’s hand—“will be dealt with.
Politics aren’t my business, and well you know it. And as for these
kids… people of mine, their kin anyway, have lost children. There’s
no sense in it, Nico, and that’s not a game I’d play.”
  Slowly, Rathe nodded. “I know that. So keep an eye on your
astrologers and printers, Hanse. I don’t want to be dragged off real
business to deal with them—and if I do, I’ll look a lot closer at your
businesses than I necessarily want to.”
  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Caiazzo said, after a moment, and this
time Rathe believed him.
  The clerk let him out—the side door, this time—and Rathe made
his way upstream along the Sier, trying to decide what to do next.
By rights, he should go back to Point of Hopes, but at the moment
that felt unbearably useless, and instead he made his way along the
eastern docks, telling himself he was keeping his eyes open for a
pair of redheads. There was one other errand he still needed, to
do—two, he added, if he counted going to the theaters in Point of
Dreams, but that could wait until he had a chance to talk to the
actors who lived in the attic of his own lodgings. They, and Gavi
Jhirassi in particular, knew all the gossip in Point of Dreams; if
Foucquet’s wayward apprentice had run away to the theaters, one
of them would know. He made a face then, heedless of the crowd of
laborers busy alongside a battered-looking caravel. That left his
errand to the university, and he was hardly eager to ask these
particular questions there. But Monteia had told him she wanted
horoscopes cast for the children missing from Point of Hopes, and
they both knew what the other step should be. The university
trained necromancers, as well as every other school of magist, and
no pointsman was foolish enough to deny the utility of a
necromancer’s talent. It was just… Rathe allowed himself a sour
smile, seeing the double light glinting off the Sier where it curled
around the piers that held the Manufactory Bridge. It was just that
none of them wanted to ask, for fear that someone would tell them
the children were indeed dead. And that was foolishness,
superstition, not reason, he told himself fiercely. There wasn’t a
necromancer in Astreiant who didn’t know perfectly well what was
going on, who wouldn’t come to the points the instant he touched a
child’s ghost. Even the rawest student knew that much, or at worst
would know to go to his teachers, so the absence of reported ghosts
could be considered a good sign. At least Istre b’Estorr was a friend
as well as a colleague.
   He crossed the Sier at the Manufactory Bridge, through the
courtyard of Point of Graves that lay astride the approach to the
bridge itself. The gallows at the center of the square was empty,
and, as always, a few of the Point of Graves runners were sitting on
its steps, daring each other to investigate the trap. Rathe passed
them without a second glance, aware that the hangman’s woman
was watching them from the steps of her house, and went on
through the massive gatehouse to the bridge.
  b’Estorr, like most scholars, lived in University Point, on the
grounds of the university itself. He’d come to Chenedolle as a
student—necromancy was viewed with deep suspicion in his native
Chadron, not least because the kings of Chadron had an
unfortunate habit of dying untimely, and rarely by their own
hands—and had returned only briefly to serve the old king, who
had held a more liberal vision of his talents. Unfortunately, that
vision had not extended to his own nobles, and the old Fre had, like
so many of his ancestors, been assassinated. b’Estorr had escaped
back to Chenedolle, and the sanctuary of the university. He rarely
referred to his time at the Chadroni court, but Rathe, surveying the
peace of the college yard, broken only by clusters of gargoyles and
junior students in full gowns of almost the same slate grey, couldn’t
help wondering if b’Estorr missed the power he must have had. To
be a mere master, his assistance to the points the only break in
that routine, must be something of a diminishment.
  The Corporation had long ago realized that there was little point
in holding students to their normal routine during the week of the
Midsummer Fair, and the same truce seemed to hold for the week
before. Inquiring at the porter’s gate, Rathe was told that b’Estorr
was in his rooms, not at class as he’d expected, but he made his way
back across the yard without complaint. b’Estorr’s rooms, one of the
tower lodgings reserved for senior masters, were more congenial
than the cold stone classrooms, with their tiers of wooden benches
and the master’s lectern at the bottom of that slope, like a cross
between a bear pit and the public stage. He showed his slate to the
crone of a porter who guarded b’Estorr’s building, and the woman
nodded and unlatched the lower half of her door. Rathe climbed the
winding stair to the first floor, knocked hard, knowing b’Estorr’s
habits.
  As he’d expected, it was a few moments before the necromancer
opened his door. He was a tall man, unusually fair for a Chadroni,
with straw blond hair and dark blue eyes, and at the moment his
fair brows were drawn into a faint puzzled frown. That eased into a
smile as he saw Rathe, and he pulled the door open wide.
  “Nico. Come in.”
   Rathe stepped into the sunlit space, and, as always, felt a faint
prickling at the base of his neck, as though the air were cooler than
it should be. Ghosts were b’Estorr’s constant companions as well as
his strongest tools; even the least sensitive couldn’t help but be at
least vaguely aware of their drifting presence. And then he saw a
trio of small bones lying on a sheet of parchment on the polished
wood of the worktable, and drew a quick breath, trying to swallow
his panic. b’Estorr saw where he was looking, and refolded the
paper over them.
  “Not what you’re thinking.”
  “Not my business, then,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded edgy.
  “Not the business I think you’ve come to me about,” b’Estorr
answered. “Unless you’re interested in historical murders? These
are old, it’s been a generation or two at least since they wore flesh.”
   “When I have the time,” Rathe answered. “When children aren’t
disappearing from Astreiant.” b’Estorr nodded. “I thought that was
it. Have you eaten?”
  Rathe glanced automatically at the sunstick in the window, saw
with some surprise that it was well past noon. “Not since this
morning, no.” And that had been a bite or two of bread and cheese
at the Old Brown Dog.
  “Then why don’t you join me?” b’Estorr said, and leaned out the
door to call for a servant without waiting for the other’s answer.
When the servant appeared—a girl in a student’s gown, Rathe saw
without surprise—b’Estorr gave quick orders for a meal, and closed
the door again. “There’s wine in the jug, help yourself.”
  Rathe nodded, but made no move. b’Estorr smiled again, and
poured himself a glass. It was blown glass, pale blue streaked with
an orange pink, not one of the pottery cups Rathe himself used at
home, and he wondered if they were university privilege, or like
b’Estorr survivors of the court of Chadron. He could not quite, he
realized, imagine b’Estorr drinking from pottery.
  “So what can I do for you?” b’Estorr asked, and lowered himself
into one of the carved chairs, stretching his feet into the patch of
sunlight.
  Rathe seated himself as well, aware of an eddy of cold air that
seemed to shy away from him as he moved. One of b’Estorr’s
ghosts? he wondered, and shook the thought away. “As you said,
the missing children. I don’t suppose you’ve seen—sorry,
touched—any of them, or any unusual ghosts at all, these past
three weeks?” b’Estorr shook his head. “I doubt it’s much comfort,
but no. I haven’t, and neither has anyone I know.”
  “Oh, it’s a comfort, I suppose,” Rathe said. “It’s just not a lot of
help.” He winced at what he’d said. “I didn’t mean that, of course—”
  “But it would be easier if you had something to work with,”
b’Estorr finished. “Don’t worry, I won’t repeat it.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe said. He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just
that these disappearances are so—absolute. People are talking
about children being stolen off the streets, but if it were that, gods,
we’d have an easier time of it.” b’Estorr tilted his head. “But they
are being stolen, surely.”
  “Apparently, but there’s not a woman, or man, who can say
they’ve actually seen a child being stolen. And you can be sure
there’d be trouble if they did. We nearly had a riot over in Hopes, in
the Street of the Apothecaries, no less, when a journeyman tried to
drag home one of his apprentices, and people thought he was
stealing the child.” Rathe sighed. “No, no one’s stealing them, Istre,
at least not in the usual way. They just—disappear. They leave
good situations, bad situations, no situations at all. They’re not
runaways, that I’m sure of, not with what some of them—hells,
most of them, all of them—leave behind. So, they don’t go willingly.
But they’re not being seized off the streets. And we don’t know
what is happening to them.”
  “Some of them are legitimate runaways?” b’Estorr asked.
  Rathe nodded. “We’ve found some of those, but it’s harder than
ever to tell this year, since of course every parent, guildmaster, or
guardian who loses a child would rather think they’ve been taken
than that the child would want to run. So I’m getting less honest
answers than usual, I think, from some quarters.” Like the
surintendant, he added silently. Why he wants me concentrating on
Caiazzo when there are plenty of more likely possibilities… but
there weren’t any, that was the problem, and he pushed the
thought aside. “But the upshot of it all is, Monteia, and I, are
checking even the most outlandish possibilities.”
  “Which brings you to me?” b’Estorr asked.
  The tilt of his eyebrow surprised a grin from Rathe. “Not quite
the way that sounded, but yes, sort of. First, is it possible that the
children are dead even though no one’s reported touching their
ghosts? Could somebody be binding them, or could they have been
taken far enough away, and killed there?” b’Estorr was shaking his
head, and Rathe stopped abruptly.
  “It’s all possible, but not very likely,” the necromancer said.
“What do you know about ghosts?”
  “What everyone does, I suppose,” Rathe answered. He could
smell, quite suddenly, baking bread, but the air that brought that
scent was unreasonably cold. “They’re the spirits of the untimely
dead, they can remember everything they knew in life except the
day they died, and you can’t use their testimony before the judiciary
unless two necromancers agree and there’s physical evidence to
support their word.”
  b’Estorr grinned. “I doubt everybody knows that last.”
  Rathe snorted. “They know it by heart in the Court of the
Thirty-two Knives. I’ve had bravos caught
red-handed—literally—and tell me that.”
 This time, b’Estorr laughed aloud. “I can’t imagine it would do
much good, under those circumstances.”
  “It depends on how large a fee they can manage,” Rathe
answered.
   “Ah.” b’Estorr’s smile faded. “The thing that matters, Nico, is the
whys of all that. A ghost can’t remember the specifics of her or his
death because—in effect—the murderer has established a geas over
her that prevents her speaking. It’s possible, with effort and
preparation—true malice aforethought—to extend that geas either
to silence the ghost completely, or, more commonly, to bind her to
the precise spot where she was killed. If you do it right, the odds
that a necromancer, or even a sensitive, would stumble on that spot
are vanishingly low. But I doubt that’s what’s happening. It takes
too much time and effort to arrange, and if you’re missing, what,
fifty children?”
  “Eighty-four,” Rathe answered. “That’s from the entire city.”
  b’Estorr’s eyes widened. “Gods, I didn’t realize.” He shook his
head. “There is one other possibility, though, that you may need to
consider. Have you ever given any thought to the meaning of
‘untimely’ death?”
  Rathe looked at him. “I assume it means ‘dead before your time,’
though I daresay you’re going to tell me otherwise.”
  “It’s the question of who defines your time,” b’Estorr answered.
  Rathe paused. “Your stars?”
   “Stars can tell the manner and sometimes the place,” b’Estorr
answered. “Not the time. No, the person who defines ‘untimely’ is
ultimately the ghost herself. That’s why you’ll see ghosts of people
who’ve died of plague or sudden illness, they simply weren’t willing
to acknowledge it was time for them to die. That’s also why you
don’t see many ghosts of the very old, no matter how they die—and
why you don’t see ghosts of those who die in battle or in duel. In
each case, those people had accepted the possibility of their death,
and accepted it when it happened. Now some people, a very few,
even though their deaths would be reckoned timely by any normal
measure, simply won’t accept it, and they, too, become ghosts.”
  “You mean they just say, ‘no, I’m not dead yet,’ and they’re not?”
Rathe demanded.
   “Not exactly, but close enough. It’s a question of how strong a life
force they have, and what incentives they have to live, or, more
precisely, not to die.” b’Estorr’s face grew somber, the blue eyes
sliding away to fix on something out of sight over Rathe’s left
shoulder. “The reverse is also true. There are people who simply
don’t know when they should die, or don’t care, and whose deaths,
even by bare murder, don’t seem to matter. They don’t become
ghosts because they seem to accept that any death, from whatever
cause, is fated.”
  “Temple priests, and such?” Rathe asked. He couldn’t keep from
sounding skeptical, and wasn’t surprised to see b’Estorr’s mouth
twist in answer.
  “Well, the ones that are contemplative, and there aren’t many of
them left, these days. But the main group this covers is children.”
  “Oh.” Rathe leaned back in his chair, aware again of the warm
breeze drifting in from the yard, carrying with it a strong smell of
dust and greenery. b’Estorr’s ghosts seemed to have moved off; he
could feel the sunlight creeping across the toes of his boots, heating
his feet beneath the leather. It made sense, painfully so: children
weren’t experienced, didn’t know what they could and couldn’t
expect from the world; they might well accept death as their lot,
especially the ones born and bred southriver, where life was
cheap… He shook his head, rejecting the thought. “Not all of them,”
he said. “They can’t all have, I don’t know, given up? And some of
them were old enough to know, and to be angry.” b’Estorr nodded.
“I agree. It’s usually the youngest children, anyway, much younger
than apprentice-age, that this applies to. And even then, you
occasionally run into someone who’s clever enough, strong
enough—loved enough, sometimes—to know they shouldn’t be
dead.” For an instant, his voice sounded distinctly fond, and Rathe
wondered just what dead child he was remembering. And then the
moment was gone, and he was back to business. “And in a group
this large of older children—I doubt this is what’s happening. But I
thought I should at least mention it, even as a remote possibility.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe said.
  “Thank me when I do something useful,” b’Estorr answered.
There was a knock at the door, and he added, “Come in.”
  The girl student pushed the door open with a hunched shoulder,
her hands busy with a covered tray. At b’Estorr’s nod, she set it on
the worktable, and disappeared again. b’Estorr lifted the covers,
releasing a fragrance of onions and oil, and Rathe realized with a
start that he was hungry.
  “Help yourself,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe reached for a spoon and
bowl. There was bread as well as the wedge of soft cheese and the
bowl of noodles and onions, and he balanced a chunk of each on the
edge of his bowl.
 “There was one other thing Monteia wanted,” he said, around a
mouthful of noodles, and b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.
  “I might have known.” His smile robbed the words of any offense.
  “Yeah, well, she was wanting to have horoscopes cast for our
missing lads, for the days of disappearance when we know them,
see if anything useful showed up that way,” Rathe said. “So I was
wondering if you could tell me who would be best for the job.”
  “I could do it myself, if you’d like,” b’Estorr answered. “Or there’s
Cathala, she’s very skilled.”
  “I’d rather you did it,” Rathe answered, “and thanks.”
  “All I’ll need are the nativities, the best you can get me,” b’Estorr
answered. “You must be hard up for information if you’re trying
that.”
  “We’ve damn all but rumors, and those dangerous ones,” Rathe
said. “For us, a lot of suspicion is falling on a Leaguer who runs a
tavern on the border with Point of Dreams. And, yes, it’s a soldiers’
haunt, and, yes, a lot of recruiting goes on there. But the people
there are adamant that no commander’s going to be taking children
at this time of year, when he could have his choice from the royal
regiments that were just paid off.”
  “There’s a great deal of sense to that,” b’Estorr said.
  Rathe nodded. “Certainly, but it’s not what anyone wants to hear.
They just want their kids back.” b’Estorr smiled in agreement. “No
theories, then?”
  “Oh, everyone has a favorite theory, we’ve a glut of them.” Rathe
counted them off on his fingers. “The surintendant favors Hanselin
Caiazzo, though the gods alone know what he’d do with eighty-four
children. The chief at City Point is looking askance at the
manufactories, Temple Point has asked all of us southriver to check
the brothels—which we’ve done, at least once—and in the
meantime most of southriver is blaming northriver merchants.
Exactly how, they’re not sure, but they’re positive it’s the rich who
are doing it to them somehow. Leveller voices are being heard
again. Oh, yes, and they’re not too sure the points aren’t involved,
somehow or other.”
  “I don’t quite see that,” b’Estorr said.
  “At the very least, we’ve been fee’d to look the other way.”
  “Oh. Of course.” There was a smile behind the necromancer’s
voice, and Rathe smiled in reply.
  “So what are the rumors up here, magist? What theories have
the students and masters come up with?”
 b’Estorr gave him a bland stare. “Do you think we have time to
waste on idle gossip?”
  “Yes.”
   “Well, you’re not wrong. There’s a lot of talk about the
starchange, of course—you’ve probably heard variations on that
theme as well. And when you add politics to the mix, people are in a
mood to borrow trouble. Among the juniors there’s talk of dark
maneuverings by one or more of the potential claimants.” b’Estorr
frowned slightly, more pensive than annoyed. “Marselion seems to
be high on everyone’s list— why is that, Nico?”
  Rathe grinned. He had seen the Palatine Marselion and her train
on her last visit to Astreiant, for the Fall Balance and its associated
session of the Great Council. She had carried herself like a queen,
and snubbed the city—even the northriver merchants, who had
been prepared to welcome her—except for her distributions of alms.
“She’s been too blatant in her ambition. She thinks it’s sewn up, or
she acts like it is, and the people don’t like that.”
  “Not that they have much say in the matter.” b’Estorr’s voice
held a faint note of distaste, and Rathe’s grin widened fractionally.
Chadron was, technically, an elective kingship, which contributed
greatly to the death rate among its monarchs.
   “Maybe not, but Astreiant is a populist’s city, and her majesty
has always made it her business to stay in tune with the mood of
her people. You don’t ignore the rumblings.” Rathe paused. “So you
lot think it’s political?”
  “One way or another, that’s the consensus,” b’Estorr answered.
He hesitated. “There’s also been talk of freelance astrologers, that
they might be involved, but I’m inclined to write that off as
professional jealousy.”
   “Oh?” In spite of himself, Rathe found his attention sharpening.
“I’ve seen one or two of them, or I think I have. What do you know
about them?”
  b’Estorr shrugged. “That’s pretty much all, Nico. I understand
the Three Nations complained to the arbiters—the students usually
make a good bit of money doing readings at the fair, and this, quite
simply, cuts into their profits.”
  He sounded more amused than anything else, and Rathe nodded.
“So your vote is still for politics?”
  “I’m not so sure. I think someone’s taking advantage of the
uncertainty of the starchange—but stealing children? I can’t
imagine why. Or for what purpose.”
  Rathe sighed and set the now-empty bowl back on the tray. “No,
and that’s the problem. It’s crazy, stealing children, and even as
madness, it doesn’t make sense. I have nativities for some of ours,
by the way.”
  “I’ll get started on it right away.” b’Estorr’s face was wry. “Who
knows, something may come of it.”
  “Right,” Rathe answered, and knew he sounded even less
enthusiastic than the other man. He reached into his purse, found
the folded sheet of paper, and slid it across the worktable to the
magist. “Those are the nativities we have, and the days they
disappeared. We made a guess at the time, but that’s all it is.”
  b’Estorr unfolded it, skimming the careful notation. “At least
these kids knew their stars—to the quarter hour, too. That’s a
help.”
  “It’s the only luck we’ve had.” Rathe glanced at the sunstick
again, and pushed himself to his feet. It was more than time he was
getting back to Point of Hopes. “Let me know if you hear anything,
even if it’s just a new rumor, would you? Though it’s the last thing I
want to hear, I think I need to keep abreast of as much of the
popular murmur as possible.”
  b’Estorr nodded, already engrossed in the first calculations, and
Rathe let himself out into the stairwell.



                                  5
                                                               «^»
the day was hot already, and it still lacked an hour to noon.
Eslingen sat in the garden of the Brown Dog, coat hung neatly on a
branch of the fruit tree behind him, and wished that the river
breeze reached this far inland. The latest batch of broadsheet
prophecies lay on the little table beside him, half read; the one on
the top of the stack, a nice piece, better printed than most, invoked
transits of the moon and predicted that the missing children would
be found unharmed. Eslingen had lifted an eyebrow at that. He
hoped it was true, hoped that whoever had cast this horoscope had
some insight denied the rest of Astreiant, but couldn’t quite bring
himself to believe it. The rest of the prophecies blamed anyone and
everyone, from the denizens of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives
to the owners of the manufactories, and a few of them weren’t
bothering even to keep up the pretense of a prediction. One of those
made oblique reference to the queen’s childlessness, and suggested
that a “northern tree might bear better fruit.” Even Eslingen could
translate that—the Palatine Marselion, or her supporters, pushing
her candidacy—and he shook his head. Chenedolle’s monarchy had
settled its laws of succession long ago: the crown descended by
strict primogeniture in the direct line, but if there were no heirs of
the body, the monarch named her heir from among her kin,
supposedly on the basis of their stars. Marselion was the queen’s
cousin, and her closest living relative, but if I were queen, Eslingen
thought, I wouldn’t look kindly on these little games. Not with the
city in the state it is.
  “How can you stand to read that trash?”
   Eslingen looked up to see Adriana looking down at him. She had
been working in the kitchen all morning, and the stove’s heat had
left her red-faced and sweating; she had unlaced her sleeveless
bodice, and pinned up the sleeves of her shift, but it didn’t seem to
have done much good.
  “I like to see what people are thinking,” he answered, and shoved
the jug of small beer toward her. “Can you join me?”
  She shook her head, but lifted the pitcher and drank deeply. “I
can’t stay, but I had to get out of the kitchen. Sweet Demis, but it’s
scalding in there.”
  “Pity you can’t serve cold food,” Eslingen said.
  “Food served cold has to be cooked first,” Adriana answered. “But
tonight should be easier. Most everything will be served cool, thank
the gods—and Mother, of course.”
  “Not quite the same thing,” Eslingen said, straight-faced, and the
woman grinned.
  “Though you’d never know it to listen to her.” She picked up the
first broadsheet, scanned it curiously, her brows lifting in amused
surprise. “I can’t believe this got licensed.”
  “Look again,” Eslingen said, and Adriana swore softly.
  “Forged—Tyrseis instead of Sofia.”
  Eslingen nodded. “Someone has a sense of humor, I think. I didn’t
notice it until I read it and looked twice.”
  “Someone’s going to spend a few months in the cells for this one,”
Adriana said. “And they’ll have earned it.”
  “Assuming the points can catch her,” Eslingen said, “Or him, I
suppose.”
   “Printing’s a mixed craft,” Adriana answered. “Oh, they’ll call the
point on this one easily enough, they’re hard on poor printers, and
it’ll make them look a little better, seeing that they can’t catch
whoever’s stealing the children—or won’t.”
   “You don’t believe that,” Eslingen said, and was startled by his
own vehemence. But it was impossible to imagine Rathe standing
idly by while his colleagues helped the child-stealers, even more
impossible to imagine him cooperating with them. Of course, he
told himself firmly, Rathe wasn’t all pointsmen—wasn’t even a
typical one, by all accounts.
  Adriana made a face. “No, I don’t, not really. But with everyone
pointing the finger at us, it’s hard not to blame someone else.” She
sighed. “Gods, I don’t want to get back to work. Let me have
another drink of your beer, Philip?”
  Eslingen nodded, watched the smooth skin of her neck exposed as
she tilted her head to drink. She saw him looking as she lowered
the jug, but only smiled, and set it back on the table.
  “Thanks. Think of me, slaving away to feed you—”
  “Philip!” Devynck’s voice cut through whatever else her daughter
would have said. “In here, please, now!”
  Eslingen shoved himself upright, wondering if she’d finally
decided to make known her feelings about any connection with him,
and hurried into the inn. He stopped just inside the garden door, his
hand going reflexively to the knife he still carried. Devynck was
standing by the bar, hands on her hips, the waiters flanking her
like soldiers; A lanky woman in a pointswoman’s jerkin stood facing
her, more pointsmen behind her—at least half a dozen of
them—and at her side was a small woman Eslingen thought he
should recognize. He frowned, unable to place her, uncertain of his
status, or Devynck’s, and the innkeeper turned to him.
  “Philip. It seems that Chief Point Monteia here has received a
formal complaint about the Brown Dog. She feels it her duty to
investigate those complaints—” She glanced back at the lanky
woman, and added, grudgingly, “not unreasonably, I suppose. She
also feels it’s necessary to search the building and grounds.”
  Eslingen nodded once, fixing his eyes on the group. The
points-woman—chief point, he corrected himself, Rathe’s superior
Monteia—just said, “Mistress Huviet here has lodged a complaint
with us, says you’re hiding the girl that’s missing from the Knives
Road. We’re obliged to take that seriously.”
  “And what business is it of Mistress Huviet’s?” Devynck asked. “I
don’t see Bonfais Mailet in here claiming I’ve got his apprentice.”
  Monteia gave a thin smile. “Mistress Huviet has kin in the guild,
a nephew, I believe, who’s a journeyman, and about whom she’s
worried.” The chief point’s voice was tinged with irony, and
Devynck snorted.
  “Not that Paas?” she demanded, and Monteia nodded. “Then she
should hope he’s taken, it’d save her in the long run.”
  The little woman drew herself up—rather like a gargoyle,
Eslingen thought, or more like a crow, something small, and fierce,
and dangerous when roused—and Monteia held up her hand.
  “Aagte, that’s not funny at the best of times, and times like
these, I’m forced to take it seriously. You’re not helping yourself
with remarks like that.”
  Devynck made a face, but folded her arms across her breast,
visibly refusing to apologize. Monteia’s mouth tightened, as though
she’d bitten something bitter. “The complaint has been made, and I
will search this tavern with or without your cooperation, Devynck.”
  “And what about the rest of the taverns in Point of Hopes—hells,
there are three others off the Knives Road alone. Will you be
searching them, Chief Point?”
  Monteia shook her head. “I’ve no cause, no complaints against
them.”
  Devynck snorted. “Go on, then. Philip, go with them, don’t let
them drink anything they haven’t paid for.”
  Monteia grinned at that, a fleeting expression that lit her
horselike face with rueful amusement, but Huviet bristled again.
  “He’s in it as much as anyone, I told you that. You can’t let him
lead the search.”
 “I’m leading the search,” Monteia corrected her. “And Aagte—
Mistress Devynck—has a right to have one of her people observe.”
  Huviet compressed her lips, but Monteia’s tone brooked no
argument. The chief point nodded. “All right. We’ll do this orderly,
bottom to top, people. And if anything’s broken or missing, it comes
doubled out of your salary and fees.” She eyed the group behind
her, and seemed to read agreement, nodded again. “Ganier, watch
the front, no one in or out. Leivrith, the same for the back.”
  Devynck snorted again, and reached for the knot of keys that
hung at her belt. “Half your station? I’m flattered.” She handed the
keys to Eslingen. “They’re marked. Let them in wherever they
want to go, the only secret here is where I get my good beer.”
  “Ma’am.” Eslingen looked at Monteia, and the chief point sighed.
  “Right, then. We’ll start with the cellars.”
  Eslingen found that key easily enough—he’d seen it before, a
massive thing, passed from hand to hand as needed—and unlocked
the trap where the beer barrels were brought in. Monteia lifted an
eyebrow at that, and he wondered for an instant if she knew there
was a second, easier entrance from the garden. She said nothing,
however, just motioned for one of the pointsmen to raise the trap,
and swung herself easily down the ladder. Eslingen followed,
reached for the lantern that hung ready on the side of the barrel
chute. He fumbled in his pocket for flint and steel, but before he
could find it, one of the waiters came hurrying with a lit candle,
hand cupped around the flame. One of the pointswomen passed it
down to him. He lit the lantern and set it back in its place,
throwing fitful shadows. Monteia gave him another look, but said
nothing, just stepped back to let her people file past, lighting their
own candles as they went. The little woman—Huviet— came last of
all, bundling her skirts against the cellar dirt.
   “Help yourself,” Eslingen said, and wished instantly he’d chosen a
less ambiguous phrase.
  “You should know better,” Monteia answered, and nodded to her
people. “All right, go to it. Make sure there are no secret
rooms—and remember what I said about breakage.”
   The cellar was large, and essentially undivided, except for the
pillars that held the floor above. Monteia’s people moved through it
with efficient speed, shifting the heavy barrels and the racked
wines only enough to be sure that nothing was concealed behind
them. Huviet followed close behind, peering over their shoulder as
each object was moved. With her skirts still bunched up, and the
lack of height that made her hop a little to see past the taller
pointsmen, she looked like nothing so much as an indignant
gargoyle in the uncertain light, but then Eslingen caught a glimpse
of her face, and his amusement died. She was absolutely convinced
of Devynck’s guilt—of all their guilt, pointsman and Leaguer
alike—and she wouldn’t be satisfied until a child was found.
 “Nothing here, boss,” one of the pointsmen announced, and
Monteia nodded.
  “Upstairs.”
   Eslingen trailed behind them, the keys jangling in his hand,
pausing only to be sure that the lantern was well out. Monteia led
her people into the kitchen—Adriana and the cookmaid stood back
against the garden wall, arms folded, saying nothing even when one
of the pointsmen nearly upset the stew pot—and she herself ran a
thin rod into the huge jars of flour. Huviet peered over her
shoulder, and into every corner, all the while darting wary glances
at Adriana and the scowling maid.
  “Nothing here either,” a pointsman announced, and Monteia
straightened, one hand going to the small of her back.
  “Devynck’s office,” she said. “And then upstairs.”
  Monteia herself went through Devynck’s office, though she
disdained to touch the locked strongbox that sat beneath the work
table. Huviet looked as though she would protest, seeing that, but
Monteia fixed her with a cold stare, and the little woman subsided.
At the chief point’s gesture, Eslingen led the way into the garden
and up the outside stair, then stood back while the pointsmen went
into each of the lodgers’ rooms.
  “I’ve four people staying with me now,” Devynck said, from the
top of the stairs, “all known to me, Monteia, except Eslingen, and
he came recommended by a woman I’d trust with my life. So that’s
four rooms out of six, and the others are all empty. But see for
yourself.”
  “We will,” Monteia said, without particular emphasis, and
Devynck snorted, and climbed down the stairs again, her shoes loud
on the wood. The chief point made a face, and nodded to her people.
“All right, get on with it—and remember what I said.”
  Eslingen leaned against the wall, the suns’ light hot on his back.
At least the other lodgers were away, either at their jobs, or, like
Jasanten, at the Temple of Areton, and he made a face at the
thought of explaining the searches to some of his more truculent
neighbors. Still, he would deal with that later, if anyone noticed. So
far, though, the pointsmen had been remarkably tidy in their work.
He was just glad Rathe wasn’t among the group, and couldn’t have
said precisely why.
  He straightened as Huviet started to follow a pointswoman into
one of the rooms, and touched Monteia’s shoulder. “Chief Point, I’ve
no objection to her going into the untenanted rooms, but that
woman has no status here, and I won’t have her in the lodgers’
rooms.” He left the accusation hanging, delicately, and saw Monteia
suppress a grin.
  “Mistress Huviet, you will have to stay outside.”
 Huviet drew herself up. “You keep taking their part, Chief Point.
One would think you were on their side.”
  “I’m here to act for the city’s laws,” Monteia said. “This search is
at your behest, mistress, that’s all you have a right to.”
  Huviet looked as though she was going to say something else, but
as visibly swallowed her words. She turned on her heel, and moved
down the hall, to stand ostentatiously in the doorway of the next
room. “Be sure and check the walls for hidden panels.”
  Monteia rolled her eyes, then looked at Eslingen. “So you’re the
new knife. Rathe spoke to you?”
  “Yes.” Eslingen kept his eyes on the city woman, moving on to
the doorway of the next room.
  “Good.” Monteia nodded. “He speaks well of you, at least on first
acquaintance. I hope you’ll keep his advice in mind.”
   “Send to Point of Hopes if we have trouble,” he said. Eslingen
tilted his head at the pointsmen filling the hallway. “And who do we
send to for this, Chief Point?”
   Monteia looked at him. “There are a lot of other things I could be
doing, Eslingen, things that would close the Brown Dog for good.
And that might be simplest right now, seeing that there are plenty
of people who’d like to see it closed, just because Devynck’s a
Leaguer and a soldier when it’s a bad time to be either.”
  Eslingen looked away, acknowledging that she had the right of it.
“People are scared,” he said, after a moment, not knowing how to
apologize.
  “I know it,” Monteia said, flatly, and then shook her head. “I’d
have to be deaf not to hear what’s being said, and I’ve been offered
coin to be blind, too, for that matter. To close my eyes and not see,
what did she call it, events taking their course.”
  “Fire?” Eslingen asked, instantly, and as quickly shook his head.
“Surely not, not in a neighborhood like this, everything cheek by
jowl—”
   Monteia gave a twisted smile. “You think like a soldier. I doubt
anyone hereabouts would destroy real property, they’ve had to work
too hard to get it. But that’s why I’m here, and that’s why I’m
offending the hells out of an old friend.”
   Eslingen nodded. It was like war, a little, or more like taking a
city. You saved what you could through whatever methods were
necessary. You didn’t make friends, you usually lost some, but you
kept some part of yourself intact. He doubted Monteia would
appreciate the analogy, however, said only, “If we get any further
trouble, Chief Point, I promise we’ll send to you.”
  “Good.”
  “We’re finished here, ma’am,” one of the pointsmen said. “Still
nothing.”
  Monteia nodded briskly. “Right. Downstairs, then.”
  Eslingen stood aside with an automatic half bow, and the chief
point grinned. “Served with Coindarel, did you? He always was one
for a pretty man with good manners.”
 “And I was beginning to like you, Chief Point,” Eslingen
muttered.
   He followed her down into the garden, well aware that Devynck
was waiting, hands on hips, beside the fence that marked the edge
of the kitchen garden. She fixed him and the chief point with an
impartial glare, and said, “Find anyone, Monteia? My keys, Philip.”
  Eslingen handed her the knot of metal, and she restored it to its
place at her belt, still staring at Monteia.
  The chief point shook her head. “No. Nor, for the record, did I
expect to, and so I told Mistress Huviet when she made her
complaint.”
  “They’ve just been moved,” Huviet said. “She had warning, they
took the children away before we could get here.”
  “Do you have any proof of that?” one of the other pointswomen
snapped, and Monteia held up her hand, silencing both of them.
   “My people have been in and out of the Old Brown Dog half a
dozen times since the children started disappearing—easily half of
those since Herisse Robion vanished—and all without warning.
There’s been no sign of children, or are you calling me a liar,
mistress?” Huviet said nothing, and Monteia nodded in satisfaction.
“If anything, Devynck’s been discouraging the local youth from
coming here. I will take it very ill if there’s any further disturbance
in this neighborhood.”
  “It won’t be us who causes a disturbance, Chief Point,” Huviet
said, stiffly.
  Before Monteia could say anything to that, Loret appeared in the
doorway, one hand in the waistband of his breeches where he
stashed his cudgel. “Eslingen—”
  “Trouble?” Devynck asked, eyes narrowing.
  “There’s people here, ma’am, they say they know the points are
here, and they want to make sure everything’s all right.”
  And I wish I thought that meant they were on our side, Eslingen
thought. He said, “I’ll deal with it.”
   “Not alone,” Monteia said, and fixed her eyes on Huviet. “If this
is your doing, mistress—” She broke off, gestured for Eslingen to
precede her into the tavern. To his relief, a pair of pointsmen
followed, drawing their truncheons.
  The main door was closed and barred, but Eslingen could see
blurred shapes moving outside the windows, and could hear the dull
buzz of voices. Not angry, not yet, not calling for blood, but the
potential was there, clear in the note of the crowd. Monteia’s frown
deepened, and she looked at Eslingen. “Go ahead and open it. I’ll
talk to them.”
  Eslingen’s eyebrows rose at that—he lacked the chief point’s
confidence in her powers of persuasion—but, reluctantly, he slid
back the bar. Monteia flung the door open, and stepped out into the
sunlit street.
  “What’s all this, then?”
   The pointsmen stepped up to the door, but did not follow her into
the street. Looking past them, Eslingen had to admit he admired
their restraint. A group of maybe a dozen journeymen, all in
butchers’ leather aprons, were gathered outside the door, and
beyond them the respectable matrons of the neighborhood had
gathered, too, along with a couple of master butchers. They looked
less certain of the situation, torn between disapproval of the tavern
and disapproval of the journeymen’s protest, but they made no
move to haul their juniors home. Scanning their faces, Eslingen
thought he recognized the woman whose son he’d sent home, and
wondered whose side she would be on.
  “Well?” Monteia demanded, and a familiar figure stepped out
from among the journeymen.
   “Have you taken the child-thief?” Paas demanded. “Bring her out,
let us see her.”
   “There are no children here,” Monteia said, and pitched her voice
to carry to the edges of the crowd. She ticked her next words off on
her fingers, a grand gesture, calculated to impress. “There are no
children, no sign that any children were here, no secret rooms, no
suspicious anything. Nothing but a woman trying to go about her
business like the rest of us. I have been through this building from
cellar to attic, and there’s nothing here that shouldn’t be. And
unless you, Paas Huviet, have more evidence than your mother did,
I’ll thank you to keep your mouth closed. If you didn’t drink too
much, you wouldn’t be thrown out of taverns.”
  That shot told, Eslingen saw, and hid a grin. Paas hesitated,
obviously not appeased, but unable to think of anything to say. In
the silence, a bulky man in a butcher’s apron stepped forward. “You
give us your word on that, Chief Point? It’s my apprentice who’s
missing.”
 “Among others,” Monteia said, not ungently. “You have my word,
Mailet. The girl’s not here.”
  The man nodded, not entirely convinced, but reluctant to
challenge her directly. “Very well.” He waded into the crowd of
journeymen, caught one by the collar. “You, Eysi, who gave you
permission to leave your work? Get on home with you, and don’t
disgrace me further.”
  The rest of the crowd began to disperse with him, the
journeymen in particular looking sheepish and glad to get out from
under the chief point’s eye, but one woman held her ground, then
walked slowly across the dirty street until she was standing face to
face with the chief point. It was the boy’s mother, Eslingen realized,
with a sinking feeling, what was her name, Lucenan.
  “So what are you going to do about this place, Monteia?” she
asked.
  “Do about it?”
  “A Leaguer tavern, frequented by soldiers, in and out of work—
times like these, we don’t need them in our midst.”
 “Children have disappeared from every point in Astreiant,”
Monteia said. “Closing one tavern’s not going to stop that.”
   “I’ve nothing against Leaguers,” Lucenan said, “but these people
fill children’s heads with the most amazing nonsense about a
soldier’s life. Running after soldiers, who knows what our children
might stumble into, even if it’s not the soldiers who are stealing
them? It’s a risk having them here.”
   Monteia nodded slowly. “I know you, mistress. And your son. He’s
of an age where he will go off and explore, and if he’s soldier-mad,
gods know how you’ll stop him, without you tie him to your
doorpost. And you’re frightened, and I wish I could say it was
without cause. I’m frightened, too—I’ve a son his age myself, and a
daughter not much younger. But you know as well as I that
Devynck doesn’t encourage him—she sent him home to you, didn’t
she, and she’ll probably have to do it again.” She smiled suddenly.
“Admit it, Anfelis, you’re mostly annoyed that Devynck’s
complained against him.”
  Lucenan blinked, on the verge of affront, and then, slowly,
smiled. “I’m not best please about that, Ters, no. But that’s not
what’s behind this. I am worried—I’m more than worried, I’m
frankly terrified. I don’t want to lose Felis.”
  “I know,” Monteia said. “All I can tell you is, the child-thief isn’t
here—Felis is probably as safe here as he is at home. Given the
complaints between the two of you, the boy will be as well looked
after as if he was Aagte’s own.”
  That surprised another rueful smile from Lucenan, but she
sobered quickly. “It’s the streets in between I’m worried about, as
much as anything.”
  “We’re doing what we can,” Monteia answered, and the other
woman shook her head.
  “It’s not enough, Chief Point.” She turned away before Monteia
could answer.
  “And don’t I know it,” Monteia muttered, and stepped back into
the tavern. “Well, you heard that, Eslingen. I don’t think you’ll
have a lot to worry about, barring something new. It’s mostly the
Huviets who are causing the trouble, and they’re not well loved
here.”
  “I hope you’re right,” Eslingen answered.
  “And if I’m not—hells, if you have any troubles,” Monteia began,
and Eslingen finished for her.
  “I’ll send to Point of Hopes. I assure you, you’ll be the first to
hear.”
Business was slow that night, and Eslingen, watching the sparse
gathering from his usual corner, didn’t know whether it was a good
or a bad sign. Among the broadsheets he had bought that morning
was a plain diviner, listing the planetary positions for the week,
with brief comments, the sort of thing senior students at the
university cobbled together to raise drinking money, but
nevertheless he slipped it out of his cuff and scanned it yet again. It
was the night of the new moon—if the astrologer at the fairgrounds
had been correct, he was due to change his job soon. He smiled. He
suspected that the astrologer’s timing was off: he had a new job,
related to his work, already. And in any case, it was the general
readings he was interested in. The sun and the moon both lay
square to the winter-sun; the first was normal, defined the time of
year, but the second added to the tension between the mundane and
the supernatural. He shook his head, thinking of the missing
children—one more indication that there was something dreadfully
wrong—and scanned the list of aspects again. The moveable stars
lay mostly in squares, particularly Areton, ruler of strife and
discord, squaring Argent—and there go the merchants’ profits,
Eslingen added silently—and the Homestar and Heira. More
tension there, for home and society, and with Areton in the Scales
and Sickle, there was a real promise of trouble. He made a face,
and refolded the paper, tucking it back into the wide cuff of his
coat. It was showing signs of wear, and he grimaced again, looked
out across the almost-empty room.
  Most of the soldiers were gone, either hired on to one of the
companies just to get out of the city, or else they’d taken
themselves and their drinking to the friendlier taverns along the
Horsegate Road, closer to the camp grounds. And who could blame
them? Eslingen thought. But it makes for a lonely night. Jasanten
was still there, ensconced at his usual table, but he’d already given
Devynck his notice, was planning to move to the Green Bell on the
Horsegate as soon as possible. It would be easier recruiting there,
he said, but they all knew what he really meant.
   The rest of the customers were Leaguers, friends of Devynck’s—
the brewer Marrija Vandeale was still there, her group of five,
including a well-grown young man who had to be her son, the
largest in the inn. Eslingen shook his head again, and walked over
to the bar, more for something to do than because he really wanted
another pitcher, even of Vandeale’s best. Adriana came to meet
him, faced him across the heavy wood with a crooked grin.
  “Not a good night,” Eslingen said, not knowing what else to say,
and the woman’s smile widened briefly.
   “No. Mother’s furious.” She nodded to the edge of the paper
sticking out above the edge of his cuff. “Any good news there?”
  “It depends,” Eslingen said, sourly.
  “How’s business?” Adriana asked, and matched his tone exactly.
  “I wouldn’t ask.”
  Adriana glanced over his shoulder at the almost-empty room. “I
hardly need to.” She reached across the counter for his mug. “What
about the children, does it say anything about them?”
  Eslingen shrugged, and tucked the diviner deeper into his cuff.
“Not a lot—as you’d expect, I suppose. Metenere trines the
sun—and the moon, for that matter—which they say is a hopeful
sign, but it’s inconjunct to the winter-sun and Sofia, which they say
means there are still things to be uncovered before the matter is
resolved.”
  “That’s safe enough,” Adriana said, and set the refilled mug back
in front of him. “Gods, you’d think the magists could do better than
that.”
  Eslingen nodded, took a sip of beer he didn’t really want. “Or the
points. I wonder if they’re consulting the astrologers?”
  “They generally do. When they’re not searching taverns,” Adriana
answered, and grinned. “Your friend Rathe, he has friends at the
university, or so I’m told. Above his station, surely.”
  “No particular friend of mine,” Eslingen said, automatically, and
only then thought to wonder at his own response. I wouldn’t mind
calling him a friend, though.
  Adriana’s eyebrows rose. “And below yours?” She turned away
before he could answer, disappeared through the kitchen door.
   Eslingen stared after her for a moment—he hadn’t expected her
to defend any pointsman—then shrugged, and made his way back
to his table. He doubted there would be any call for his services
tonight, since the locals seemed to be staying well clear after the
abortive search, but he left the beer untouched, and tilted his stool
until his back rested against the wall. Monteia had handled the
situation well, particularly getting that red-faced butcher on her
side, he acknowledged silently. If they got through the evening
without trouble, things should be all right.
   The clock struck midnight at last, its voice clear in the still air,
and Devynck appeared to call time on the last customers. They left
in a group, Eslingen was glad to see, Vandeale and her household in
the lead, and Devynck herself walked them to the door to wish
them safe home. She pulled the heavy door closed behind them,
turning the key in the lock, and Loret lifted the bar into its
brackets. It looked thick enough to stand at least a small battering
ram, Eslingen thought, and wondered if Devynck had foreseen the
necessity. He stood then, stretching, and went to help Hulet with
the shutters. Each had an iron bar of its own, holding the wood firm
against the glass outside; they, too, would stand a siege, and he
lifted the last one into place with a distinct feeling of relief. With
the tavern secured for the night, all the doors and windows locked
and barred, it was unlikely that the butchers’ journeymen would
find a way to make trouble. Hulet stretched and loosened the ropes
that held the central candelabra in place, lowering it so that
Adriana could snuff the massive candles.
  “Philip.” Devynck’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Go with
Loret, make sure the garden gate’s barred before we close up for
the night.”
  “Right.” Eslingen trailed the yawning waiter out into the sudden
dark. The winter-sun had set at midnight, and the air was
distinctly chill, pleasant after the heat of the day. Loret fumbled
with a candle and lantern, and Eslingen glanced up, looking for the
familiar constellations, but a thin drift of cloud veiled all but the
brightest stars. Then Loret had gotten his candle lit, and Eslingen
followed its glow through the garden and down to the back gate.
The bar was already up there, a chain and lock the size of a man’s
fist holding it firmly in place, but Loret tugged at it anyway before
turning back to the inn. Eslingen glanced along the walls, checking
for trouble there. They were in good repair, and high, taller than
himself by a good yard; he couldn’t remember if they were topped
with spikes or glass, but would not have been surprised by either.
In any case, they would be hard to climb without ladders: it’s good
enough, he told himself, and followed Loret back to the tavern.
Nonetheless, he was careful to lock the door behind him at the top
of the stairs, and to bar his own door after him. The banked embers
at the bottom of the stove were dead, not even warm to the touch.
He considered finding flint and steel, rekindling them, but it was
late, and it would be easier in the morning to borrow coals from the
kitchen fire. He undressed in the dark, leaving his coat draped
neatly over the chair, and crawled into the tall bed.
   He woke to the sound of breaking glass, groped under his pillow
for his pistol and found only the keys to his chest. He had them in
his hand before he was fully awake, and flung back the covers as he
heard another window break. The sound was followed by shouts,
young, drunken voices, and then he heard another shout from
inside the inn: Devynck, waking her people to the trouble. He
dragged on his breeches as another window shattered, and stooped
to his clothes chest. He hastily unlocked the lid and dragged out his
pistol and the bag that held powder and balls. There was no time to
load it; he jammed it instead into the waistband of his breeches, the
metal cold on his skin, and caught up his knife on the way to the
door.
  Jasanten was ahead of him in the hall, balanced awkwardly on
his crutch, a long knife in his free hand. “What in all hells—?”
  “Don’t know,” Eslingen answered, and unlocked the stairway
door. “Stay here, keep an eye on things.”
  “Like I could go anywhere fast,” Jasanten answered, but stopped
at the head of the stairs, bracing himself against the frame.
Eslingen pushed past him, scanning the garden. It was still dark,
and quiet; most of the noise had come from the front of the inn.
  “Devynck?” he called, more to give her warning than to find her,
and pushed open the tavern door.
   A thick pillar candle guttered on the end of the bar, throwing
uneven shadows across the wide room and the empty tables.
Devynck, ghostly in shift and unbound hair, stood by the main door,
a caliver in her hands as she peered cautiously through a newly
opened shutter. Slow match smouldered in the lock, a bright point
of red. Adriana stood at her mother’s back, a half-pike balanced
capably in her hands, her legs bare beneath the short hem of her
nightshirt.
  “They’re gone, the little bastards,” Devynck said, and turned
away from the window. “No thanks to you, Philip.”
 “No thanks to any of us, Mother,” Adriana said, and Devynck
made a noise that might have been meant as apology.
  “All clear out back,” Hulet said, and Eslingen jumped as the two
waiters appeared behind him.
  “So what happened?” he asked, cautiously.
   Devynck disengaged the slow match from the lock, and set the
caliver down before answering, holding the still-lit length of match
well clear of her loose nightclothes. “Someone—and I daresay we
can all guess who—came down the street and broke in our front
windows. Areton’s spear, what do I have to do to make a living in
this city? I’ll have the points on them so fast they’ll think lightning
fell on them.”
  “We can’t prove it was Paas,” Adriana said. “Unless you got a
better look at them than I did.”
  “Who else could it have been?” Devynck demanded, but she
sounded less certain.
  “Do you want me to go to the station?” Eslingen asked. “Rathe—
and Monteia—said we should tell them if there was trouble.”
  Devynck shook her head. “No one of mine is going out on the
streets tonight. I doubt we’ll have any more trouble, anyway, they
got what they wanted.”
  “Whatever that was,” Hulet said, and shook his head. Behind
him, Loret nodded, stuffing his shirt into the waistband of his
trousers.
  “I could go to Point of Hopes,” he offered, and Devynck glared at
him.
  “I said no one, and I meant it. It’s, what, it lacks an hour to
dawn, that’s time enough, once the sun’s up and there are sensible
people on the streets, to send to the points.” She fixed her eyes on
Eslingen’s waist. “Is that a lock, Philip—and if it is, I trust you’ve
got permission to carry it in the city?”
  Eslingen felt himself flush, and was grateful for the candlelight.
In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten Astreiant’s laws.
“Well—”
  “I’ll take that as a no,” Devynck said, sourly. “Well, my lad, you
can come with me to Point of Hopes, then, and I’ll see if I can’t get
Monteia to grant you a writ for it. After tonight, I think she’ll be
willing enough.”
  “How bad is the damage?” Eslingen asked.
  “All our front windows smashed,” Devynck answered, “and a nice
profit the glaziers’ll make off of me for it. I haven’t taken the
shutters down to see how many panes were actually broken—time
enough for that in the morning.” She looked around the dimly lit
room. “Hulet, you and Loret stay up, keep an eye on things. If they
come back, give me a shout, and you, Loret, run to Point of Hopes.
But I don’t think they will.”
  Eslingen shivered, suddenly aware of how cool the air was on his
bare chest and back. Adriana gave him a sympathetic glance,
hugging herself, the half-pike still tucked in the crook of her arm.
  “Right,” Devynck said, briskly. “Back to bed, all of you. Philip, I’ll
leave for Point of Hopes at eight, and I want you with me.”
  “Yes, ma’am,” Eslingen answered, and took himself out the
garden door. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he thought,
hearing the tower clock strike the half hour. At least he could get
another few hours sleep before he had to face the pointsmen.
  Jasanten was still waiting at the top of the stairs, the
knife—longer than the city regulations, Eslingen was willing to
swear—still poised in his hand. He relaxed slightly, seeing the
younger man, and said, “So the alarm’s past?”
  “For tonight, or so Devynck says.” Eslingen sighed, and eased the
pistol from his waistband. “Some of the local youth, she thinks,
broke in the front windows.”
  “Not good times,” Jasanten said, and stood out of the doorway,
balancing himself awkwardly on his crutch. “Not good times at all.”
   And likely to get worse before they get better, Eslingen thought,
remembering the diviner. “Get some sleep, Flor,” he said, and went
back into his own room, locking the door behind him. He hesitated
for an instant, looking at the unloaded pistol, but in the end decided
not to load it. Devynck knew her neighbors, or so he would trust;
still, he set it on the table in easy reach before he undressed and
climbed back into bed.
  He woke to the noise of someone knocking on the door, and
groped blearily for the pistol before he realized that the sun was
well up. He swore under his breath—he was already late, if the sun
was that bright—and Adriana’s voice came from beyond the door.
  “Philip? Mother says you should hurry. I brought shaving water
and something for breakfast.”
  “All the gods bless you,” Eslingen said, scrambling into shirt and
breeches, and unlocked the door. Adriana looked remarkably awake
and cheerful, considering the night, and he couldn’t repress a
grimace.
  She grinned, and set a bowl and plate down on the table, lifting
the plate away to reveal the hot water. Eslingen took it gratefully,
washed face and hands and carried it across to the circle of polished
brass that he used as a mirror. In full light, and with care, he could
shave, and it was cheaper than the barber’s—not to mention, he
added silently, running the razor over the stone, safer, given
current sentiment. “Do you think there’s any chance of my getting
a dispensation, or have I lost a good pistol?” he said, and began
cautiously to shave.
  In the mirror, he saw Adriana shrug. “Mother’s had one for
years, for the same reason she’ll give for you, to protect her
property against people who don’t like Leaguers. Monteia—no, it
wasn’t Monteia, it was Wetterli, he was chief point before
Monteia—he gave it to her when she first came here. It wasn’t long
after the League wars, people weren’t always friendly.”
  “Whatever possessed her to settle here, and not in University
Point?” Eslingen wiped his face, studying the sketchy job, and
decided not to press his luck.
   “You mean over by the Horsegate? Too much competition there.”
Adriana grinned again. “As you may have noticed, Mother doesn’t
like to share.”
   Eslingen lifted an eyebrow at her, but decided not to pursue the
comment. He reached instead into his clothes chest and pulled out
his best shirt. He had managed to get it laundered, but that had
done the already thinning fabric little good; he could see seams
starting to give way at shoulder and cuff. There was nothing he
could do about it now, however, and he was not about to make an
appearance at the points station with an illegal lock in his
second-best. He stripped off the shirt he’d pulled on before, pulled
on the better one more carefully, wincing as he heard stitches give
somewhere. He decided to ignore it, and reached for the thick slice
of bread that Adriana had brought him. It smelled of sugar and
spices, the sort of heavy cakebread that was common in the League.
He finished it in three bites, grateful for the sharp, sweet flavor of
it, and shrugged himself into his best coat. It, too, was looking more
than a little the worse for wear—not surprising, after a winter
campaign and then most of a summer—but he managed to make
himself look more or less presentable. Adriana nodded her approval,
and collected the bowl and plate.
  “Better hurry, Mother’s waiting.”
  Eslingen made a face, but rewrapped the pistol in the rag that
had protected it, and tucked the unwieldy package under his arm.
“Let’s go.”
  Devynck was waiting in the inn’s main room, the caliver slung
over her shoulder. The lock was conspicuously empty of match, the
barrel was sheathed in a canvas sleeve, and a badge with the royal
seal swung from it, but even so Eslingen blinked, trying to imagine
the locals’ response to seeing Devynck stalking the streets with that
in hand.
  She saw his look and scowled. “Well, I’m not going to risk
drawing the ball, am I? I’ll get Monteia to let me fire it off instead.”
  If she’ll let you, Eslingen added, but thought better of saying it. It
was safer, of course, and he couldn’t blame Devynck for not
wanting to fire it in her own back garden. He could only begin to
imagine the neighbors’ response to shots, or even a single shot,
coming from the Old Brown Dog.
  “Are you ready?” the innkeeper demanded, and Eslingen shook
himself back to reality.
  “Ready enough.” He held up the wrapped pistol. “I suppose I
bring this with me?”
   “Of course.” Devynck’s glare softened for an instant. “You won’t
lose it, Philip—and if you do, I’ll stand the cost of its replacement.”
   “I appreciate that,” Eslingen answered. It would be a poor second
best, and they both knew it: pistols were idiosyncratic; even the
ones made by the best gunsmiths had their peculiar habits, and it
was never easy to replace a lock that worked well. Still, under the
circumstances and given the cost of a pistol, it was a generous offer.
   Devynck nodded. “Right then. Let’s go.” She shoved open the
main door, letting in the morning light and the faint scent of hay
and the butchers’ halls. The doorstep and the ground beyond it
glittered faintly, scattered with glass from the broken windows.
There were shards of lead as well, and Eslingen grimaced, thinking
of the cost. He followed Devynck out the door, and looked back to
see the half-emptied frames, the leads twisted out of true, the glass
strewn across the dirt of the yard. With the shutters still barred
behind them, they looked vaguely like eyes, and he was reminded,
suddenly and vividly, of a dead man he’d stumbled over at the siege
of Hirn. He had looked like a shopkeeper, the spectacles shattered
over his closed eyes. He shook the thought away, and Loret
appeared in the doorway with a broom, heading out to sweep up the
debris.
   To his relief, the streets were relatively quiet, and the few people
who were out gave them a wide berth. They reached the Point of
Hopes station without remark, and Devynck marched through the
open gate without a backward glance. Eslingen followed more
slowly, unable to resist the chance to look around him. He had
never been inside a points station before—and had hoped never to
be, he added silently—but had to admit that it wasn’t quite what
he’d expected. The courtyard walls were as high and solid as any
city fort’s, the gatehouse and portcullis sturdy and defensible, but
the guard’s niches were drifted with dust and a few stray wisps of
straw. The stable looked as though it had been unused for years; a
thin girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, sat on the edge of the dry
trough outside it, putting neat stitches in a cap. She looked up at
their approach, alert and curious, but didn’t move. An apprentice?
Eslingen wondered. Or a runner? She looked too calm to be there
on any business of her own.
  Devynck pushed open the main door, and Eslingen winced at the
smell of cold cabbage and cheap scent that rushed out past her.
Despite the pair of windows, the shutters of both open wide to let in
as much light as possible, the room was dark, and the candle on the
duty pointsman’s desk was still lit. He looked up at their entrance,
eyes going wide, and quickly closed the daybook.
  “Mistress Devynck?”
  He had been one of the ones who’d searched the tavern, Eslingen
remembered, but couldn’t place the man’s name.
  “Where’s Monteia?” Devynck said.
  “Not in yet, mistress—”
   “Then you’d better send for her,” Devynck said, grimly, and one
of the doors in the back wall opened.
  “I’m here, if that helps, Aagte.” Rathe stepped out into the main
room, the bird’s-wing eyebrows drawing down into sharper angles
as he looked from Devynck and her wrapped caliver to Eslingen. “I
take it there’s been trouble.”
  Devynck nodded. “No offense, Nico, but Monteia needs to hear it,
too.”
   “None taken,” Rathe said, equably enough, and stepped past
them to the door. “Asheri! Run to the chief point’s house, tell her
she’s needed here. Tell her Aagte Devynck’s come to us with a
complaint.” He turned back into the main room, a scarecrow
silhouette in his shapeless coat. “Come on into her workroom—but
leave the artillery outside, please.”
   Devynck hesitated, but, grudgingly, set the caliver into a corner.
“It’s loaded,” she said. “No match, of course, but one of the things
I’ve come for is to fire it off.”
  “If things were bad enough to bring out the guns,” Rathe said,
“why didn’t you send to us last night?”
   “They were here and gone before I had the time,” Devynck
answered. “And then there seemed no point in one of my people
risking the streets before daylight.”
   Rathe’s eyebrows flicked up at that, but he said nothing, just
motioned for the others to precede him into the narrow room. It,
too, was dark, and Eslingen stumbled against something, bruising
his shin, before Rathe could open the shutters. This window looked
onto a garden of sorts, and laundry hung from a line strung
between the corner of the station and a straggling tree. Eslingen
felt his eyebrows rise at that, and realized that Rathe was looking
at him.
  “All the comforts of home?”
  Rathe shrugged, seemingly unembarrassed. “Has to get done
some time, and some of the people here can’t afford their own
laundresses. So Monteia makes sure one comes in once a week.”
  Before Eslingen could answer, Devynck slammed her palm down
on the table, making the inkstand rattle. “Areton’s balls, what do I
have to do to get the points to protect my interests? Or would the
two of you rather sit here and gossip about laundry?”
  “I thought you wanted to wait for Monteia,” Rathe answered.
  “Which I do.” Devynck glared, but Rathe went on calmly.
  “And, to get to what business I can, what were you doing with
that gun of yours, Aagte?”
  “How could I know they would just break my windows and
run—”
  Rathe shook his head. “It takes time to load one of those, Aagte, I
know that. If they just broke your windows and ran, you
wouldn’t’ve had time to load it. So what else did they do, and why
didn’t you send to us? Or were you expecting trouble, had it ready
just in case?”
   Eslingen kept his expression steady with an effort. He hadn’t
expected the pointsman to know that much about guns, enough to
have caught Devynck in the weakest part of her story. Most city
folk didn’t, didn’t encounter them much in the course of their lives,
or if they did, they knew the newer flintlocks, not old-fashioned
ones like Devynck’s matchlock. Flints didn’t take as long to
load—were generally less temperamental than a matchlock—but he
was surprised that Rathe, who didn’t seem to like soldiers much,
would have bothered to find that out. Or did the points still act as
militia? he wondered suddenly.
  Devynck fixed Rathe with a glare, and the pointsman returned
the look blandly. “As it happened,” she said, after a moment, “I’d
loaded before bed, just to be on the safe side. After your lot
searched us yesterday, pointsman, it seemed wise to expect a
certain amount of— awkwardness.”
  Rathe nodded again, apparently appeased. “Yeah, I heard about
that. Huviet’s getting above herself, wants guild office, or so I
hear.”
  “Not through my misfortunes,” Devynck retorted.
 “I agree. But, bond or no bond, Aagte, you shoot someone, and it’s
manslaughter in the law’s eyes.”
  “Or self-defense.”
  “If you can prove it,” Rathe said. “And with the way tempers are
these days, it wouldn’t be easy.” He held up his hand, forestalling
Devynck’s automatic outburst. “I’m not begging fees, Aagte, or
telling you not to protect your property. But I wish you’d sent to us
as soon as it happened, that’s all. I’d’ve welcomed an excuse to put
Paas Huviet in cells for a night or two, think of it that way. I’m
assuming he was the ringleader?”
   Devynck sighed. “I think so. I didn’t get a good look at him, but
I’d know the voice.”
  Eslingen eyed Rathe with new respect. Not only was what he said
solid common sense, it had appeased Devynck—not the easiest
thing at the best of times, and this was hardly that.
  Rathe looked at Eslingen. “Did you see him?”
  The soldier shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I heard the shouting,
but I couldn’t swear to the voice.”
  Devynck made a sour face. “No, you hardly could.” She looked
back at Rathe. “Does this mean you can’t do anything?”
  Before he could answer, the workroom door opened, and Monteia
said, “I hear there was trouble, Aagte?”
  Eslingen edged back against the shelves where the station’s
books were kept, and the chief point eased past him, her skirts
brushing his legs, to settle herself behind the worktable. Rathe
moved gracefully out of her way, leaned against the wall by the
window.
  “Trouble enough,” Devynck answered, and Monteia made a face.
  “Sit down, for the gods’ sake, there’s a stool behind you. I’d hoped
we’d nipped that in the bud.”
  “I told you it wouldn’t help matters,” Devynck said, not without
relish, and dragged the tall stool out from its corner. She perched
on it, arms folded across her breasts, and Monteia grimaced again.
  “Tell me about it.”
   “We had a very slow night last night, not a single Chenedolliste
from the neighborhood, and damn few of the Leaguers,” Devynck
answered. “And after we’d closed up—and locked up, we’re not
taking any chances these days—and were all in bed, a band of the
local youth comes by and smashes in my front windows. It’s going
to cost me more than a few seillings to get them repaired, that’s for
certain.”
  “What time was it that it happened?” Monteia asked. Rathe,
Eslingen saw, without surprise, had pulled out a set of tablets and
was scratching notes in the wax plates.
  Devynck shrugged. “The winter-sun was well down, and I heard
the clock strike four a while after. Sometime after three, I think.”
  “And you didn’t send to us.”
   “As I told Nico here, I didn’t want to send my people into the
streets, not when I was pretty sure they were gone.” Devynck
sighed. “They were drunken journeymen, Tersennes. They weren’t
going to do much more damage to my property, or so I thought,
after we’d scared them off, but that sort’s more than capable of
beating one of my waiters if they caught him unaware. It may have
been a mistake, I admit it, but I’ve my people to think of, as well as
the house.”
  Monteia nodded. “I gather you didn’t recognize anyone.”
  “I’m morally certain Paas Huviet was the ringleader,” Devynck
answered, “but, no, I can’t swear to it.”
  Monteia nodded again. She took Devynck through her story in
detail, calling on Eslingen now and then for confirmation—a
confirmation he was only able to provide in the negative, much to
his chagrin— and finally leaned back in her chair. “I’m sorry it’s
come to this, Aagte. I’d hoped we’d put a stop to the rumors. I’ll
send some of my people around to ask questions—”
  “I’ll take charge of that, Chief,” Rathe said, and there was a note
in his voice that boded ill for the local journeymen.
 “Good. And we’ll do what else we can. I’ll make sure our
watchmen take in the Knives Road regularly.”
  Rathe stirred at that, but said nothing. Even so, Monteia gave
him a minatory look, and Eslingen wondered what wasn’t being
said. He knew that the points were only an occasional presence on
the streets and in the markets, mostly when there was trouble
expected; this didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. But
then, he added silently, nothing was ordinary right now, not with
the children missing.
  Devynck said, “Thanks, Tersennes, I appreciate what you’re
doing for us. There is one other thing, though—two, really.”
  Monteia spread her hands in silent invitation, and Devynck
plunged ahead. “First, my caliver out there. It’s loaded, and I don’t
want to ruin the barrel trying to draw it, not to mention the other
hazards. So can I fire it off in your yard?”
  “Gods,” Monteia said, but nodded. “What’s the other?”
  Devynck jerked her head toward Eslingen. “Philip here—being a
stranger to Astreiant and obviously not fully aware of its laws—”
  “Of course,” Rathe murmured, with a grin, but softly enough that
the Leaguer woman could ignore him.
  “—has a pistol of his own in my house. Under the circumstances,
rather than give it up, I’d like to post bond for him.”
  Monteia shook her head, sighing. “And I can’t say that’s
unreasonable, either. It won’t come cheap, though, Aagte, not with
that monster you already keep.”
   “I’m prepared to pay.” Devynck reached through the slit in her
outer skirt, produced a pocket that made a dull clank when she set
it on the worktable. “There’s two pillars there, in silver.”
   Monteia made a face, but nodded. “I’ll have the bond drawn up—
Nico, fetch the scrivener, will you? And in the meantime, you can
fire off that gun of yours.”
  The preparations for firing the caliver were almost more
elaborate than for writing the bond. Eslingen lounged against the
doorpost of the station, trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin as a
pointswoman brought out a red and black pennant and hung it from
the staff above the gatehouse. The duty pointsman recorded the
event in the station’s day-book, and Monteia and Rathe
countersigned the entry, as did Devynck. Rathe looked up then.
  “Eslingen? We need another witness.”
  “What am I witnessing to?” Eslingen asked, but went back into
the station.
  “That you know Devynck, that you know the gun’s loaded, that
we’ve posted the flag—the usual.” Rathe grinned. “Not like
Coindarel’s Dragons, I daresay.”
  “We had more of this than you’d think,” Eslingen answered, and
scrawled his name below Devynck’s. It did remind him of his time
in the royal regiments, actually; there had been the same insistence
on signatures and countersignatures for everything from drawing
powder to receiving pay. It had made it harder for the officers to
cheat their men, but not impossible, and he suspected that the
same was true in civilian life.
  “Right, then,” Monteia said. “Let’s get on with it.”
  Eslingen followed her and the others out into the yard, and saw
with some amusement that the thin girl and half a dozen other
children had gathered at the stable doors. Most of those would be
the station’s runners—a couple even looked old enough to be
genuinely apprentices—but he could see more children peering in
through the gatehouse. Monteia smiled, seeing them, but nodded to
the pointswoman.
  “Fetch a candle.”
  The woman did as she was told, and Devynck carefully lit the
length of slow match she had carried under her hat. She fitted it
deftly into the serpentine, tightened the screw, primed the pan, and
then looked around. “I’m ready here.”
  “Go ahead,” Monteia answered, and behind her Eslingen saw
several of the runners cover their ears.
   Devynck lifted the caliver to her shoulder, aimed directly into the
sky, and pulled the trigger. There was a puff of smoke as the
priming powder flashed and then, a moment later, the caliver fired,
belching a cloud of smoke. One of the children outside the
gatehouse shrieked, and most of the runners jumped; Devynck
ignored them, lowered the caliver, and freed the match from the
lock. She ground out the coal under her shoe, and only then looked
at Monteia.
  “That’s cleared it.”
  “One would hope,” Rathe murmured, and Monteia frowned at
him.
  “Right. Is the bond ready?”
   “I’ll see.” Rathe disappeared into the points station, to reappear a
moment later in the doorway holding a sheet of paper, which he
waved gently in the air to dry the ink. “Done. Just needs your
signature and seal.”
  Monteia nodded, and went back inside. Eslingen looked at
Devynck, who was methodically checking over her weapon. Behind
her, the neighborhood children were dispersing, only a few still
gawking from the shelter of the gatehouse. The runners, too, had
vanished back into the shelter of the stables, and he could hear
voices raised in shrill debate, apparently about the power and
provenance of the gun.
   “Here you are,” Rathe said, from behind him. “Careful, the wax is
still soft.”
   Eslingen took the paper, scanning the scrivener’s tidy, impersonal
hand, and Monteia’s spiky scrawl at the base. Rathe hadn’t signed
it, and he was momentarily disappointed; he shook the feeling
away, and folded the sheet cautiously, written side out. The seal
carried the same tower and monogram that topped the pointsmen’s
truncheons. “Thanks.”
  “And for Astree’s sake, the next time there’s trouble, send to us.”
   “Have you ever tried to go against her?” Eslingen asked, and
tilted his head toward Devynck, just sliding her caliver back into its
sleeve.
  Rathe smiled, the expression crooked. “I understand. I’ll probably
be in this afternoon, to see the damage—just so you don’t worry
when you see me coming.”
  “I’ll try not to,” Eslingen answered, and turned away.
They made their way back to the Old Brown Dog as uneventfully as
they’d left, but as they turned down the side street that led to the
inn’s door, Devynck swore under her breath. Eslingen glanced
around quickly, saw nothing on the street behind them, and only
then recognized that the young man sitting on the bench outside
the door was wearing a butcher’s badge in his flat cap. He met
Devynck’s stare defiantly, but said nothing. Devynck swore again,
and stalked past him into the inn.
  Inside, Adriana was beside the bar, Loret and Hulet to either
side. She whirled as the door opened, scowling, relaxed slightly as
she saw who it was.
  “Mother! I thought it was that Yvor.”
  “What in Areton’s name is going on?” Devynck asked, and
unslung her caliver with a movement that suggested she would
prefer it to be unsheathed and loaded.
  “You saw Yvor outside,” Adriana answered. “He and, oh, three or
four of his friends came here, said they wanted to drink. I told them
we weren’t open yet, and he said he’d wait.” She shook her head,
looking suddenly miserable. “I thought he was a friend, at least.”
  “Areton’s balls,” Devynck said. She looked at the two waiters,
then at Eslingen. “Did they say anything else?”
  “They just said they wanted beer,” Adriana said. She seemed
suddenly to droop, her stiff shoulders collapsing. “Maybe I’m
overreacting, but after last night…”
  Devynck sucked air through her teeth, frowning. “The gods
know, I don’t want to give them an excuse to cause us more trouble,
but I can’t think they want to drink here for good purpose.”
  “You should tell Monteia,” Eslingen said.
  Devynck stared at him. “Tell her what, my neighbors want to
buy my beer?”
  “They made Adriana nervous,” Eslingen answered. “She’s not
stupid or a coward, and none of us think they’re here just to drink.”
Hulet nodded at that, but said nothing.
  Devynck hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed. “All right.
Loret, run to Point of Hopes—go out the back—and tell the chief
point or Rathe exactly what’s happened. Tell her I’m concerned,
after last night, and I don’t want there to be any
misunderstandings.”
  “Yes, ma’am.” Loret nodded, and headed out the garden door.
  “You, Philip,” Devynck went on, “can tell young Yvor that we
won’t open until second sunrise today, thanks to the damage. If he
and his friends want to drink then, well, their coin is good to me.
But I won’t tolerate any trouble, any more than I usually do.”
  Eslingen nodded, and stepped back out into the dusty street. The
young man Yvor was still sitting on the bench, but he looked up
warily as the door opened.
  “What’s the matter, aren’t we good enough to drink here?”
  “Mistress Devynck says we won’t be open until the second
sunrise,” Eslingen repeated, deliberately. “It’s the damage to the
windows, you understand.”
  The young man had the grace to look fleetingly abashed at that,
but his wide mouth firmed almost at once into a stern pout. “And
then?”
  Eslingen eyed him without favor. “Then your money’s as good as
any, I suppose. I take it this is your half-day, then?”
  Yvor’s hand started toward the badge in his cap, but he stopped
himself almost instantly. “And if it is?”
  “I was wondering how you had the leisure to drink so early,”
Eslingen answered.
  “That’s hardly your business, Leaguer.”
  “Nothing about you is my business,” Eslingen agreed. “Until you
make it so.” He went back into the inn without waiting for the
younger man to answer.
   Devynck opened her taps a little after noon, as she had promised,
and, equally as promised, the butchers’ journeymen appeared. The
first group—Yvor and a pair of younger friends—bought a pitcher of
beer and drank it as slowly as they could; when they left, another
trio appeared, and then a third. A pointswoman arrived as well,
dusty in her leather jerkin. She bought a drink herself, watching
them, but admitted there was nothing she could do as long as they
didn’t make trouble.
  “They’re watching me, damn them,” Devynck said, fiercely, and
gestured for Eslingen to close the door of her counting room behind
him. “They’re watching me, and I know it, and there’s damn all I
can do about it.”
  “Kick them out,” Eslingen said.
   “Don’t be stupid,” Devynck snapped. “They’re just waiting for me
to try it. No, I can’t be rid of them unless I close completely, not
without provoking the trouble I want to prevent.”
  “So maybe you should close,” Eslingen said. He held up his hand
to forestall Devynck’s angry curse. “You haven’t been doing much
business the last few nights, it might be safer—smarter—to close
for a few days and see if it doesn’t blow over.”
  Devynck shook her head. “I will see them in hell and me with
them before I let them bully me.”
   And that, Eslingen thought, is that. He lifted both hands in
surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said, and went back out into the
main room. The journeymen—five of them, this time, and a
different group— were still there, and he smiled brightly at them as
he settled himself at his usual table. He reached for the stack of
broadsheets, but couldn’t seem to concentrate on the printed letters.
He could hear snatches of the young men’s conversations,
animadversions against Leaguers and soldiers and child-thieves,
suspected he was meant to hear, and met their glares with the
same blank smile. They finished their first pitcher, and, after a
muttered consultation and much searching of pockets, the youngest
of the group got up and went to the bar with the empty jug. Hulet
refilled it, narrow-eyed and sullen; the journeyman—he was little
more than a boy, really—glared back, but had the sense to say
nothing. As he returned to the table, a voice rose above the rest.
  “—points searched the place, didn’t find them.”
  Eslingen’s attention sharpened at that, though he didn’t move.
Was someone going to make the commonsense argument at last? he
wondered, and sighed almost inaudibly as a big man, fair as a
Leaguer, shook his blond head.
  “They were well fee’d not to find them, that’s all. They’re in it as
deep as anyone—and that’s what comes of giving ordinary folk that
kind of power.”
   The oldest of the group leaned forward and said something, and
the voices quieted again. Eslingen let himself relax, picked up
another broadsheet at random, but it was no more successful than
any of the others. He made himself read through it, however, all
fifteen lines of obscure verse—the poet-astrologer was obviously a
Demean in her sentiments—but couldn’t tell whether the oblique
intention was to blame foreigners or the city’s regents. Not that it
mattered, anyway, he added silently, and set the sheet aside. What
mattered was what the butchers on the Knives Road believed, and
they’d made that all too clear already.
  The main door opened then, letting in a wedge of the doubled
afternoon sunlight, and Rathe made his way into the bar. He was
barely recognizable as a pointsman, his jerkin scarred and worn,
the truncheon almost out of sight under its skirts, and one of the
journeyman started to smile at him before he recognized what he
was. The smile vanished then, and he turned his back
ostentatiously. Rathe’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing directly,
and came across the room to lean on Eslingen’s table.
  “I’ll want to talk with you after I’m done with Devynck,” he said,
and Eslingen nodded, wondering what was going on. “There’s been
a nasty bit of damage here, and to real property,” the pointsman
went on, lifting his voice to carry to the young men at the other
table. “That’ll be an expensive point, when we catch who did it.”
   Eslingen hid a smile at that, but said nothing. The pointsman’s
mouth twitched in an answering almost-smile, and he turned away
to disappear behind the bar. Eslingen leaned back in his chair
again, watching the journeymen at their table, and wasn’t
surprised to see them leaning heads together. Their hands were
moving, too, suppressed, choppy gestures, and then the
oldest-looking stood up, shaking his head. He said something, but
kept his voice low enough that Eslingen only caught two words,
“hotheads” and then “Huviet.” Another young man stood with the
other, and then a third; the oldest looked down at the others, his
head tilted to one side in obvious inquiry. They looked away, and
the first three turned and pushed their way out of the main door. A
quarrel over tactics? Eslingen wondered. Damaging property
seemed to be a cardinal evil in Astreiant.
   The kitchen door opened again, and Rathe came out. His gaze
swept over the now-diminished table, and Eslingen almost would
have sworn he smiled, but then the pointsman pointed toward the
garden door. Eslingen sighed, and followed the other man out into
the summer air. The garden was empty, the stools stacked on top of
the tables, and he squinted toward the gate that led out into Point
of Dreams, wondering if it was still locked and barred. He couldn’t
see for certain, not at this distance, but would have been surprised
to find it open: Devynck was not one to take unnecessary chances.
Rathe leaned his hip against the nearest table, as easy and
comfortable as if he were drinking in his own neighborhood, and
Eslingen gave him a sour look.
  Rathe met it blandly. “I take it you haven’t had any trouble with
that lot in there?”
  “Not yet,” Eslingen answered, and knew he sounded bitter.
  Rathe nodded. “I told Aagte she should close for a day or two, let
this blow over.”
  “Do you really think this would go away in a day or two?”
Eslingen demanded.
  “No, not really. But they might find someone more likely to
blame.”
  “They might,” Eslingen said. “Anyway, when I suggested it, she
said no.”
  Rathe nodded again. “She told me no, too.” He sighed. “So how
are they behaving themselves, these junior butchers?”
  Eslingen made a face. “Well enough, at least today. Though I still
think Aagte’s right, it was them who broke our windows. But today,
they’re just sitting here. They pay for their beer politely enough,
and they keep their voices down, haven’t given me an excuse to be
rid of them—or the pointswoman who was here earlier.”
  “That was Amerel Ghiraldy,” Rathe said. “She’s good.”
   Eslingen grunted. “Aagte thinks they’re watching us, and I agree.
I don’t know whether they think you didn’t find the missing
children yesterday because you were bribed or because we were
clever, or just because the lads weren’t here, but they—the
journeymen, anyway— are convinced that we’re involved in all this,
and they’re going to keep an eye on us until they find something to
blame us for. And if you hadn’t given Huviet that much credence,
searching our place, we might not be in this state.”
   For a minute, he thought he’d gone too far, and then the corners
of Rathe’s mouth turned up in a sour smile. “Monteia searched the
place because she thought it’d make a difference. For you, not
against you, I might add. Huviet is not universally loved, it seemed
a good bet to call her bluff.” The smile widened. “But I’ll grant you
it hasn’t worked the way she planned.”
  “No.” Eslingen leaned against another table, looked across the
kitchen garden with its patches of herbs and vegetables. He smelled
basil suddenly, and saw a gargoyle run a paw across the fragrant
leaves. It reached beyond them, then, into the vegetables, and he
stooped quickly, found a pebble, and slung it in the creature’s
direction. It lifted instantly, scolding, and he looked back at Rathe.
“Instead of solving the problem of them thinking Leaguers are
stealing their apprentices, they’re now thinking the points are
conspiring with us.”
  Rathe swore under his breath. “You’re sure—no, sorry, that was
stupid.”
  “It’s what I’ve overheard,” Eslingen answered.
  Rathe muttered something else. The gargoyle circled the garden
plot again, spiraling lower, heedless of the scarecrow, and he
glanced down at the dirt beneath his feet. He found a heavier stone,
and flung it with a violence that was startling. The gargoyle
sheered away, barely able to dodge, and Rathe looked abashed.
“Sorry. I should’ve expected it, I suppose.”
   “It seems to me—” Eslingen chose his words with care. “It seems
to me that you might have done, yes. Given what I’ve paid in fees,
and what I know Aagte and all the others here pay in fees—” He
stopped at the look on Rathe’s face, spread his hands in instant
apology.
  Rathe took a deep breath. “We don’t all take fees for everything,”
he said, his voice ragged with temper, “and not for something like
this. Gods, put the worst face on it, it’d be bad for business, making
everyone hate us like this. Rather puts paid to our chance of getting
more fees, don’t you think?”
  “I don’t think,” Eslingen said, and let the ambiguity stand. “I
don’t believe it, no. But it’s how people are thinking now.”
  Rathe sighed again, visibly making himself relax. “No, I know it.”
He shrugged, managed a sudden, almost genuine grin. “People are
getting used to us, to the points, but it’s a slow process because it’s
not precisely what most people call a natural situation. People like
me—a southriver rat, I know what they say, and half of them are
serious— enforcing the laws on people like them, property owners,
burghers, even guild-masters? It’s not quite comfortable.”
   And from the sound of it, Eslingen thought, that’s the part you
like best about being a pointsman. He knew better than to say it
aloud, however, after his previous gaffe, contented himself with
saying, “So they’re quick to think the worst.”
   Rathe nodded, the brief lightness going out of his face. “As I said,
I should’ve expected it.”
   Eslingen hesitated, a new thought rising in his mind. If the
points were under suspicion, what better way to defuse that than to
find a scapegoat, and what better scapegoat would they find, at
least in Point of Hopes, than Devynck and the people at the Old
Brown Dog. He opened his mouth to voice that fear, took another
look at Rathe, and closed it again. Neither Rathe nor Monteia
would be party to that; all he would have to worry about was the
journeymen’s anger. “Is there any chance of a pointsman keeping
watch here tonight? I daresay Aagte could find the extra fees, if it
came to that.”
   Rathe’s mouth twisted again. “She already asked. I said I’d try,
but we’re stretched pretty thin, with the fair beginning tomorrow
and the nightwatch already overworked. They’ll come by regularly,
I’ll see to that, but I can’t promise to post anyone. I’ll speak to the
masters, too, see if that helps at all.”
  Eslingen sighed, but nodded. “I appreciate it, Rathe. As I’m sure
Aagte does.”
  Rathe smiled wryly. “Oh, I still don’t take fees, Eslingen, not
even at times like these. As I said, I want to enjoy my points.” He
pushed himself away from the table, stretching slightly, eyes fixed
on nothing in particular. In that instant, Eslingen was aware of
dark shadows under the other man’s eyes, lines that had not
seemed as deeply carved bracketing his mouth. Obviously, he cared
deeply about this business. And then Rathe shook himself, and the
moment vanished. He lifted a hand in abstracted farewell, and
went back through the inn. Eslingen followed, more slowly, hoping
that the pointsman’s plan would work.
   The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully enough, and as the
first sundown approached, Eslingen began to hope that maybe the
trouble would defuse itself. The knot of journeymen remained, but
as the afternoon turned to evening and the sunlight faded to the
silvery light of the winter-sun, they, too, seemed to mellow, seemed
more relaxed at their table. A pointsman’s clapper sounded from the
street, the slow, steady beat of the wooden knot that marked the
nightwatch, and he listened carefully as it moved close and then
retreated. Rathe was keeping his promise there, at any rate.
Jasanten appeared on his crutch, and no one said anything, or made
his way more difficult than need be. Seeing that, Eslingen allowed
himself a sigh of relief, and addressed his dinner—another of
Devynck’s stews, vegetables, and meat in a broth thickened with
beer and bread—with something like a normal appetite. The brewer
didn’t make an appearance, but her son and a pair of his lemen, big,
broad-shouldered men like himself came in for a quick pint. They
kept a scrupulous distance between themselves and the
journeymen, but the one exchange of words was polite enough.
Eslingen drew a slow breath as they moved apart again, and saw
Adriana’s eyes on them as she brought him another pitcher of small
beer.
  “So far, so good,” he said softly, and immediately wished he
hadn’t spoken. There was no point in tempting the gods.
  She made a face, and Eslingen knew she was thinking the same
thing. She set the pitcher in front of him, and then displayed her
hands, fingers crossed in propitiation. “Only two more hours to
second sunset. Sweet Tyrseis, I’ll be glad when we close.”
   Eslingen nodded, and she turned away to answer a call from the
kitchen. He poured himself another cup, but didn’t bother to taste
it, his attention instead on the others in the empty room. The
brewer’s son and his friends finished their drinks and the plate of
bread and cheese and left, still quiet; the journeymen remained,
were joined by another man who looked a little older than the rest.
He, too, wore a butcher’s badge at his collar, and even from a
distance Eslingen could tell that it was made of silver, not the
pewter the others wore. Someone of real rank within the guild,
then, he thought, and wondered if it were a good or a bad sign. The
group of journeymen seemed more relaxed, at any rate; he could see
more smiles among them, and once heard laughter, but he wasn’t
sorry to hear the nightwatch’s clapper in the street outside.
  The light was fading steadily, paling toward true night. He went
out to the garden privy, glad of the cooler air—the inn held the
day’s heat in its walls and floor, a benefit in winter, but
uncomfortable at the height of the year—and on his way back
looked west to see the diamond point of the winter-sun almost down
between the housetops, poised between two chimney pots. Even this
low, it was still too bright to look at directly, and he blinked, and
went back into the main room, a point of green haze dancing in the
center of his vision.
  Loret emerged from the kitchen in almost the same moment,
began closing the shutters on the garden wall. He had to stretch to
fasten the upper bolts, and in the same moment, one of the
journeymen called, “Hey, what are you doing?”
   “Last call,” Adriana said, from behind the bar. “It’s almost
closing, so if you want another round, this is your chance.”
  Eslingen moved closer to the bar, keeping an eye on the group at
the table. They were the only customers, except for Jasanten,
drowsing at his corner table, and there were only four of them; not
bad odds, Eslingen thought, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. The
journeymen exchanged glances, and then the oldest one, the one
with the silver badge, stood, stretching.
  “Not for us, I think. Come on, let’s pay and be gone.”
  The others copied him, reaching into purses and pockets to come
up with a handful of copper coins. There was only the last pitcher to
pay for; they counted out the coins, and the leader, shrugging,
added a last demming to bring it up to the mark. Eslingen heard
Adriana release a held breath, and nodded to Loret, who came to
take the coins, touching his forehead in perfunctory salute. The
journeymen ignored him, as they’d been ignoring him all night, and
turned in a body for the door. Eslingen pulled himself away from
the bar and followed, intending to bar the door as soon as they’d
gone.
  Before he could reach it, however, there was a shout from
outside. He stepped hastily into the doorway, blocking it
completely, and looked back over his shoulder for Loret. “Go to
Point of Hopes, now.”
  The waiter’s eyes widened, and he darted out the garden door.
  “Trouble?” Adriana called, and banged on the kitchen door, a
deliberate, prearranged pattern.
   Eslingen nodded, not taking his eyes from the street. A new
group was moving toward him from the Knives Road, a dozen
people, maybe more. The leaders, at least, carried torches, and
behind them their followers’ shapes blended, in the new dark, into a
single mass. The torchlight glinted from more badges at hat and
coat, and Eslingen realized with a sinking feeling that at least some
of these were masters, not mere journeymen. The group who had
been drinking in the Old Brown Dog had stopped in the dooryard,
and Eslingen could have sworn he saw confusion in the leader’s
face.
  “You, soldier!”
  The voice was unfamiliar, sounded older than the run of
journeymen, and Eslingen couldn’t suppress a grimace. If the
masters were leading, this time, it would be a hell of a lot harder to
get them to back down.
  “Stand aside,” the voice went on, and Eslingen shook his head.
  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed.”
  “What in all hells do they want?” Devynck demanded, but softly.
  Eslingen didn’t dare look back at her, but he could feel her
presence at his elbow. “I don’t know yet,” he answered, and kept his
voice equally low, “but I sent Loret to Point of Hopes.”
  “Good man.” Devynck pressed something into the palm of his
hand, and with a shock Eslingen recognized the butt of his own
pistol. He took it, keeping it hidden behind the skirts of his coat,
looked out into the street.
  “Stand aside, soldier,” the voice came again, and Devynck swore
under her breath.
  “That’s Nigaud, I thought he was a friend.”
  “We know you’ve got the children here,” a lighter voice chimed in,
“and we’re not going away until we’ve found them.”
   “Huviet,” Eslingen said, and didn’t bother to hide his disgust. He
lifted his voice to carry to the group’s leader. “His mother made the
same complaint yesterday, brought the pointsmen here and
searched, and found nothing. I don’t see why we’re still suspected.
There are no children here.”
  “Then stand aside and let us see for ourselves,” Nigaud answered.
  “Over my dead body,” Devynck muttered. “Adriana. Fetch my
sword, and Philip’s.”
  Eslingen didn’t move, though he heard the rustle of cloth as
Adriana did as she was told. “We’ve been searched already, by those
with the right to do it. If I let you in, when you find nothing, what’ll
you do, break the rest of our windows?”
  “If you don’t have anything to hide, why don’t you let us in?” Paas
Huviet shouted, and there was a little murmur of agreement from
the crowd.
   “I won’t let you in because you don’t have a right to be here,”
Eslingen called, “and you don’t offer me any promises that you
won’t loot the place while you’re here. Gods, man, there were people
from your guild drinking here all day, ask them if they saw any
sign of the children.”
  There was a little pause, and the leader of the last group stepped
into the circle of torchlight. “I didn’t see anything, I admit. But they
could be somewhere else in the building.”
  “See?” Huviet shouted.
  “They’re going to come in,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and
heard Devynck’s grunt of agreement.
  “Loret’s gone for the points, see if we can at least get them to
agree to that.”
  Eslingen nodded. “Masters,” he called, “we understand your
concerns for the children—we’re worried, too, we all know someone
who’s lost a child.” That was an exaggeration, but he hoped it would
pass in the dark and the excitement. “But I’ve a responsibility to
this house and to Mistress Devynck. Send someone to the points,
Point of Hopes or Point of Dreams, it doesn’t matter, but send to
them. Let one of them come with you, keep everything on the right
side of the law, and I’ll gladly let you pass.”
   There was a murmur at that, half approving, half uncertain, and
Paas’s voice rose over the general noise. “They fee’d the points not
to find them, why should we trust them?”
  “Be quiet,” Nigaud snapped.
  At his side, Eslingen felt Adriana’s sudden presence, glanced
down to see her holding his sword at the ready. Behind her,
Jasanten perched on a table, Devynck’s caliver and another pistol in
his lap, busy loading them with powder and ball. Hulet stood in the
garden door, half-pike in hand.
  “Even if the points are fee’d in this,” Nigaud went on, “which I’m
not convinced of, Paas, for all your talk, they still can’t stop us from
searching where we please. I’m prepared to send for a pointsman,
soldier—unless you’ve already done so?”
  “Go ahead,” Eslingen answered, and Nigaud nodded to one of the
younger journeymen.
  “Go on, then, go to Point of Hopes.”
   Eslingen held his breath, not moving from the inn’s doorway. The
longer they could postpone this, the more time the butchers had to
think about what they were doing and about what they might do.
The masters, at least, were property owners; the more time they
had to think about the precedent they were setting, the better for
Devynck. The more time they waited, without hostilities, without
provocation, the more time there was for the blood to cool, and it
was a rare man who, untrained, could order an attack in cold blood.
The group’s leaders, Nigaud and another man in a full-skirted coat,
a master’s badge in his hat, were talking again, their voices too low
to be heard more than a few feet away. After a moment, the leader
of the last group of journeymen moved to join them, and Eslingen
saw him spread his hands in an expressive shrug.
  Then he heard the sound of the nightwatch’s wooden clapper
again, faster now, as though its holder was running, coming from
the western end of the Knives Road. About half the gathered
journeymen turned to look, and one of the torchbearers turned with
them, lifting her torch to send its light further down the dark
street. A pointsman appeared at the end of the street, his lantern
swinging with the beat of the clapper; the young journeyman
trailed breathlessly at his heels.
  “What’s all this, then?” the pointsman asked, and put his free
hand on his truncheon. Eslingen swore under his breath, and heard
Devynck curse.
  “What do that stars have against me, that it should be Ranazy?”
she muttered. “We’re in trouble now, Philip.”
  “This is an illegal gathering,” the pointsman went on, lifting his
voice to carry over the angry murmur that answered his first
words. “I’ll have to tell you to disperse, or face the point.”
   “Like hell we will,” someone shouted, and Nigaud waved his arms
for silence.
  “Pointsman, we have cause to think that the missing
children—our missing children, anyway—are being held at the Old
Brown Dog. I, and Master Estienes, and Master Follet, are all
willing to swear the complaint, and anything else you like, but we
won’t leave here until that place has been searched from top to
bottom.”
  Ranazy stopped in the middle of the street, seemed for the first
time to become aware of the crowd’s temper. “Master—Nigaud,
isn’t it?”
  Nigaud nodded. Obviously, Eslingen thought, the man was well
known, a man of real importance in Point of Hopes—and not the
person we want standing against us.
  “Master, this house was searched yesterday, and we found
nothing. The children aren’t here.” Ranazy spread his hands, the
lantern and the clapper jangling.
  “Ranazy!” The shout came from the end of the street. Rathe’s
voice, Eslingen realized, with real relief, and in the same instant
saw a tight knot of pointsmen, maybe ten in all, turn the corner.
They, too, carried lanterns, and in their light Eslingen could see the
dull gleam of armor under the leather jerkins. They carried calivers
as well, new-fashioned flintlocks, as well as half-pikes and halberds:
Rathe and his people had come prepared for serious trouble.
  “I searched it myself,” Ranazy went on, and Paas Huviet’s voice
rose above the angry murmuring.
  “You see? I told you they were fee’d to let them go. Search the
inn ourselves, we won’t get the kids back any other way.”
  “Hold it,” Rathe shouted again, but his voice was drowned in the
roar of agreement.
  “Break in the door,” another voice shouted. “Save the children.”
  The journeymen surged toward the inn’s door. Eslingen took a
deep breath, and brought the pistol out from behind his coat. “Stop
there,” he called, and leveled the barrel at the knot of young men.
At this distance he could hardly miss hitting one of them, but he
doubted they were cool enough to realize it. Adriana pressed the
hilt of his sword into his left hand, and he took it, already bracing
himself for the rush that would follow the first shot.
  “We’re willing to let the points in,” he tried again, and Paas’s
voice rose in answer.
  “Because you paid them. Get him!”
   “I’ll fire,” Eslingen warned, and promised Areton an incense cake
if the lock did not misfire. The pointsmen were hurrying toward
him, half-pikes held across their bodies, but the bulk of the
journeymen were between them and the inn, and showed no sign of
giving way.
   “Cowards!” Paas shouted. “Get the Leaguer bastard!” He lunged
for the door, drawing his knife, and there were half a dozen men
behind him. Eslingen swore again, and pulled the trigger. The lock
fired, the flash and bang of the powder momentarily blinding
everyone, and then he’d slung the pistol behind him onto the inn’s
floor and drew his sword right-handed. Paas staggered back,
clutching his chest—the shot was mortal, Eslingen knew instantly,
and didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry—and collapsed in the
arms of the journeymen behind him.
  “Hold it!” Rathe shouted again, and he and his troop shoved their
way through the crowd that seemed abruptly chastened by the
violence. “Nigaud, get your boys in hand, or I’ll call points on the lot
of you.”
  “He shot Paas,” one of the journeymen called, and his voice broke
painfully.
  “I saw it,” Rathe answered, “and I saw Paas charge the door,
too.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s the nearest physician,
Clock Street?” He seemed to get an answer from one of the
pointsmen, and nodded. “Fetch her, quick, then, see what can be
done for the boy. Now, Nigaud, what in Astree’s name is going on
here?”
  “They’re hiding the children,” Nigaud said, and Eslingen let
himself relax at last. Somehow, exactly how he didn’t know, Rathe
had gotten control of the situation again. Astreiant’s common folk
might not like giving one of their own authority, but in a crisis, it
seemed it was better than nothing.
  Rathe said, “The chief point herself searched this house
yesterday, and nothing was found. You’ve seen something that
makes you think they’re here now? I know you had people watching
this house, I saw them here this afternoon.”
   Nigaud’s gaze faltered, but he rallied quickly enough. “The chief
point may have been here, but none of us were, and the rest of the
points were people like him.” He pointed to Ranazy. “We know how
much his fees are, we all pay them. The Leaguer has money enough
to buy his silence.”
  Eslingen jumped as Devynck touched his shoulder.
  “Let me out,” she said, and he stepped sideways to let her edge
past him. “Rathe! I’m willing to let the masters search my house
this time, if only you’ll supervise them, and I told them that all
along.”
   Rathe nodded, looked at Nigaud. “That’s more than you have a
right to, Master Nigaud, but I’m willing to go with you, and the
other masters here.”
  Nigaud nodded back, but the well-dressed master—Follet,
Eslingen thought—said, “And what about Paas? He was a hothead,
but he was my journeyman.”
  The physician had arrived from Clock Street, an apprentice,
barefoot and tousled, lugging her case of instruments. She knelt
beside the injured man, her movements brisk and certain, but she
looked up at that, and shook her head. “I’ve done what I can. It’s in
Demis’s hands now.”
  In translation, Eslingen thought, he’s a dead man. Why in
Areton’s name didn’t I aim for something less mortal? The damned
astrologer got it all wrong. He shook the thought away—he’d had
no choice, if he’d missed Paas he would almost certainly have hit
one of the others in as deadly a spot—and looked at Rathe,
wondering what would happen now. Rathe looked back at him, his
face expressionless in the uncertain light of the lanterns and the
dying torches.
  “It’s manslaughter at the least, though there’s an argument for
self-defense. Eslingen, I’m calling a point on you. Hand over your
weapons and go quietly.”
   Eslingen drew breath to protest, but swallowed the words
unspoken. The situation was still delicate, even he could see that
much, and surely Rathe was right when he hinted that he could
claim self-defense. “Very well,” he said shortly, and extended his
sword, hilt first, toward the pointsman.
  Rathe took it, unsurprised by the weight and balance, rested its
point cautiously on the top of his boot. “And the pistol?”
  Eslingen jerked his head toward the inn door. “Inside, on the floor
somewhere.”
 “Adriana!” Rathe called, and a moment later the woman appeared
warily in the doorway, “Bring me Eslingen’s pistol, please.”
   For an instant, Eslingen thought she was going to refuse, but she
only tossed her head, and vanished back into the shadows. She
reappeared a moment later carrying the pistol, and crossed the
dooryard without looking at the butchers. Rathe took the gun,
slipping it into his belt beside his truncheon; Adriana turned on her
heel, and went to join her mother. The pointsman looked back at
Eslingen, who braced himself to hear the sentence.
  “Benech and Savine will take you to Point of Sighs.” He lifted his
voice to carry to the crowd. “The cells there are more secure than at
Point of Hopes.” Eslingen thought he saw a fugitive smile cross
Rathe’s face. “And a bit more comfortable than a stall, which is
what ours are. Do you give me your word you’ll go quietly,
lieutenant?”
   Eslingen hesitated, wondering if he shouldn’t run—he could take
the two pointsmen, of that he felt certain, and he had killed the
journeyman, not to mention being a Leaguer in the wrong place at
the wrong time—but then put the thought away. He hadn’t stolen
the children, and neither had Devynck; and if he ran, he would only
put her further in the wrong. “You have my word on it,” he said,
stiffly, and Rathe nodded.
  “Right, then. See that he gets there safely.”
  “Thank you for that,” Eslingen said, not entirely sarcastically,
and turned to face the two pointsmen. “Lead on.”



                                  6
                                                               «^»
it took the better part of the next two hours to lead Nigaud and a
handful of his journeymen through the Old Brown Dog. Rathe was
careful to stand aside and let them do most of the work, intervening
only when Devynck’s stores seemed threatened, and at the end of it
Nigaud faced him with visible embarrassment.
  “There’s no one here,” he said, at last, and Rathe barely stopped
himself from nodding.
  “No,” he said, instead, and kept his tone and face impassive. “Will
you say as much to your people, Master Nigaud, you and Master
Follet?”
  “We will,” Nigaud said shortly, and Follet cleared his throat.
  “And how much of a difference does this make in terms of a
point?”
  Rathe cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”
  Follet took a deep breath. “People of mine are liable for riot, I can
see that, just as that knife of Devynck’s is liable for manslaughter.
So where do we stand with that, Adjunct Point?”
   Rathe studied him for a long moment, torn between anger and a
grudging respect for the man. Follet’s journeymen—and Nigaud’s
and probably a few others’—could indeed be taken up for provoking
trouble and assault, especially after they’d all been warned the day
before; at least he was acknowledging it, even if he was also
angling for a fee. “Given the circumstances, Master Follet—I’ve
been working on the business of Mailet’s missing apprentice myself,
along with a dozen others, I know how frantic we all are. Given the
circumstances, I’m prepared to overlook the formal point on your
journeymen. Paas Huviet’s hurt, maybe dying, that’s enough for
me. However, we will require two things from you, masters. First, I
want you to post a bond for good behavior for the ringleaders
among the journeymen—you know who they are as well as I do,
and I’ll give you the names in the morning.” He held up his hand to
forestall the automatic protest. “This is a bond, not a fee, you’ll get
it back when they make their appearance at the fall assizes as long
as there’s no more trouble from them. I don’t want fees from you, or
from anyone right now. I want to be free to chase these
child-thieves where or whoever they are. Is that clear?”
  He could hear himself on the verge of anger, was not surprised to
see Follet’s matching frown, but Nigaud lifted both hands in
surrender. “The guild will pay the bonds, Adjunct Point.”
  Follet nodded. “You said two things?”
  “That’s right.” Rathe did his best to moderate his tone.
“Devynck’s knife, Eslingen—I don’t expect you to press the point. It
was self-defense and defense of property, and that’s where it will
stand.”
  Nigaud looked at Follet. “He was your journeyman.”
  Follet made a face, as though he’d bitten into something sour.
“And he was at fault, I admit it. All right. I won’t press the point.”
  “Good.” Rathe sighed, suddenly aware of how late it was, and in
the same moment heard the tower clock strike three. “Then let’s
get your people home.”
  He made it back to his own lodgings in time to snatch a few
hours’ sleep, but dragged himself out of bed as the local clock
sounded eight. Someone from the Butchers’ Guild would be coming
to pay the journeymen’s bond, and he wanted to be there personally
to oversee the process. Still, he was later than usual as he entered
the gate at Point of Hopes, and glanced around to see if the guild’s
representative had somehow gotten there ahead of him. There was
no sign of him or her, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief.
  “We’re sent for,” Monteia said.
   Rathe paused in the station doorway, coat already halfway off his
shoulders. He looked at her, seeing the unexpected tidiness of her
clothes—her best skirt, unmistakably, and probably her best bodice
beneath the polished leather of her jerkin—and the truncheon slung
neatly at her waist. “The sur?” he asked, and Monteia gave a grim
smile.
   “The city.“ She nodded to the table where the duty recorder sat,
trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t all ears. A half sheet of good
paper lay among the clutter of slates and reused broadsheets, the
city seal at its foot visible from across the room.
  Rathe’s eyebrows rose at that, and he shrugged himself back into
his coat, crossed to the table to pick up the summons. It was from
the Council of Regents, all right, signed by the grande bourgeoise
herself, and her seal lay just above the more massive slab of wax
that was the city’s.
  “The sur will be there, of course,” Monteia went on, “but it’s for
us—me, primarily. Madame Gausaron dislikes disorder.”
  Rathe nodded absently, skimming through the neat lines of
secretarial hand. “All right,” he said, “but I don’t know what she
thinks we should have done.”
  “Nor I.” Monteia studied him thoughtfully. “Houssaye! I won’t
have you, Nico, appearing before the regents like that. It won’t help
us any if you look hungry.”
  “Chief Point—”
  “Ma’am?” That was Houssaye, the station’s junior pointsman,
coming in from the garden belting his trousers. He finished that
and reached for the buttons of his coat, but Monteia shook her head
at him.
  “Don’t bother. You’re loaning that to Nico—we’ve business with
the regents.”
  Houssaye blinked, but slipped obediently out of the coat. “Yes,
Chief.”
  “I have clothes of my own,” Rathe said.
  “And no time to fetch them,” Monteia answered. “This is
important, Nico.”
   Rathe started to bridle, but she was right, of course, it mattered
how one looked, prosperous but sober, particularly when one was
dealing with the women of the Council of Regents, but he had
dressed for the work he expected, not for a council visit. Not that
his best clothes were anything out of the ordinary—he was hard on
clothes, and knew it, had learned to buy good plain materials that
stood the wear—but it stung to be dressed like a child in someone
else’s best. Still, Houssaye was his size and build and coloring; as he
pulled the light wool over his shoulders, he had to admit that it
wasn’t too far from something he might have bought himself. He
fastened the waist buttons—loose; Houssaye had an inch or three
on him there—and hastily rewound the stock that fastened the
neck of his shirt. “We’ve got people from the Butchers’ Guild coming
to post bond, and I wanted to be there,” he muttered, a last protest,
and reached for his jerkin and the truncheon that hung beneath it.
  “Oh, you can still have that one,” Monteia answered, and looked
at Houssaye. “You’re in charge until Salineis gets in or we get
back—I told her she could sleep in, after last night. The release
order is in my office, get a fair copy made and send it off to Point of
Sighs as soon as you can. Use the station seal. When the
guildmasters show up, tell them they’ll have to wait—and you can
tell them why.”
  “Yes, Chief.”
   “What’s going to happen to Eslingen?” Rathe said. “It wasn’t
exactly fair, calling the point on him, no matter how necessary it
was.” He still felt obscurely guilty for calling a point on the
Leaguer, couldn’t quite work up much indignation for Paas Huviet,
even if he had been shot. His eye fell on the daybook, and the most
recent entry: Paas Huviet had died close to first sunrise, according
to the physician who’d tended him. He considered it, but even the
death didn’t make much difference. Huviet had been a
troublemaker, Eslingen had been doing his job, and that, he hoped,
would be an end to it.
   “It’s technically manslaughter,” Monteia said, and jammed her
hat onto her piled hair. Rathe looked at her, and she sighed. “But
I’ve ordered his release, you heard me do it, and I won’t be pressing
charges unless and until someone’s stupid enough to force me to it.
Does that meet with your approval, Adjunct Point?”
  Rathe nodded. “He did the best he could—better than I’d’ve
expected, frankly, it was a nasty situation. And it wasn’t him who
started it.”
  “I know,” Monteia said. “And you know why you had to do it.
Now, come on.” She swept through the door without waiting for an
answer.
  Rathe followed, aware of the unfamiliar weight of the coat’s
skirts around his legs. They hampered his knife hand, got in the
way of his reach either for purse or tablets, but he had to admit
that the beer brown wool looked good against his skin, and against
the decent linen of his shirts. It might be nice to have a coat like
this, for best—he put the thought firmly aside. The coat might look
well enough now, but after a month of his wearing, it would be as
shapeless as any other he owned. Monteia had a nice eye for clothes
on a man—but then, she had a son just reaching apprenticeship,
and the vanities that went with it.
   They crossed the Hopes-point Bridge, squinting in the morning
light that glinted from the river. The sun was still low in the sky,
the shadows long, the winter-sun not yet risen, and there was dew
on the grass as they crossed the gardens of the Maternite. It would
be hot later, Rathe thought, and made a face at the irrelevance of
the concern.
  The only heat he needed to worry about would come from the
council.
  The regents met at All-Guilds at the heart of the Mercandry. The
massive building dominated the little square, four stories high, new
halls built against the walls of the original until the walls rose like
stairsteps to the point of the roof. The old-style carvings above the
arch of the main entrance showed Heira presiding over a banquet of
the various craft deities. Rathe recognized Didonae and Hesion and
a few of the deities invoked by the lesser guilds, but there were a
good half dozen he couldn’t place at once. Which wasn’t that
surprising, he added silently: each craft was its own mystery, and
had its own rites and special patrons. No one could know them all,
not even the university specialists. Only Bonfortune was missing:
the god of the long-distance traders had no place in this gathering
of Merchants Resident.
  One of the four doors was open, and Monteia led the way into the
sudden shadow. Inside, the hall was startlingly cool, the heavy
stones still holding a faint chill from the winter’s cold. The people
hurrying past—young women, mostly, the long blue robes of guild
affiliation thrown casually over brighter skirts and bodices,
clutching ledgers and tablets—barely seemed to notice their
existence, or no more than was necessary to avoid running into
them. Rathe made a face, but knew enough to keep his mouth shut,
and followed Monteia to the foot of the main staircase. There was a
guard there, a greying man in council livery and polished
back-and-breast, half-pike in hand: more symbolic than anything,
Rathe thought, but it wasn’t a symbol he much liked.
  “Chief Point Monteia, Point of Hopes,” Monteia said. “And
Adjunct Point Rathe.”
  The soldier nodded gravely. “Down the hall to your left, Chief
Point. Madame Gausaron is waiting.”
   Monteia nodded back, and turned away. Sunlight striped the
stones of the hall, falling through windows cut into the wall above
the roof of the building’s latest addition, and Rathe was grateful for
its intermittent warmth. Another young woman in the blue
guilds’-coat was waiting by a carved door; as they got closer, he
could see the council’s badge, a stylized version of Heira’s Banquet,
embroidered above her left breast. She bowed her head slightly at
their approach, and said, “Chief Point. Monteia?”
   “Yes.” Only the twitch of Monteia’s lips betrayed any emotion at
all. “And Adjunct Point Rathe. For the grande bourgeoise.”
  The woman nodded again, and swung the door open for them.
“Chief Point Monteia and Adjunct Point Rathe.”
   The room was very bright, startlingly so after the shadows of the
entrance and the intermittent sunlight of the hallway. Two of the
four walls were fretted stone, a pattern of flowers filled in with orbs
of colored glass, so that they looked out into the garden behind
All-Guilds through another garden made of light and shade. Rathe
blinked, dazzled, and brought himself to attention at Monteia’s side.
He had never been this far into All-Guilds—never been this close to
any of the guild mistresses who controlled the city’s day-to-day
government—but he refused to show his ignorance.
  “So. What the devil is going on southriver, Surintendant, that
your people can’t keep control of a tavern fight?” The speaker was a
tall woman in the expensive respectable black of a merchant whose
family had kept shop on the Mercandry for a hundred years. There
was fine lace at her collar and cuffs, and on her cap, forming a
incongruously delicate frame for her long, heavy-fleshed face. She
looked, Rathe thought, with sudden, inward delight, rather like
Monteia would, if the chief point were fattened for a season or
three.
  “Madame, the situation is hardly normal,” the surintendant
began, and Gausaron waved a hand that glinted with gold leaf.
   “No, Surintendant, it’s all too normal. The points do nothing—for
what reason I don’t know, and make no judgment, yet—until the
situation is past bearing. And then a man, an honest
journeyman-butcher, is shot dead in the street.”
  “This is not a question of fees—” Monteia began, and the
surintendant cut in hastily.
  “Madame, the people who attacked the tavern were and are
concerned for their missing children, but they were still outside the
law.”
   “We’re all concerned about the missing children.” The voice came
from the shadows behind the grande bourgeoise’s desk, a cool,
pleasant voice that somehow suggested a smile. The speaker—she
had been sitting in the shadows all the while, Rathe realized—rose
slowly and came around the edge of the desk, skirts rustling with
the unmistakable sound of silk. The metropolitan of Astreiant, the
queen’s half-niece and one of the stronger candidates for the throne,
leaned back against the desk, and smiled benevolently over the
gathering. “And I know some of the actions the points have already
taken, thanks to you, Surintendant. But I’d like to hear from you,
Chief Point, what happened last night. And from the beginning, if
you please.”
   “Your Grace.” Monteia took a deep breath, and launched into an
account of the trouble, beginning with the Old Brown Dog and its
history, through the complaints that Devynck was hiding the
missing children and her own search of the premises, to the
violence of the night before. Her voice was remote, almost stilted,
faltering only slightly when she came to Paas’s death. Rathe, who
had heard her speak a hundred times before, watched Astreiant
instead. She looked no older than himself, tall and strongly built,
with the body of someone who faced active sports and the table
with equal pleasure. She wore her hair loose, the thick
tarnished-brass curls caught back under a brimless cap. The style
flattered her handsome features—lucky for her that’s the latest
fashion, Rathe thought, and only then thought to wonder if she’d
started it.
  “And you’re certain this Devynck has nothing to do with these
missing children,” Astreiant said, and Rathe recalled himself to the
business at hand.
  “Absolutely certain, Your Grace,” Monteia answered.
  The grande bourgeoise made a soft noise through her teeth, and
Astreiant darted an amused glance in her direction. “I think what
Madame is too polite to say is that you’ve taken Devynck’s fees.”
   “I have,” Monteia answered. “And I’ve taken fees from every
other shopkeeper and guildmistress and tavern-keeper in Point of
Hopes, too. It’d be more to the point, Madame, Your Grace, to say
I’m Aagte Devynck’s friend, because I am, and I make no secret of
it. But it’s because I know her, because I’m her friend and I know
what she will and won’t sell, that I can tell you she would never be
involved in something like this. I’m as sure of that as I’m sure of
my own stars.”
  Astreiant nodded gravely. “Will the rest of Point of Hopes believe
it, though? I’m as concerned as Madame Gausaron with keeping the
peace southriver.”
   Monteia looked away, looked toward the surintendant as though
for reassurance, then back at Astreiant. “Your Grace, I think so.
It’s morning, they’re chastened by what they did.” She darted a
glance at the grande bourgeoise. “As Madame said, there was a
death to no purpose. I think it’s sobered them all down.”
  “Yes, the journeyman-butcher,” Astreiant said. She looked at
Gausaron. “I must say, Madame, I think he got what he deserved.
Threatening a woman’s property—the knife, what’s-his-name,
seems to have been within his right.”
  “What’s being done with the knife?” Gausaron asked.
  “Madame, he was taken to the cells at Point of Sighs,” Monteia
answered.
  “He’ll be released today,” Rathe said, and heard the challenge in
his voice too late. “The point’s bound to be disallowed—it was
self-defense, not just defense of property.”
   Astreiant fixed her gaze on him for the first time. Her eyes were
very pale, a color between blue and grey, and tilted slightly
downward at the outer corners. “It seems a reasonable
interpretation,” she said, after a moment, and Rathe wondered
what she had been going to say. She looked at Gausaron. “Madame,
it’s a dangerous time, and you’re right to be concerned, but I have
to say, I think the chief point handled this as well as anyone could
have.”
  The grand bourgeoise nodded, rather grudgingly. “Though there’d
be less to worry about if they’d find out who’s stealing our children.”
   “Madame, we are trying,” the surintendant said, through
clenched teeth.
  “And I would appreciate your keeping me informed of your
progress,” Astreiant said, and pushed herself away from Gausaron’s
desk. “And in the meantime, I know we’ve taken enough of your
time.”
  It was unmistakably a dismissal. Rathe bowed, not as reluctantly
as sometimes, and followed the other pointsmen from the room. As
the door closed behind them, the surintendant touched his shoulder.
  “That was well handled, Monteia. I want to borrow Rathe, if you
don’t mind.”
  “I’m glad Astreiant was there,” Monteia said, and only then
seemed to hear the rest of the surintendant’s words. “I’ll need him
back, sir, and soon.”
  “Only for a moment,” the surintendant answered, and Monteia
shook her head, lips tightening.
  “Very well, sir. Rathe, I’ll want to talk to you when you get
back.” She turned, skirts swirling, walked away down the hall, her
low heels ringing on the stones.
  “Yes, Chief,” Rathe said, to her departing back, and wondered
what was going to happen now. He knew Monteia distrusted
Fourie— he shared the feeling himself at times—and found himself,
not for the first time, reviewing the list of his most recent behavior.
  Fourie’s thin lips were twisted into an ironic smile, as though he’d
read the thought. “I may have just made more trouble for you,
Rathe. Sorry.”
  And if you are, that’s the first time, Rathe thought, but couldn’t
muster real resentment. This was the way the surintendant
worked; he could accept it or not, but live with it he had to. “What
was it you wanted, sir?”
  Fourie shook his head, looking around the busy hall. “This is no
place to talk. Come with me.”
  Rathe followed him through the Clockmakers’ Square and then
along the arcaded walk that ran along the southern edge of the
Temple Fair, feeling if anything rather like a dog of somewhat
dubious breed. Fourie made no comment, never even looked back,
until at last he stopped by one of the tall casements that looked out
across the dust-drifted paving. The ballad-sellers and the printers
seemed to be doing their usual brisk business, but there were fewer
children than usual among the crowd. Rathe looked again, but saw
no sign of black robes or grey, freelance astrologers or students.
  “They’re only interested because it’s bad for business,” Fourie
said. His tone was conversational, but Rathe wasn’t fooled. The
surintendant was angrier than he had let on in the grande
bourgeoise’s presence—in Astreiant’s presence—angry that two of
his people had been questioned by the regents’s representative,
angry that none of them had done anything to find the missing
children, angriest of all that he didn’t have any more likely course
of action than he had the day the first child had disappeared. And
don’t we all feel that way, Rathe thought, but I wish I were
elsewhere just now.
  “If it weren’t for the fair,” Fourie went on, “they wouldn’t be
quite so concerned. Of course, if it were just southriver brats going
missing, they wouldn’t even have noticed. Makes me sick. Do your
jobs, but expect us to interfere every chance we got, and don’t,
whatever you do, let doing your jobs disturb us.”
  “Astreiant seems a bit more—reasonable,” Rathe ventured,
wondering where this was leading.
  The surintendant seemed on the verge of a snort, then shook his
head. “No, you’re right about that. Astreiant seems to have a finer
understanding of what’s involved in the enforcement of the queen’s
law. Gods only know where she got it. It doesn’t seem to run in the
nobility.”
  “Or the haut bourgeoisie,” Rathe said, unable to stop himself, and
Fourie responded with another thin smile.
   “Oh, they’re worse. And I daresay you and I could go on like this
all day with our grievances, but that would get nothing done. So,
Rathe. What have you done about Caiazzo?”
   Not precisely the haut bourgeoisie, no long-distance trader is, but
close enough, Rathe thought. I might have known where this was
leading. “I wasn’t aware, sir, that you precisely wanted me to do
anything. I thought my writ was to keep an eye on him, for any
possible involvement in these disappearances, and that I’ve done.
I’ve spoken with him, mostly on the matter of his printers. And that
knife of his I made the point on at the end of the Dog Moon.” He
shook his head. “But—I’m sorry, sir—I just don’t see that this is
anything Caiazzo would get himself involved in. Where’s the reason
behind it, sir? And, more to the point, where’s the profit? Oh, I
know what you said about political profit, but that’s never been his
style, it’s too—too far down the road. Caiazzo always wants results
he can see now as well as make use of later. Sure, he could make
use of a political profit later, but where’s the immediate profit?”
  Fourie shrugged, a faint frown creasing the space between his
eyebrows, and Rathe realized he’d let himself get carried away by
his own argument. “Have your investigations turned up something
more likely, Adjunct Point?”
  “I’ll agree it’s likely the starchange is involved,” Rathe said,
stung, and remembered b’Estorr’s account of the rumors circulating
at the university. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering about
these hedge-astrologers the Three Nations were complaining
about.” He hadn’t meant it, had just been looking for an
alternative, but as his own words sank in, he pursued the thought.
“Think of it—where have they come from? They don’t claim
association with any of the altars, or with the university—and
they’ve pissed off the students as a body, which sensible people
don’t do—and ostensibly claim no political affiliation. And if you’re
not buying that bill of goods for Caiazzo, sir, you can’t buy it from
these.”
   The surintendant studied him with a jaundiced gaze. “Then I
trust the arbiters of the fair, or Fairs’ Point, or University Point,
are looking into it, as well as you. But at the same time, I don’t
want you ignoring the possibility of Caiazzo’s involvement in favor
of your own theories— I very carefully don’t say because you like
him. This is too important, Nico. Whatever you think of my feelings
toward him, I wouldn’t order you do to something like this if I didn’t
think—feel—there was good reason. But I want it done.”
  Rathe took a deep breath, held it until his own temper subsided.
Fourie had spent more time in the company—the presence—of the
grande bourgeoise. If Gausaron had left Monteia, and Rathe
himself, a little short-tempered, it was astonishing that the
surintendant had kept his notoriously short temper in check for so
long. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir, though I won’t pretend it’ll be
easy.”
  Fourie smiled, a bloodless expression, without humor. “If it were
easy, Nico, I wouldn’t have insisted on your doing it.”
  And that, Rathe thought, was as close to a commendation as
anyone got from the sur, short of a eulogy.
   When he got back to the station, the hour-stick was just showing
midday, and he made a face at it: it had already been a long day,
and didn’t look to get any shorter. He found Houssaye, returned his
coat to him, and shrugged gratefully back into his own, welcoming
its familiarity. He had just settled in at his worktable when
Salineis poked her head in the door.
  “Lieutenant Eslingen to see you, Nico.”
  Rathe bit back a groan—he doubted the Leaguer was there to
thank him for anything—but nodded. “All right, send him in.”
  Eslingen had clearly found—or taken—the time to tidy himself
up from the depredations of a night spent in one of Sighs’ cells. His
hair was caught neatly back, though the ribbon no longer matched
the color of his coat, his hat was brushed, its plume uncrushed, and
his linen was bright. Rathe wished for a moment that he hadn’t
been in such a hurry to return Houssaye’s coat, then put the
thought aside with impatience. The Eslingens of this world would
always seek to gain advantage through appearance, and the Rathes
could never hope to match them. What did surprise Rathe was the
lack of resentment he felt toward the soldier.
  “Adjunct Point.” Eslingen’s voice was icy, and Rathe’s heart sank.
Clearly, Eslingen felt rather differently about the whole thing.
  “Eslingen, look, I’m sorry about what happened, but I didn’t have
a choice.”
  “It wasn’t me who started this—Seidos’s Horse, you ought to
thank me for ridding you of a troublemaker.”
  “We don’t generally shoot them dead,” Rathe shot back, and,
hearing his voice rise, got up to close the door of the narrow
anteroom. He shook his head. “Forget it, it’s not worth arguing
about.”
  “I’m inclined to disagree with you, Adjunct Point, seeing as it’s
lost me my job.”
  Rathe turned to stare at Eslingen. “You’re joking. No, no—sorry,
forget I said that. She let you go?”
  “Can you blame her? In times like these, does she want a
Leaguer who, even in self-defense, and—what was it the magistrate
said the release said—defense of property, was seen to kill a
member of one of the most influential guilds in the city? I’d say that
would be bad for business in a bad time, wouldn’t you, Adjunct
Point? So now I’m in your city without employment or a roof over
my head. All because I did what you told me to, Rathe, and that’s
send for the points if there was any trouble. I did, and look what
happened.” He gestured widely, and for the first time Rathe noticed
the heavy saddlebags on the floor at the other man’s feet. “Hells, I
thought we Leaguers were looked on with disfavor, I didn’t realize
the extent of the loathing people have for your lot.”
  “That was Ranazy,” Rathe said, and didn’t add, and you know it .
“He’s a bully and not a cheap one. And he makes us all look bad.
You know how Devynck feels about Monteia—for that matter, you
know how Devynck feels about me. So you can tar us all with the
same brush, fine, everyone else does, or you can see that it’s the
truth. We’re all blamed for the actions of a few. Sound familiar?”
  Eslingen stared at the pointsman for a long minute, the anger
fading as he recognized the justice of what Rathe had said, and
done. “It sounds familiar,” he said. “Can I sit?” He nodded to the
chair along the wall.
  Rathe rubbed his eyes. “Of course. Sorry. Not a good morning for
you, and the night won’t have been much better, for all they’re a
decent lot at Sighs.” He sat back down behind his table, leaning his
elbows on its well-worn surface. “What can I do?”
  Confronted by it, Eslingen found himself at a loss. He had been
bolstering himself with his anger, thoughts of the demands he
would make on the pointsman, but now he could only shake his
head. “Gods know, Rathe. I need a place to live, I need a job.” He
grinned suddenly. “But don’t think I’m applying for a job with the
points. I don’t think we’d suit, do you?”
  “I’ve seen odder,” Rathe answered, but tipped his chair back to
stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. “There ought to be plenty of work
available just now—” He heard Eslingen draw breath to protest,
and hurried on. “—but I can understand a lot of it’s not really what
you’re looking for.” He tipped his head in a shrug. “It’s never easy
for gentlemen to find appropriate work, and that’s what your
commission would make you, isn’t it? So hiring on as a fairground
knife would be right out.”
  “Putting that aside, since I will get hungry eventually, would
anyone hire a Leaguer right now?” Eslingen asked.
  “Some would,” Rathe answered, absently, but then the thought
struck him. There was one job that he knew of, was almost sure the
place hadn’t been filled, and it would get him personally out of a
good deal of trouble… “Some might.” Oh, gods, he added silently,
am I really going to do this? He leaned forward, intent now. “Look,
Eslingen, you’ve got every right to be angry—my having no choice
doesn’t help you losing your place—but maybe, just maybe, I can
make it up to you. That was what you came here for, wasn’t it?”
  Eslingen nodded, the faintest of smiles on his handsome face.
“That, and the thought of wringing your neck.”
  “Which would have put you back in cells,” Rathe pointed out,
“and here rather than Sighs.”
  “I’ve slept in stables before.” The smile might have widened a
fraction, but Rathe couldn’t be sure.
  “All right then. But I want to be plain with you about this. I
think the job would suit you. The man I’m thinking of lives like a
gentleman, and is highly respected throughout Astreiant.”
  “I’m sensing a ‘but,’ ” Eslingen said.
  “A couple of them, actually. His name’s Hanselin Caiazzo, and if
you were still working at Devynck’s, I’d tell you to ask her about
him, you’d get an honest answer. He’s a long-distance
trader—merchant-venturer,” he added, and Eslingen nodded again.
“A large part of his business is perfectly legal and above board, but
there’s a sizeable percentage of it that isn’t.” Rathe cocked his head
at the other man. “I don’t know how much time you’ve spent in
Astreiant, all in, or what you know about a place called the Court of
the Thirty-two Knives.”
  Eslingen sat back in his chair, one dark eyebrow winging
upwards. “I’ve heard of it,” he said. “Devynck told all her soldier
friends to stay away from it. That was enough for me.”
  Rathe nodded. “Good. There’s nothing they like better in the
Court for a bunch of roistering, on-leave soldiers to come in
thinking they’re tough enough to handle it, because they’re not. But
Caiazzo has contacts and businesses within the Court. He can walk
in and out, pretty much at will—but then, he is southriver born.”
   “And you?” Eslingen asked, when it seemed clear that Rathe had
finished. The pointsman looked startled.
  “Me? Yeah, I’m southriver born, too.”
  “Can you walk in and out of this Court with impunity?”
  “I’ve done it.”
  “But not like Caiazzo does it,” Eslingen finished, and Rathe
grinned. There’s a lot you’re not telling me, Adjunct Point, Eslingen
thought, and decided not to pursue the matter. Rathe had said
enough to get his message across. “So what’s so special about this
Caiazzo, then? I assume there are reasons none of your lot have
scored a point on him yet.”
  “Oh, there are, chief among them being he’s good at covering his
tracks, most of his success comes from his legal businesses, and
people are loyal to him. And he has canny associates, as well as a
deft hand with a fee.” Rathe paused. “But the thing is, he had this
bodyguard—”
  “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I don’t step into a dead man’s shoes. Not like
this. Thank you kindly, Rathe, but—”
  “Will you shut up for a moment?” Rathe said, equably. “His last
bravo’s alive and well and sitting in a Customs Point cell.” Eslingen
looked at him, and Rathe met the stare with a bland smile.
“Duelling.”
  “So who are you doing the favor?” Eslingen demanded. “This
Caiazzo or me? For that matter, it seems extraordinary that you
have to make amends to two different people for matters of point
scoring. I’m beginning to be just the slightest bit afraid of you,
pointsman. You’re not safe.”
  “It’s not as elaborate as all that. Caiazzo’s tough deserved what
he got, and better for him this way.” Rathe shook his head. “Look,
he called himself a duellist, but he didn’t call his duels formally. He
just sort of took it upon himself to, well, execute them. Caiazzo was
having fits trying to figure out how to be rid of him anyway. Not
that I did it to oblige him, but when I was able to make the point,
fair and square, on a charge of murder, I did it and Caiazzo didn’t
make more than a token complaint. And if he’d—Douvregn, I
mean—if he’d gone on like that much longer, he’d’ve gone mad.
Duellists can, you know, especially if they don’t cry fair and public.”
  “You know a lot about duelling. I presume that’s just in pursuit of
the law,” Eslingen said, eyeing the blade that lay along Rathe’s leg.
  “Not really,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen looked dubious.
  “Oh?”
  Rathe shrugged. “A friend of mine’s a duellist. Course, he’s also a
necromancer, so he has an outlet. Of sorts.”
  Both Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “What an interesting life you lead,
pointsman.” He took a breath. “I want to know about Caiazzo. You
said there were a couple of ‘buts’ involved.”
  “It’s about these children.” Rathe looked unhappy. “The
surintendant—the surintendant of points, my ultimate boss—thinks
Caiazzo might be involved. I don’t. I’ve been after Caiazzo for
almost five years now, I know the kind of mud puddles he likes to
play in, and children aren’t it. I’m certain in my heart he’s not
involved, but the sur wants me to keep an eye on him. Took me
aside this morning to tell me that, though how I’m supposed to do
that when I have all these disappearances in my book, and have to
check up on illegal printers…” He paused and took a breath,
darting a rueful glance at Eslingen. “Sorry. But if the sur wants
Caiazzo watched, then I have to take care of it. Hanse—Caiazzo
needs a new bravo. You need a job and a place to live, and I can
promise you, his house is a lot grander than the Brown Dog.”
   “It would have to be,” Eslingen murmured, but there was no
denying the sudden surge within him. He had to husband his coin if
it was to last to the next campaign season, and if he could live in a
gentleman’s comfort till then, all the better. “How’s he treat the
hired help, then?”
  “Better than they deserve, I imagine,” Rathe said. “Douvregn was
always very well turned out.”
  “Not livery?”
  “I told you, he’s not a gentleman, Eslingen, he’s a merchant, a
southriver merchant, and proud of it. He’s not the sort to ape the
nobility, so set your heart at rest. You’ll be able to afford to dress as
well as ever, without the spectre of livery.”
  “But with the very real spectre, I imagine, of finding myself dead
in the Sier if he should find out I’m spying on him,” Eslingen said.
  Rathe shook his head. “Caiazzo’s not like that—not quite like
that. He’s no idiot. I’m trusting you to find out that he’s not
involved in these disappearances. I expect you to find out he’s not
involved.”
  “And if I find out he is?”
  Rathe grimaced. “Then get out, fast, and let me know.”
  “Why am I even considering this?” Eslingen demanded.
  “Because it’s a long summer until anyone good is hiring again,
you told me so yourself, especially soldiers of your rank. Because
you saw what happened at the Old Brown Dog. Leaguers aren’t
well loved at the best of times, and right now—”
  “Right now, we’re right up there with pointsmen in popularity,
aren’t we?” Eslingen said, with a return of his earlier anger. Rathe
ignored it.
   “Because these are children who are disappearing. Southriver,
northriver, from all over the city. Gone without a trace, and I tell
you, Eslingen, usually only a runaway can manage that.” He
frowned into the distance, eyes fixed on something only he could
see. “I’ve seen that happen enough times. The serious runaways,
the ones with real, hard reasons to run. They’ll do it, and we can
turn over every stone, and not find them. Because they know when
and how fast to run. But this number of kids, from so wide a range
of backgrounds… they’re not running, Eslingen. Someone’s taking
them. And I don’t think it’s Caiazzo, but I can’t make that decision,
I can’t take that risk. You need a job, a place to live. I need to be
able to keep an eye on Caiazzo without having to give up the other
jobs at hand, which I refuse to do.” He broke off, glaring at
Eslingen, but the look wasn’t really directed at him, the Leaguer
realized. He was angry with whoever had suggested he write off
the children already gone. And Rathe never would.
  “I was a runaway,” he said quietly. “And you’re right. I knew
when and how far and fast to run. But I was reasonably lucky. It
might not have ended up this well. All right. I may be out of my
mind, Rathe, but if this Caiazzo will have me, I’ll keep an eye on
things for you.”
  Rathe smiled, and the easing of lines from his face made Eslingen
wonder just how many hours a day the adjunct point was working
on this business. “You want to meet him now?”
  “Are you off duty already?”
  Rathe made a face. “Oh, calling on Caiazzo is part of being on
duty, it seems.” He stood, stretched, and came around the desk.
“So, if you’re interested…”
  “Oh, I am,” Eslingen assured him, and immediately wondered if
he was doing the right thing. The astrologer had said his status
could change at the new moon, but he couldn’t think this was quite
what he had had in mind. Before he could say anything more,
however, the door opened, and Monteia appeared.
  “Good, Rathe, you’re back. Oh. Lieutenant Eslingen.” Monteia
shut the door behind her. “How are you?”
  “Well, thank you, Chief Point.”
  Rathe gave him a wary glance, not quite trusting the demure
tone, but the Leaguer didn’t meet his eyes.
  “Good,” Monteia went on. “It shouldn’t have happened, none of it,
but once it did we had no choice but to bring you in. I want to thank
you for your understanding.”
  “Not at all, Chief Point.” This time, it was Eslingen who looked at
Rathe, and the adjunct point who wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Apparently, Eslingen thought, he wasn’t intending to inform the
chief point of the plan to use a deputy to spy on Caiazzo. Probably
as well.
  “What did the sur want, Nico?” Monteia asked.
  “Mostly to ask me if I’d found anything against Caiazzo, anything
that would show he was involved.” Rathe grinned. “And to complain
about the grande bourgeoise.”
  “He won’t get any argument from me on that, but this business
with Caiazzo…” Monteia shook her head. “It’s beginning to sound
unhealthily like an obsession.”
   Rathe sighed, almost inaudibly. It seemed, Eslingen thought, to
be a standing problem between them. “I don’t think so, Chief, with
respect. I think the sur is getting some information we’re not privy
to, maybe from court, maybe from gods know where, but political.
Because that’s the connection he keeps pushing—the succession.”
  Monteia looked askance. “Not very likely, is it, Nico?”
  Rathe sighed again, louder this time. “No, it’s not, but what am I
supposed to do, tell the surintendant of points, no, sir, you’re wrong,
and I won’t do it? I’ve tried to tell him, gods know. But he won’t let
me off.”
  “It’s a waste of time,” Monteia said. “Aside from anything else,
the last thing we need is for the families to think we’ve forgotten
about them. So if you can do what the sur wants without its cutting
into your real work, Nico, that would be lovely.”
  “Yes, Chief,” Rathe said. He glanced involuntarily at Eslingen,
wondering if he should mention his plan to Monteia, but decided
against it. It wasn’t as though he was authorizing any fees for
Eslingen against the station’s expenses—that would be Caiazzo’s
responsibility. Not that Monteia wouldn’t appreciate the irony, but
the fewer people who knew, the better for Eslingen.
  Monteia nodded. “So be off with you, then, Nico. The council
wasted enough of our time this morning. Oh, and Nico?” Rathe
turned in the doorway.
  “I don’t expect to see you back here tonight, understand?”
  Rathe smiled and nodded. “Yes, Chief. And thanks.”
  She waved a hand. “Go on, get out. Good luck to you,
Lieutenant.”
   Eslingen nodded, recognizing dismissal when he heard it, and
followed the adjunct point out into the main room. Rathe said
something, low-voiced, to the woman at the duty desk, and then
slung his jerkin over the shabby coat.
  “Shall we go?”
   “Why not?” Eslingen murmured, and trailed behind him through
the station’s yard into the busy street. They took the river roads,
along the upper levels of the Factor’s Walk, and as he threaded his
way through the busy crowd, Eslingen had to admit some
misgivings. After all, was a job with a southriver-rat-made-good
really what he was looking for? The man might be wealthy—was
wealthy, according to Rathe, who would know—but not all of that
wealth was honestly come by. That Rathe seemed to think well of
him, or at least to praise him with faint damns, was something of a
reassurance, but, all in all, Eslingen thought, I might have been
better off staying Devynck’s knife. The towers of Point of
Sighs—Point Assize, its true name was, a typical Astreianter sour
joke—rose among the wharf-side buildings, and he looked away,
swearing under his breath. Wiser it might be to stay a tavern knife,
but Devynck wanted no part of him after last night, and there
weren’t that many tavern-keepers who would hire a Leaguer and a
soldier. Which left Rathe’s merchant, this Caiazzo. He could almost
picture the man, the sort of gross merchant one found on the
broadsheet prophecies, usually at the head of predictions involving
Bonfortune and Tyrseis. He would be large and loud, his clothes
rich and tasteless, canny, cunning, shrewd, but without the tact
that redeemed those qualities—a bully, Eslingen thought, a man of
weight who wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
   They had reached the eastern docks by then, and Rathe paused,
scanning the pennants that drooped from the crowding masts.
Eslingen copied him automatically, though he recognized only one
of the house-signs, the blue and white stripes of Gauquier
Daughters. It would be granddaughters now, or
great-granddaughters, he thought, and wondered if he should
change his mind now, before Rathe had gone to the trouble of an
introduction. But then Rathe’s hand was on his arm.
  “See? One of Hanse’s ships was reported in this morning, so I
knew we’d find him here. I wanted you to get an idea of the man,
better than what I’ve given you.”
   “Marvelous,” Eslingen said, and knew he sounded less than
gracious. “Thank you.” He followed Rathe through a tangle of
untended handcarts, and out onto the wharf itself. It was almost as
wide as a city street, but only a single ship, a tidy caravel, the sort
that Eslingen had seen in every port along the southern coasts, was
tied up at the dock. The pennant at its single mast was a long
streamer of scarlet, a gold shape like an inverted heart at the broad
end: Caiazzo’s house-sign, it had to be, Eslingen thought, and
scanned the caravel’s crowded deck for the man of his imaginings.
There was no one among the dozen sailors and bare-backed laborers
who matched that description, and the knot of factors gathered by
the hoist looked equally unlikely. A woman in a neat skirt and
bodice, a blue coat with split sleeves open over it, was standing to
one side, and Rathe moved toward her. Eslingen followed, and saw
a magist’s bar vivid on one shoulder. He hesitated, but Rathe didn’t
seem to notice.
  “Aicelin, where’s Hanse?”
  The magist lifted an eyebrow that was as grey as the feathers of
the gargoyles that fought the seagulls for the dockside scraps.
“Business, pointsman?”
  Rathe cocked his head. “Of a sort. He still looking for a bravo?”
  “He’s not had a lot of time to interview candidates. Why? I know
you’re not offering your services, much to both our disappointment.”
She glanced at Eslingen, both eyebrows rising now in silent
question.
  “Lieutenant Eslingen here recently mustered out of the Dragons,”
Rathe said, “and is in need of a position.”
   “Until last night, he was working at the Old Brown Dog in Point
of Hopes,” a new voice said. One of the factors—not a factor,
Eslingen corrected himself instantly, the fabric and the cut of the
plain coat were far too good to be a mere factor’s, not a factor at all,
but the merchant-venturer himself—detached himself from the
group by the steadily growing stack of cargo, and came to join the
magist. “Devynck’s new knife. Now, as I see it, good knives prevent
trouble.”
  He smiled, showing teeth, but the expression didn’t reach his
black eyes. He was a wiry man, built a little like Rathe himself, but
his face was narrower, the bones of cheek and jaw stark under the
olive skin. Up close, his clothes looked even more expensive, his
shirt of fine linen, freshly washed and pressed, fastened at the neck
with a lace-edged stock, the coat plain grey silk with only the jet
buttons for decoration, but cut to flatter the slim build. He was
young to be as rich as Rathe had hinted, Eslingen thought, maybe
forty, but then, it took a young man to outface the law.
  “You’re remarkably well informed, Hanse,” Rathe said, sounding
bored. “If you know that, you also know it can hardly be laid at
Eslingen’s door, now, can it?”
   “I’d be more inclined to lay it at yours.” Caiazzo showed teeth
again, but this time the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened in
real amusement. “Not yours personally, Nico, but the points? Yes,
I’d say they have something to answer to Devynck for.”
   Rathe looked sour. “You can leave that to Monteia and Devynck
to settle between them, I think.” He shrugged. “But I thought I
could at least introduce Eslingen to you.”
  Caiazzo laughed softly, and turned to Eslingen. “Known our Nico
long, have you, lieutenant?” His voice was pleasant enough, still
touched with the sharp southriver vowels, but Eslingen’s scalp
prickled.
  “Only a week. Long enough to lose my job, though.”
  “Only a week? Gods, Nico, even for you that’s quick.”
  “The times are like that,” Rathe answered. “You’ve heard the
story, I thought I owed Eslingen something for it, the situation not
being his fault. You need a new bravo, Eslingen needs a new
place… It seemed to make sense.”
  “It does,” Caiazzo agreed, and sounded almost rueful. He looked
at Eslingen again, the glance frankly assessing. “Duellist?”
  It wasn’t hard to guess the required answer, not after what
Rathe had told him. Eslingen shook his head. “Soldiers are rarely
duellists, sir. It’s not our skill, and only fools try to do two things
that well. If you want a duellist, you’ll have to hire someone else.”
  “I had a bodyguard who thought he was a duellist,” Caiazzo said.
“What I want is a knife with brains, not pretensions.” He glanced at
the magist, and Eslingen thought he saw her head tip forward
slightly. Caiazzo nodded himself, decisively. “All right, Eslingen,
let’s try it. Nico, I’m obliged—I think, and to a point.”
  “A little in-good-standing?” Rathe asked, demurely.
  Caiazzo’s head lifted slightly, the gesture of an angry horse, but
then he had himself under control again. “I’ll think of it that way.”
He looked back at Eslingen. “I’ll pay you a snake for a week,
Eslingen, keep you or not, and we’ll talk wages at the end of that
time. What do you say?”
   “I’m in,” Eslingen answered, and wondered if he was doing the
right thing. Caiazzo wasn’t what he’d imagined, but there was
something a good deal more dangerous about the trader than he’d
expected.
 Caiazzo beckoned to the magist. “Aicelin Denizard, my left hand.
We’ll try him for a week, Aice, see how it works?
  “Despite the doubtful provenance, I think it’s worth it,” the
magist answered. Face and voice were sober, but there was
laughter in her eyes, and Eslingen caught himself smiling in
answer. Denizard held out a painted hand—black and silver on pale
skin, intricate and unsmudged—and Eslingen took it carefully. “A
pleasure, lieutenant.”
  “Mine, surely, magist,” Eslingen replied, and bent his head to
her.
  “Where’s your gear, Eslingen?” Caiazzo asked.
  Eslingen nudged the saddlebags he’d set down when Rathe had
spoken to the magist. “This is it.”
  “Not your weapons, surely.”
  Eslingen shook his head. “They’re at the Aretoneia.”
  Caiazzo looked over his shoulder at the caravel, and then at the
group of factors. Something he saw there made his mouth tighten,
but he said nothing, and looked back at the soldier. “Right, then.
Aice, go with him, pay whatever bond they want—I’m sure the
points will want their share—and bring him back to the house.
Take the boat, I’ll be here a while.”
  And I don’t envy his factors, Eslingen thought. He glanced at
Rathe, and saw the same thought reflected in the pointsman’s half
smile. He held out a hand, and Rathe’s smile widened. “Thanks.”
  Rathe lifted a shoulder, but looked faintly pleased. “Like I said, I
owed you this much, after last night. I wish you good luck with it.”
He looked up at the sky, gauging the position of the winter-sun.
“Hanse, I’ll be seeing you.”
  “Like my shadow,” Caiazzo agreed, and Rathe turned away.
  “This way,” Denizard said. “What’s your first name?”
   “Philip.” Eslingen slung the bags over his shoulder again, and
followed her down to the end of the wharf where a private barge
was moored. It was small, only four oarsmen and a steersman for
crew, but Eslingen couldn’t help being impressed. It took money to
keep a boat in Astreiant, almost as much as it took to keep horse
and grooms—but then, if Caiazzo’s business took him along the
wharves, then it was probably as much necessity as luxury. The
steersman held out his hand to help Denizard down into the
cushioned seats, and Eslingen glanced back to catch a last glimpse
of Rathe as he turned away down the river road. It was just as well
he’d gone quickly; Caiazzo had good reason to be wary of anything
brought him by any pointsman, and Eslingen was quite sure that at
least one reason he had been sent with Denizard was to give the
magist a chance to gather her impressions of him, arcane as well as
mundane. The thought of her ghostly investigation was enough to
make him shiver a little as he stepped into the boat beside her, and
he thought he saw her smile. She gestured for him to seat himself,
and he did so, schooling himself to impassivity as the boatmen
began to cast off. The astrologer had warned him against
water—but there was no avoiding this. He was determined to give
them no cause for suspicion: whatever Rathe’s motives had been,
placing him here, this had the chance of becoming a decent position,
and he wasn’t well off enough to risk losing it, at least not yet. If
the trader was involved with the missing children, well, that would
change everything, but even Rathe didn’t seem to believe that. The
boat lurched against the current before the oarsmen could find their
stroke, and he smiled blandly at the magist, trying to ignore his
sudden unease.,
   Denizard smiled back, and fished a small silver medallion from
under her bodice, cupped it in both hands. Eslingen eyed her warily,
recognizing a truth-stone, and the magist’s smile widened. “Now,
lieutenant—Philip, if I may. Tell me about your service. From the
beginning, please.”
Rathe made his way west again along the river, skirting the
Rivermarket and the warrens of the Factors’ Walk, ignoring the
small twist of conscience within him. He had, after all, told
Eslingen exactly why he was recommending him for the job, and
what he was—and wasn’t— looking for. Nor was it entirely
self-serving; Eslingen did need a job and a place to live, and
Caiazzo’s service was a good deal richer than Devynck’s. And it was
unlikely that Caiazzo would put him into a position that would
bring him into danger, at least not yet, not until Caiazzo had
decided that he could trust his new man, and by then Eslingen
would have seen enough to make the decision for himself… Still,
the soldier was virtually a stranger here, with little knowledge of
the city and its more notorious citizens; Rathe couldn’t stop himself
from feeling slightly guilty for what he’d done.
  And that, he told himself firmly, was foolish. He’d done the best
he could for Eslingen, and for himself; he had other work to do
before he could take Monteia’s offer and declare himself off duty.
He reached into his pocket, checked his tablets. The last set of
nativities—one for a girl who’d vanished from the family inn two
days before Herisse Robion, the other for a boy just under
apprentice-age, son of a weaver— should be ready; he could at least
collect those and bring them to b’Estorr along with the rest. He
glanced at the sun again, and smiled, slowly. Better still, he would
send a runner to University Point and ask b’Estorr to meet him at
Wicked’s. At least that way he could be sure of getting one decent
meal.
   The sun was low in the sky as he finally reached the tavern, the
papers with the nativities folded securely in his pocket. The
building itself, long and low and old, wooden walls on a solid stone
foundation, had once been a temple, though that had been
generations ago, before the Pantheon had been built. On the
clearest of days, with all the windows open to daylight, you could
see some of the old carvings, high on the walls just below the
ceilings, but those were the only lingering traces of its former life.
Nor did anyone—these days, at least— consider its current use an
especial blasphemy, not least because no one could remember what
god it had served. There was an offering tablet, one of the blank
stones that stood for all-the-gods, and a candle beside it to appease
the prudish, but that was all. The name was more of a joke than
anything, a typical southriver joke. Astreiant was, Rathe thought,
usually a city that could laugh at itself. Only these days, people
weren’t finding much to laugh at, and neither did he. But there was
always Wicked’s, to put aside immediate worries.
   The crowd was still thin, though some of it spilled into the tiny
front yard, shopkeeper’s girls enjoying a chance at the soft weather
after a day spent within doors. Rathe went inside: the dim, cool
light was more welcoming after a day spent crisscrossing the city.
Though it was still early, Wicked herself sat at one end of the
massive stone bar, surveying her customers dispassionately. The
current Wicked—there had been at least three predecessors, Rathe
knew from neighborhood gossip, though no one knew for sure if
they had been kin—had run the tavern for as long as Rathe had
been a regular. She had been there when he’d signed his
apprenticeship papers, and she was still there, not looking much
different than before, though she had to be fifty if she was a day.
She raised an eyebrow as she saw Rathe, and lifted a hand to
beckon him over.
   “You’d better not be visiting Devynck’s troubles on me, boy,” she
said by way of greeting, but the tone took away most of the sting
from her words.
  Rathe shook his head, and held out empty hands. “You see before
you an off-duty pointsman, hungry, very thirsty, and in extreme
need of good company. So where else would I go? Beer makes people
mad, Wicked, wine makes them wise.”
  “Donis help us when pointsmen turn philosopher.”
  “It’s that or run mad these days.” Rathe dropped into a chair at
the table nearest to her, glanced around the room. There was no
sign of b’Estorr yet, and at the moment, he found he didn’t
particularly care. Wicked detached herself from the bar, and came
to stand looming above him, hands on ample hips.
  “You look like something that washed up after a particularly
nasty flood tide,” she said, and shrugged. “But then, it could be the
coat.”
  Rathe lifted his head, then decided it wasn’t worth arguing with
her, especially when he’d reached the same conclusion just that
morning. “Thank you,” he said. “Might I have some wine, please,
mistress?”
  Wicked snorted, but smiled, and stalked back to the bar,
disappearing through the door behind it that led to the kitchens and
her private stockroom. When she came out, she was carrying a tall
stone bottle and two heavy glasses—real glasses, not the usual
pottery cups. She set it all down on the table, and sat down opposite
him.
  “Because you don’t like my coat?” Rathe asked.
  Wicked leaned forward across the table. “Because, first, I think
you need it. Second, Istre sent your runner back by here to say he
would be here after first sunset, and to bespeak a very nice bottle of
wine that one, knows his stuff for all he’s Chadroni. And, third,
even if he did and you didn’t, I wouldn’t bother. I don’t waste this
on people who’d waste it. I figure you’re probably here for a while,
pointsman, and better for you it is, too, than moping at home or at
the station.”
  “I had reached that decision myself,” Rathe said, with dignity. “I
suppose I’d better get some dinner if I’m not to insult one of your—
what, Silklands vintages?”
  Wicked shook her head. “Believe it or not, Chadroni. Istre tells
me their beer is vile. Maybe there’s hope for the regicidal bastards.”
She tugged the cork free with a grunt of effort, set bottle and cork
in front of him with a flourish.
   Rathe spread his hands. “If you say so, Wicked, I have to believe
it. And I’ll have whatever’s going from the kitchen tonight.”
  “You’ll have what I give you,” Wicked answered, and pushed
herself up from the table. “I’ve lasanon with cheese and herbs
that’ll be better with that than a custard pie.”
  “Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing better than to argue, and the
innkeeper turned away. Rathe leaned back in his chair, and reached
for the papers folded into his pocket. He pulled them out, eight
sheets, each with their neatly inked circles and the symbols of the
planets set in their places, looking for some connection, however
tenuous, between the eight. Approximate age was all they had in
common, certainly not background, and that was what had the city
in an uproar. And he didn’t see anything in these papers to change
that.
   He made a face, and turned them facedown on the scarred table,
wishing b’Estorr would arrive. The door was still open to the
evening breeze, a southern breeze, warm, but without the river’s
damp. He could hear the sounds of the businesses around Wicked’s
closing up for the day, tables and carts pulled in, shutters down or
across, the clank of iron as locks and chains were snugged home.
First sunset was definitely past; over in Point of Dreams, the
day-shows would be well over, and the playhouses sweeping up,
getting ready for the night-show. It had been weeks—a
moon-month, he realized, guiltily—since he had seen a play, even a
night-show farce. The actors who shared the garret above his own
lodgings had seemed cold lately; he would have to make amends,
when he had the time. And he would need to make time, he
realized. They if anyone could help him with Foucquet’s missing
apprentice, especially if the boy wasn’t missing at all…
  “So how do you like the wine?”
  Rathe looked up, and pushed the papers aside. “Don’t know.
Haven’t dared try it yet. I thought, being Chadroni, it might come
ready mixed with its own poison.” b’Estorr looked thoughtful. “I
don’t think it’s from the royal cellars.”
  “How’d you know I’d need it?”
  “Poison or a drink?” b’Estorr asked, and seated himself opposite
the other man.
  Rathe gave him a sour look, but conceded the point. “The drink.”
  “These days, don’t we all,” b’Estorr answered, and filled both
glasses. Rathe took one, lifted it in silent toast, and sipped curiously
at the amber liquid. It was good, very good, but not astonishing. He
had been in the mood for something astonishing, and he set the
glass down again with a vague sense of disappointment. b’Estorr
went on, as if he hadn’t noticed, “I heard about the trouble at
Devynck’s—I had cause to go to All-Guilds today, the clerks were
talking about nothing else.”
  “And blaming the points, I daresay,” Rathe muttered.
  “Among others,” b’Estorr answered.
  Rathe looked at him. “Strange to say, though, you people are the
only ones I haven’t heard suspected.”
 “Well, who’d dare?” b’Estorr returned. “I take it you mean
magists, and not Chadroni.”
  Rathe smiled in spite of himself. “I think that people feel if
Chadroni were involved, it wouldn’t be this… disguised. Good
straightforward people, the Chadroni, if a little bloodthirsty.”
  b’Estorr twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers.
“That’s true enough.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “The only reason
they didn’t latch onto me as the guilty party when the old Fre was
murdered was that they’d’ve been insulted at the thought of any
but their own class murdering the king. In Chenedolle, in any of the
League cities— in the Silklands, for Astree’s sake—I’d’ve been
dragged off to execution without a second thought. But in Chadron,
murder is the province of the high nobility.”
  “Fun place to set up a points station,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr
nearly choked on his wine. Rathe grinned—that had evened the
score for the remark about poison—but sobered quickly. Something
he’d said himself hadn’t quite rung true… “But I’m wrong, aren’t I,
there’s one group of magists people do suspect.”
  b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.
 “Those hedge-astrologers, the freelances, the ones the Three
Nations have been complaining about.”
  “Magists are generally astrologers,” b’Estorr said, with dignity,
“but few astrologers are magists.”
  “I’m not sure most people make that distinction.” Rathe frowned
suddenly, impatient with the game. “Seriously, Istre, have you
heard anything more about them?”
  b’Estorr shrugged. “Not much more than before, I’m afraid.
They’re still around—and they don’t charge nearly enough for what
they’re doing. The students are pissed, of course, and the arbiters
have promised to do what they can, but every time they get close to
one of them, they seem to fade away.”
  “Well, joy of it to me, we need to keep an eye on them, too,”
Rathe said.
  “I’d have thought that was the arbiters’ business,” b’Estorr said.
   “And also ours.” Rathe glanced toward the open door, hearing
sudden loud voices, and then relaxed slightly, recognizing the tone
if not the speakers. They sounded light, for a change, almost happy,
and Rathe realized for the first time just how tense he had become.
Then a knot of people—actors all, Rathe knew, and his upstairs
neighbor Gavi Jhirassi at their center—burst through the open
door.
   “They can threaten to close us down, but they know right now
there’d be riots if they tried it. And that’s just what Astreiant wants
to avoid, so they won’t. And meanwhile, it’s marvelous business for
us.”
  “Still, it’s a risky piece, Gavi, and Aconin should mind his pen.”
That was a rangy woman in a plumed cap, her eyes still smudged
with the paint she wore on stage.
  Jhirassi made a moue, and his eyes lighted on Rathe. “Nico! Have
they actually let you out? We were beginning to think you were
working all hours.”
  b’Estorr glanced at Rathe, eyes amused. Rathe shook his head.
“Gavi’s my upstairs neighbor. And an actor, though I probably don’t
need to tell you that. Quite a good one, really.”
  “You’re too kind,” Jhirassi said, and leaned on the back of the
empty chair.
  Rathe sighed. “Gavi Jhirassi, Istre b’Estorr, Istre’s at the
university.”
  “Not a student,” Jhirassi said. “A master, then?”
  “Join us, why don’t you, Gavi?” Rathe said, and the actor spun
the chair dexterously away from the table. “I wanted to talk to you
anyway, and this saves me a trip to the theaters, since we’re never
home the same hours these days.”
  Jhirassi nodded. “It has been a while since we’ve seen you, Nico.
Not that I can blame you, with what’s been on recently, I mean,
really, The Seven Seekers ? It’s not particularly subtle, and this
staging isn’t particularly inventive. At least Aconin doesn’t write
me ingenue parts—” He broke off, looking at Rathe. “What did you
want to talk to me about?”
  Rathe allowed himself a wry smile, and quickly retold Foucquet’s
story of her missing clerk-apprentice. Jhirassi’s face grew more
intent as he listened, and for once he didn’t interrupt. When Rathe
had finished, he said, “And you’re afraid he’s become one of the
missing, obviously, for all you’re saying everything else. Well, we’ve
not had any new brats—sorry, children—” The correction was
patently insincere. “—hanging about, but you said he might have
gone to Savatier’s.” He tipped his head to one side, considering,
then shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ll ask there tomorrow, if you’d like.”
  “Please,” Rathe said.
  “And if I find him?”
  “Let me know, and I’ll let Foucquet know. She can handle it from
there, sort it out with the boy’s mother.”
   “If Savatier has him,” Jhirassi said, “if she’s taken him on, he’s
likely to be good, Nico. It could be a shame to force him back into
the judiciary.”
   “I know,” Rathe answered. “But his mother has a right to know if
he hasn’t gone missing. Who knows, she might be so delighted to
hear he’s with Savatier, and not disappeared, she might let him
stay on.” He didn’t sound terribly convincing, and knew it, and so,
from the look on the actor’s face, did Jhirassi. The judiciary was a
good career, and a rich one, ideal for those who had the proper
stars, and that range was broadly defined. Clerkships like the one
Albe Cytel had held were as jealously guarded as any guild
apprenticeship, and for the same reasons: their holders had an
advantage over the hundreds of others who tried to make their
living in the trade, and that advantage could be passed from mother
to child. Cytel’s mother would be reluctant to lose that, no matter
what the boy’s stars said, and there would be ambition and
expectation involved as well. Sometimes it was hard to make the
parent’s desires give way to sidereal sense. He himself had been
lucky, Rathe thought. He might have been an apothecary, or an
herbalist, given his parents’ occupations, but it had been clear from
his stars that Metenere’s service was not for him, and they had
made no protest. He looked again at the sheaf of papers with their
scribbled nativities. There had been nothing in common among
those children’s stars, or at least nothing that he could see, not even
a common like or dislike of their present circumstances.
  “I’ll ask at Savatier’s,” Jhirassi said again. “But I can’t promise
anything.”
  “I appreciate it,” Rathe answered.
  Jhirassi nodded, mischief glinting in his eyes, but then common
sense reasserted itself. He rose gracefully from the table, smiled at
b’Estorr, and crossed to the corner table where the rest of the
actors were sitting. Rathe watched him go, but his mind wasn’t on
the slim figure.
  “That sounds—interesting,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe rolled his
eyes.
  “In other circumstances, yes. It might almost be amusing, but not
just at the moment, thank you. Not with people—respectable
guild-folk, mind you—trying to do our jobs for us.”
  “Is it true someone was killed last night?” b’Estorr asked.
  Rathe nodded. “A journeyman butcher, name of Paas Huviet. He
was threatening to attack the inn, and when he wouldn’t heed the
warnings, Eslingen—he was Devynck’s knife—shot him dead.” He
managed a crooked smile. “Which I don’t think comes under your
purview, Istre.”
  “I would think not,” the magist agreed. “So what happened to
him, the knife, I mean?”
  Rathe grimaced. “Oh, gods, that was a mess. We had to call the
point on him, if only to keep the rest of the crowd quiet, but of
course it was disallowed. It had to be, really, he’d only fired in
self-defense and in defense of real property. But Devynck let him
go, since she didn’t want there to be more trouble because of him.
So I… I got him a position in Caiazzo’s household.”
  b’Estorr stared at Rathe, then laughed. “What possessed you to
lodge him with Caiazzo, of all people? I take it you don’t much like
this knife—Eslingen, was it?”
  Rathe looked faintly embarrassed. “Yeah, that’s his name. And,
no, in actual fact, I like him, he’s a good sort, clever—”
  “So why, in the Good Counsellor’s name, stick him with Caiazzo?”
b’Estorr paused. “Or do I have it turned around?”
  Rathe hesitated, but there were few men he trusted more than
the Chadroni. And besides, he added silently, I wouldn’t mind
having someone tell me I’d done the right thing. “I need someone in
Caiazzo’s household,” he said, lowering his voice. “The sur thinks he
might be involved with the missing children somehow, but I’ve got
my hands too full investigating the disappearances themselves to
waste time on something I don’t think is very likely. It seemed a
natural conjunction.”
  b’Estorr shook his head. “Gods, Nico, remind me never to call in
any favors from you, you have the most backhanded way of
returning them. He agreed?”
  “He agreed. I didn’t exactly hold a knife to his throat, either,
Istre,” Rathe said.
  “It’s not a bad idea, though,” b’Estorr said, thoughtfully. “As long
as Caiazzo doesn’t find out, that is.”
   That was something Rathe did not particularly want to think
about. He reached for the pieces of paper instead, slid them across
the table toward b’Estorr. “Here. These are for you. We’ve managed
to gather some more information on the children missing from
Hopes—I think you have all the nativities now. I don’t know,
maybe if you look at them in line with Herisse’s, or something,
maybe the days of their disappearance, you’ll find something we’ve
missed.”
  b’Estorr set down his glass and spread the papers out on the
table, studying each in turn. Rathe watched him, absurdly fearful
that he would see some dire pattern just glancing at them,
something the points could and should have seen. And that’s just
being ridiculous, he told himself firmly, hearing more than an echo
of his mother in his mind. But the papers looked pathetic, lives in
limbo, reduced to so many numbers and calculations. He wasn’t an
astrologer, at least no more so than most people in Astreiant,
possessing a rudimentary knowledge of the mathegistry that
defined their lives. b’Estorr could read the figures Rathe had given
him as easily as Rathe could read the broadsheets, and Rathe
wondered what picture the nativities conjured up for the magist.
Could he see these children, get a sense for who they were—are, he
corrected firmly—what their dreams, hopes, futures might be? He
shook his head, at himself this time, and took another swallow of
his wine, never taking his eyes from b’Estorr. Finally, the magist
rolled up the papers and placed them carefully in his leather pocket
case. He smiled a little sheepishly at Rathe.
  “Sorry. There’s little enough I can do right now, but I get caught
up. It’s interesting, but I’m not seeing any obvious patterns off the
top of it. No common positions, bar the gross solar position of the
winter-sun and its satellites for most of them. And of course the
Starsmith.”
  Rathe nodded. The winter-sun and its three kindred stars stayed
in each of the solar signs for about fourteen years; everyone born
within that period shared those signs. The Starsmith took even
longer to move through its unique zodiac. “That hardly counts,
though, right?”
   “Right. And not all of them were born with the winter-sun in the
Anvil, either, some of them are young enough that it was in the
first degrees of the Sea-bull.” b’Estorr shook his head again. “For
that matter, they weren’t even all of them born in Astreiant.”
   “That we had noticed,” Rathe said. “It’s almost as though there’s
less of a pattern than there should be, and where you expect to find
one, no matter how meaningless—I expected, we reasonably could
have expected, all the kids to have been born here—it’s not there.
It’s the kind of negative pattern you couldn’t create if you tried,
you’d be bound to slip up somewhere.”
 “That’s an interesting thought,” b’Estorr said, and this time it
was Rathe who shook his head.
  “It could just be frustration speaking. Damn it, there has to be
some pattern there, somewhere.”
 b’Estorr nodded. “And the absence of pattern would be
meaningful, too. Don’t give up hope yet, Nico.”
  Rathe smiled ruefully, leaned back in his chair as a waiter
appeared with his dinner—the promised lasanon, he saw without
surprise, smelling strongly of the garlic and summer herbs layered
with the cheese and the strips of noodle dough. Wicked was right,
the wine would complement that, or vice versa, and for the first
time that evening, felt his mood begin to lift. “I’m not. It’s just—”
  “Eat,” b’Estorr said, firmly.
   “You sound like my mother,” Rathe complained, but did as he was
told. A string of cheese clung to his chin, and he wiped it away,
enjoying the rich taste.
  “I sound like my mother,” b’Estorr answered, “and they were
both right.”
  Rathe smiled again, genuine affection this time, and turned his
attention to his plate. b’Estorr was right, they were doing all they
could, and it was still too early to give up hope.
They pushed the missing children from their minds for the rest of
dinner, talking idly of other things. Rathe found himself relaxing at
last, though he couldn’t be sure how much of that was the excellent
wine. He drained the last swallow left in his glass, and set it
carefully back on the table.
   “Time I was getting home,” he said aloud, and the chime of a
clock merged with his last word. He frowned slightly at that—he
hadn’t thought it was that late—and saw the same confusion on
b’Estorr’s face.
  “That’s odd,” the necromancer began, and a second clock struck,
not the quarter hour, as the first had done, but repeatedly, a steady
chiming. In the distance, Rathe could hear another clock join in,
and then a third and a fourth.
  “What in the name of all the gods?” he began, but he was already
pushing himself up out of his seat. All across the long room, people
were standing, faces pale in the lamplight, and Wicked herself
appeared in the kitchen doorway, broad face drawn into a scowl. It
sounded like the earthquake, though the ground had never moved,
the way all the bells and chimes had sounded, shaken into voice by
the tremor, and he shoved his way to the door, and out into the
narrow yard.
   The chimes were still sounding, and Rathe had lost count of the
number, knew only that it was more than twelve, more than there
ever should be. The shopgirls were on their feet, too, one with her
hand on her belt knife as though she faced a physical threat,
another pair shoulder to shoulder, steadying each other against an
earthquake that hadn’t happened. The nearest clock was at the end
of the Hopes-point Bridge, and he turned toward it, searching the
darkening sky for its white-painted face and the massive bronze
hands. It was hard to see in the winter-sun’s twilight, but for an
instant he thought he saw the hands spinning aimlessly against the
pale disk. Then the chimes stopped, as abruptly as they had begun,
and the hands settled, frozen, proclaiming the hour to be six. And
that was impossible, that time had passed a good six hours ago, or
wouldn’t come for another six. Rathe’s mouth thinned, and he
looked back toward the tavern to see b’Estorr there, Wicked framed
in the door behind him. As though the silence had released some
spell, voices rose in the tavern, high, excited, and afraid.
  “What in Tyrseis’s name was that?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr
shook his head, his fine-boned face troubled.
  “I don’t know. Something—a serious disturbance in the stars, but
what…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head again. “I don’t
know.”
  “Damn,” Rathe said. He could hear more voices in the streets
now, loud with the same note of excited fear, and lifted his voice to
carry to the people behind Wicked. “All right, then, it’s over.
Nothing to panic about.”
   “But—” one of the shopgirls began, and stopped, her hand flying
to her mouth.
  Her fellow, braver than the rest, or maybe just less in awe of the
points, put her hands on her hips. “The clock’s out of true,
pointsman, what are we going to do about that?”
  “The university will have the correct time, and the regents will
see that the clocks are reset,” Rathe answered, and tried to project
a confidence he didn’t feel. It wasn’t as simple as that, and they all
knew it— when the clocks had been unstrung by the earthquake, it
had taken days for everything to be sorted out.
  b’Estorr said, his voice pitched to carry, “The Great Clock, at the
university—it’s made to keep time through any upheaval. It should
be all right. And it’s a good clear night. There’ll be no problem
checking the time against the stars.”
   Rathe nodded his thanks, and Wicked heaved herself out of the
doorway, came to join them in the center of the yard. “So what in
Demis’s name would cause such a turmoil?” she demanded. “I’ve
seen a lightning storm do something like it, but that was one
clock—”
  “And this is a fine clear night,” Rathe finished for her. “I don’t
know, Wicked.”
  “No more do I,” b’Estorr said again, “though I intend to find out.”
  “Would it have anything to do with the children?” Rathe asked,
his voice softer now, and b’Estorr spread his hands.
  “I don’t know,” he said again. “I don’t see how, what the
connection would be, but I don’t trust coincidence.” Rathe sighed,
nodding agreement, and the necromancer looked toward river. “I
should be heading back, they’ll want every scholar working on it.”
   “Go,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr hurried past him, stride
lengthening as he headed for the bridge. He could smell smoke, and
with it the pungent scent of herbs, and guessed that people were
already beginning to light balefires in the squares and crossroads,
offering the sweet smoke of Demis leaf and lowsfer to appease the
gods. That was all to the good, as long as they didn’t go burning
anything else, and he looked at Wicked. “I’d better go, too. They’ll
be wanting me at Point of Hopes.”
  She nodded, her face grim. “I daresay. But I doubt there’ll be
trouble, Nico. This is too—strange, too big for a riot.”
  “I hope you’re right,” Rathe answered, and headed for the station.
The streets were crowded, as they’d been after the earthquake, and
there were smoky fires in every open space. They were well tended,
he saw without surprise, and didn’t know if he was glad or worried
to see so many sober, rich-robed guild folk feeding the flames. The
neighborhood temples were jammed, and there was a steady stream
of people heading for the bridge—heading to the Pantheon and the
other temples in the old city, Rathe guessed, and could only be
grateful that their fear had taken them that way, rather than in
anger.
  The portcullis was down at Point of Hopes, though the postern
gate was still open, and two pointsmen in back-and-breast stood
outside. They carried calivers, too, Rathe saw: clearly Monteia was
taking this seriously. He nodded a greeting, received a sober nod in
return, and went on into the station’s yard.
  Monteia was standing in the doorway, talking to a young man
whose wine-colored coat bore the badge of the city regents, but she
broke off, seeing him, and beckoned him over. “Good, Nico. You’d
better hear this, too.”
  The messenger said, “The city and the university will be
confirming the correct time tonight in a public ceremony, to start at
once. The regents would like all the points stations to proclaim and
post the notice.”
  “Does that mean the university clock is all right?” Rathe asked,
and the messenger looked at him.
  “So far as I know—well, so far as they can tell. That’s why
they’re checking, of course.”
  Rathe nodded, remembering b’Estorr’s assurance, and Monteia
said briskly, “I’ve already started getting the word out, Nico, but I’d
take it as a favor if you’d attend the ceremony. People tend to trust
you, and I don’t want the ones who don’t get there to say that we
neglected our duty.”
   “All right,” Rathe said. He wasn’t sorry to have the excuse, after
all; it would be a sight worth seeing, but, more than that, he was as
eager as anyone to see with his own eyes that the time had been
put right. He turned away, but Monteia’s voice stopped him.
  “Nico.”
  “Yes, Chief?” He turned back, to see her holding a wooden case. It
had brass feet and a brass-bound door, and only then did he
recognize it as the station’s case-clock.
  “See that this gets set right,” Monteia said, and handed it to him.
   Rathe took the box gingerly, appalled at the thought of the
fragile gears and delicate springs of the workings, but shook the
fear away. The case-clock had been designed for travel; more than
that, it had survived at least ten years in the station’s main room.
It would easily survive a simple trip to University Point and back.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said aloud, and headed back out into the
street.
  It seemed as though the news of the ceremony had already
reached the neighborhood. The streets, and then the bridge itself,
were jammed with bodies, all flowing toward the university
precinct. Rathe let himself be carried with the crowd, but at the
university gates displayed his truncheon, and was admitted
grudgingly into the main courtyard. All the lights had been
quenched there, even the mage-fires that usually burned blue above
the dormitories’ doorways, and in the darkened center of the yard a
group of magists—all high-ranking, senior officials and scholars, by
the cut and colors of their robes and hoods—clustered around a long
table covered with the tools of their trade. Even at this distance,
and in the dark, he could recognize the concentric spheres of the
university’s pride and joy, the great orrery, the largest and most
exact ever made. He had been in dame school the day it had been
unveiled, and all the city’s students had been taken to view it, and
then given a week’s holiday, to impress on their memory that they
had seen something special. In spite of himself, he took a step
forward, and nearly collided with a student in a gargoyle grey
gown.
  “Sorry, sir, but no one’s allowed any closer.”
   “I’m sorry,” Rathe said. “Tell me, I was sent with a clock, to reset
it, where should I go?”
  The student rolled her eyes. “So was everyone, sir. Anywhere will
be all right, they’ll call the time once they know it.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe said, and moved away. It was true enough, he
saw. A number of the crowd, maybe one in ten, clutched case-clocks
or traveling dials, waiting patiently for the scholars to restore the
time. Some were servants from the nobles’ houses along the
Western Reach, but an equal number were from the city, guildfolk
and respectable traders, and Rathe shivered, thinking again of the
clocks chiming out of tune, out of order. Astreiant needed its clocks,
not just for telling the time of day, but for matching one’s actions to
the stars, and there were more and more trades in which that was
not just a useful addition, but a necessity. To be without clocks was
almost as bad as being without the stars themselves.
  At the center of the yard, the robed scholars were moving
through their stately choreography, lifting astrolabes and sighting
staffs and other instruments Rathe didn’t recognize. He could hear
their voices, too, but couldn’t make out the words, just the sonorous
roll of the phrases, punctuated by the occasional sweet tone of a
bell. Then at last a pair of scholars—senior magists, resplendent in
heavy gowns and gold chains and the heavy hoods that marked ten
years of study—lifted the great orrery, and another senior magist
solemnly adjusted first one set of rings, and then the next. It
seemed to take forever, but then at last she stepped away, and the
bell sounded again.
   “Quarter past one,” a voice cried, and the words were taken up
and repeated across the courtyard. Rathe allowed himself a sigh of
relief, and flipped open the clock case to turn the hands himself. He
closed it again, ready to head back to Point of Hopes, and heard a
familiar voice from among the scholars.
  “Nico!”
  He turned, to see b’Estorr pushing through the crowd toward
him. He was wearing his full academic regalia, a blue hood clasped
with the Starsmith’s star-and-anvil thrown over his shoulders, but
loosened the robe as he approached, revealing a plain shirt and
patched breeches.
  “Istre. That settles it, does it?”
  “Everything except why,” b’Estorr answered.
  Rathe sighed, but nodded. “Does anyone have any ideas?”
  “Not really, at least not yet. It may have something to do with
the starchange—there are a lot of odd phenomena associated with
it, and the Starsmith is closer this passage than last time.”
  b’Estorr shook his head again. “But there’s one thing you should
know, even if it’s not public knowledge.”
  “Oh?” Rathe could feel the night air chill on his face.
  “Our clock, the university clock. It struck then, too.”
  “What?” Rathe frowned. “I thought you said it was built to
withstand upheavals.”
  “It’s built to stand natural phenomena,” b’Estorr answered. “It’s
carefully crafted, well warded—half the gears are cast with
aurichalcum, for Dis’s sake—which worries me.”
  “I should think that was an understatement,” Rathe muttered,
and, to his surprise, b’Estorr grinned. The mage-lights were
returning, casting odd blue highlights in the necromancer’s fair
hair.
   “Yes, well, I agree. The masters and scholars are looking into it,
of course, but I thought at least one pointsman ought to know.”
  “Thanks.” Rathe shook his head. “I can’t help thinking about the
children. I’m not fond of coincidences, Istre.”
   “Neither am I,” b’Estorr answered. “I just don’t see how.” He
sighed and worked his shoulders, wincing. “Gods, I’m tired. But at
least the clocks can be reset now.”
  “That’s something,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded uncertain.
“You’ll let me know if there is a connection?”
  “Of course. If we find anything, I’ll let you know.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe said again, and touched the other man’s
shoulder, then started back toward Point of Hopes. At the gate to
the precinct, he looked back, to see b’Estorr still standing in the
mage-light, the gown hanging loose from his shoulders. The
necromancer looked tired, and unhappy; Rathe shook his head,
hoping it wasn’t an omen, and kept walking.
                                 7
                                                              «^»
eslingen set his diptych, Areton and Phoebe, on the altar table, and
placed the Hearthmistress’s candle in front of it, then turned to
survey the room. It was half again as large as his room at the Old
Brown Dog, and the furniture was better than anything he’d seen
since the glorious three days he and his troop had occupied an
abandoned manor house. That hadn’t lasted—they had been driven
back again on the fourth day, with casualties—and he shook the
thought away as ill-omened, touching first Areton and then Phoebe
in propitiation. It had been a good day so far, better than he’d had
any right to expect; there was no point in tempting the gods, or the
less pleasant fates. The magist, Denizard, had seemed pleased
enough by his answers to her questions—and he had been careful to
tell the truth in everything, though he’d shaded it a bit when it
came to Rathe. But it was absolutely true that he’d known the
pointsman for less than two weeks, and that Rathe had been partly
responsible for his losing his place at Devynck’s; the fact that,
despite everything, he rather liked the man hadn’t entered the
conversation, and most certainly he hadn’t mentioned Rathe’s
request. The truthstone hadn’t recognized his equivocation—and
how could it? he asked silently. Denizard hadn’t known enough to
ask the question that would uncover that link, and he had been
very careful in his answers. Besides, he was bound to tell Rathe
only if the missing children were involved, and Rathe himself didn’t
seem to think that was likely. Fooling Caiazzo might be a different
matter, even if the man was no magist, but so far the long-distance
trader hadn’t returned to the house.
  He glanced around the room again, his own meager belongings
looking small and rather shabby by contrast, and hoped he was
doing the right thing. At worst, it would be for a week, and at the
end of it he’d have two heirats—not much, he thought, but not
nothing, either. And, at best, it would be work he could do, and
decent pay, and conditions a good deal better than the Old Brown
Dog had offered.
  There was a knock at the door, and a woman came in without
waiting for his word. She was thin and stern-faced, and carried a
tray piled high with covered dishes. “Magist Denizard said you
hadn’t eaten,” she said, by way of greeting. “You can set the tray
outside when you’re done.”
  “Thank you,” Eslingen said, and gave her his best smile, but she
set the tray on the table and disappeared without responding. He
raised an eyebrow at the closing door—nothing could have made his
status more clear, on trial, not yet of the household—but lifted the
covers from the dishes. The food smelled good, onions and wine and
the ubiquitous Astreianter noodles, these long and thin and
drenched in a sauce of oil and a melange of herbs, and he realized
suddenly that he was hungry. He ate eagerly—Caiazzo’s cook was a
woman of real talent—but when he’d finished, found himself at
something of a loss. For a single bleak moment, he would have
given most of his savings to be back at Devynck’s arguing with
Adriana over the latest broadsheet, but made himself put that
thought firmly aside. That option had been closed to him since he’d
shot Paas Huviet—since the moment Devynck had put the pistol
into his hand, really, and there was no turning back. He carried the
tray to the door, and set it carefully outside, close to the wall.
   As he straightened, he heard a clock strike, and frowned, startled
that it was so late. An instant later, a second clock sounded, this
one within the house, its two-note chime oddly syncopated against
the rhythm of the distant tower clock. Other clocks were striking
now, too, and kept sounding, past what was reasonable. He counted
eleven, twelve, then thirteen and fourteen, and heard a voice shrill
from the end of the hall.
  “What in the name of all the gods—?”
  A second voice—Denizard’s, he thought—answered, “Be quiet,
and keep the others quiet, too.” The chiming stopped then, on a last
sour note as though a bell had cracked under the steady blows, and
the magist went on, “It’s over. Get back to the kitchen and keep
everybody calm, there’s no need to panic yet.”
  Eslingen saw the first woman drop a shaky curtsey, and
Denizard looked at him. “Good. Come on, Eslingen, Hanse will be
wanting us.”
   Eslingen reached behind him for his coat, and the long knife on
its narrow belt, and followed the magist down the long hall,
shrugging into his clothes as he went. Caiazzo himself was standing
at the top of the main stairway, scowling up at the house clock that
stood against the wall behind him. The hands, Eslingen saw,
declared it to be half past six, and he shivered in spite of himself.
  “What in all hells was that?” the trader demanded, and Denizard
spread her hands. She had flung her gown over chemise and skirts,
and Eslingen could see the hard line of her stays as the gown swung
open. Her grey-streaked hair hung loose over her shoulders, and
she shook it back impatiently.
  “I don’t know,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder, and
lowered her voice. “Not an earthquake, or lightning—”
  “That’s obvious,” Caiazzo snapped.
  “—which means some other sort of natural disturbance,” the
magist went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. “The starchange
means things are unsettled, but I’ve never heard of anything like
this.”
  “Wonderful,” Caiazzo said, and looked up at the clock. “So what
do we do now, magist?”
   Denizard sighed, drawing her gown closed around her. “Reassure
your people first, I think. Then send someone to the university, the
Great Clock there is unlikely to have gone out of tune, and even if
it has, they’ll be able to reset it from the stars. And then—I don’t
know, Hanse. Try to find out what happened, I suppose.”
  “And what do you think happened?” Caiazzo asked. His voice was
calmer now, and Denizard sighed again.
   “I’m only guessing, mind, my speciality isn’t astrology. But the
star-change means that the Starsmith is coming closer and closer to
the normal stars, and that means it has more and more influence
on them. It’s possible that its approach could upset the
clocks—they’re set to the ordinary stars, not the Starsmith.”
   “But if that’s what happened,” Caiazzo said, “why haven’t I heard
of anything like this before? The last starchange was in living
memory, surely something like this would’ve started stories.”
   “I don’t know,” Denizard said again. “The Starsmith will be
moving into the Charioteer, that’s a shared sign, one of the moon’s
signs, and it hasn’t done that for, oh, six hundred years. I don’t
think even the university has good records for that long ago.”
  Caiazzo muttered something under his breath. Eslingen smelled
smoke suddenly, strong and close at hand, and turned instantly to
the main door. Before he could reach it, however, it opened, and the
stocky man who’d been introduced as the household steward came
into the hall.
   “Sir. The neighbors are lighting balefires, and with your
permission, I’d like to have our people do the same. And there’s a
crier saying that the university is checking the proper time.”
   Caiazzo’s eyes flicked to Denizard, who shrugged, and then back
to the steward. “Go ahead. It’ll give them something to do besides
worry.”
  “Sir,” the steward said again, and started toward the kitchen.
  Caiazzo looked back at the magist. “As for you, Aice, take
Eslingen here and get over to the university. Take my travel clock,
and make sure we get the right time.”
  Denizard nodded. “You’ll want a clocksmith in for the big one,
though.”
  “Another damned expense,” Caiazzo muttered, and turned on his
heel and stalked away.
  Denizard looked at Eslingen, the corners of her mouth turning up
in a wry smile. “Well. You heard our orders. Let me dress, and we’ll
be on our way.”
   The streets were crowded, every crossroads filled with a
smouldering balefire, and the Manufactory Bridge was filled with
people heading northriver. Toward the university, Eslingen
guessed, and wasn’t surprised to see a bigger crowd gathered
outside the university gate. A number of them, he saw, carried
clocks of one kind or another: not surprising, he thought, and did
his best to help Denizard elbow her way to the gate. Most people
gave way before her magist’s gown, but the guard on duty at the
gate shook his head apologetically.
  “I’m sorry, magist, but you’ve come too late. The ceremony’s
started—almost finished, by the sound of it.”
   Even as he spoke, a bell sounded from inside the compound, a
high, sweet sound, and a voice called something. There was a noise
like a great sigh of relief, and another voice repeated the words.
  “Quarter past one!”
  “Quarter past one,” Denizard said, and nodded to the guard. She
turned away, shielding Caiazzo’s clock against her body, and
adjusted the mechanism. “Well, that finishes that.”
  “Does it?” Eslingen asked, involuntarily, and the magist gave him
a wry smile.
  “Probably not. But that’s all we can do about it now.”
  “I suppose.”
  “You have a better idea?” Denizard asked, but her smile cut the
hardness of her words.
  Eslingen smiled back, and shook his head. “No, I admit. But—I
just can’t say it feels right.”
  “No,” Denizard agreed. “We—you and I in particular, Eslingen—
will need to keep a careful eye on things for the next few days, I’d
say. This can’t be a good omen.”
   Eslingen nodded back, wondering again if he should ever have
accepted Rathe’s advice, and fell into step beside her, heading back
to Customs Point and Caiazzo’s house.
  Another servant, rounder-faced and more cheerful than the
woman who’d served him the night before, woke him with
breakfast and shaving water the next morning, and the news that
Caiazzo would want to see him sometime before noon. “He’ll send
for you, though,” she added, “so be ready.”
  “Do you know when—?” Eslingen asked, and left a suggestive
pause, hoping she’d fill in her name.
  The woman shook her head, as much to refuse the unspoken
question as in answer. “I’ve no idea, sir.”
  “Crushed again,” Eslingen murmured, just loud enough to be
heard, and thought her smile widened briefly. But then she was
gone, and he turned his attention to the business at hand. He was
still on sufferance, obviously, and would be for some time, especially
after the events of the night before; the household would be closing
ranks against outsiders. All he could do was tolerate the snubs, and
look for some way of proving his usefulness.
   One of the junior servants—a boy who could have been from
either the counting house or the kitchen; there was nothing to
betray his rank in the neat breeches and dull jerkin—came for him
as the house clock was striking ten. Eslingen, who had been
listening to the distant, musical notes, dragged himself away from
that further evidence of Caiazzo’s status, and gave his stock a last
quick tug before he followed the boy from the room. He was aware
of more signs of Caiazzo’s wealth as they moved from the servants’
quarters into the main house— panelling with spare, geometric
carvings, glass and silver on the side-boards in the main hall, wax
candles in every room—but schooled himself to impassivity. He
would lose nothing by seeming familiar with the trappings of
wealth, and gain nothing by sneering. Not, he added silently, that
there was much to sneer at. Caiazzo’s taste, at least in the public
rooms, was impeccable, even a little severe for a man who’d been
born a southriver bookbinder’s son.
   The boy led him up the front staircase, past a knot of clerks with
ledgers and a neatly dressed matron who looked torn between
anger and nervousness. The edges of her fingernails were rimmed
in black; the remains of paint, he thought at first, and then realized
it was ink. One of the printers Rathe had mentioned? he wondered,
but knew better than even to think of asking. Caiazzo’s workroom
was at the end of the gallery, overlooking the side alley and the
next-door garden, and as the boy tapped on the door and announced
him, Eslingen took that chance to make a brief survey of the room.
It was large, and well lit— only to be expected, for a man who made
a sizeable part of his living on paper—and the clerk’s counter that
ran the length of one wall was drifted with papers. There was a
worktable as well, neater, and a thin woman in a shade of red that
didn’t flatter her sallow complexion was flicking the last coins into
the hollows of a tallyboard. A status of Bonfortune stood in a niche
in the wall behind her, fresh flowers at its feet—propitiation,
Eslingen wondered, or just common caution? The magist Denizard
leaned against the opposite end of that table, her robe open over a
sharply cut skirt and bodice, and Caiazzo himself stood by the tall
windows, staring toward the masts that soared above the
housetops. He turned at the boy’s appearance, and nodded to the
woman in red.
  “All right, Vianey, that’s all for now. Bring me the full accounting
as soon as you have it.”
  “Of course,” the woman answered, sounding vaguely affronted,
but covered the board and swept out with it clutched to her breast.
  “So, Lieutenant Eslingen,” Caiazzo said, and took his place in the
carved chair behind the worktable. Eslingen, with a sudden rush of
insight, guessed that the trader rarely used it for work, but often
for interviews. “Devynck speaks well of you.”
  Decent, under the circumstances, Eslingen thought, but said
nothing, managed a half bow instead.
  “But you didn’t tell me you know one of my people,” Caiazzo went
on. “Dausset Cijntien works for one of my caravan-masters.”
  “Does he?” For a moment, Eslingen’s mind was as blank as his
face. “I knew he worked for a caravan, but not whose.”
  Caiazzo fixed black eyes on him for a moment longer, as though
wondering what else he would say, but Eslingen met his stare
squarely. He thought he saw the hint of a smile, of approval, flicker
across the trader’s face, but then it was gone. “Aice says the other
names you gave me speak well of you, too. I’m prepared, despite the
otherwise questionable provenance—”Caiazzo lifted a hand,
forestalling a comment Eslingen had not been about to make. “—a
recommendation from the points, and especially Adjunct Point
Rathe, isn’t always the best thing for a member of my
household—to put you on my books.” He smiled again, this time
more openly. “As I told you yesterday, I do need a knife, and one
who looks like a gentleman can only be an improvement over one
who thought he was.”
  “Thank you,” Eslingen said, though he wasn’t at all sure it was a
compliment.
  Caiazzo’s smile widened slightly, as though he’d guessed the
thought and rather enjoyed it. “Right, then—”
  He broke off as the door opened, and a harrassed-looking clerk
came in. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir, but Rouvalles is here,
and he insists on seeing you.”
   Caiazzo gave the statue of Bonfortune a reproachful glance, but
sighed. “Eslingen, you’ll stay. Show him in, Pradon.”
  The clerk bowed, and hurried away, closing the door again behind
her.
  “I’m not armed,” Eslingen said hastily, “bar my knife—”
   Caiazzo waved a dismissive hand. “It won’t come to that.” He
looked at Denizard, who straightened, hauling herself off the end of
the table. Eslingen hesitated, then took his place at Gaiazzo’s right.
The long-distance trader didn’t say anything, but Eslingen saw the
flicker of eyes that acknowledged his presence.
   The door opened again, and the clerk stood aside to let a tall,
neatly dressed man into the room. He was young, Eslingen realized
with some surprise, or at least young to be running Caiazzo’s
Silklands caravan, didn’t look any older than Eslingen himself. And
he was handsome, too, in a genial, good-fellow sort of way, an open
face and an easy smile beneath a ragged mane of wavy hair that
was just the color of bronze, but there was something in his pale
eyes than belied the easy manner. He checked slightly, seeing
Caiazzo in his chair, and Eslingen saw the blue eyes flick left and
right, taking in first Denizard and then himself.
  “Standing on ceremony, Hanse? You don’t need your knife
against me.”
  “I was in the process of hiring a new one,” Caiazzo answered,
“and I figured he might as well start now.” He nodded toward the
soldier. “This is Eslingen, served with Coindarel, and now of my
household. I understand one of your own men speaks highly of
him.”
  The caravan-master—Rouvalles, the clerk had called him,
Eslingen remembered—blinked. “One of them may, for all I know.
Who?”
  “Dausset Cijntien,” Denizard said.
  “Then you can ask him yourself, he’s below.”
  Caiazzo nodded thoughtfully. “So what was it you wanted,
Rouvalles?”
   The caravan-master took a deep breath. “Look, I wouldn’t have
come myself, except it’s getting late. We need to leave within the
week to make this season work, and I still have goods and supplies
to buy. I need coin, Hanse, and soon.”
  His voice had just the hint of a Chadroni accent, Eslingen
realized. He glanced at Caiazzo, but the long-distance trader’s
expression was little more than a mask.
  “You’ll have to wait,” he said, without inflection.
   Rouvalles’s eyes narrowed, and Eslingen caught a glimpse of the
cold steel beneath the good humor. Not surprising, he thought, and
I’d bet it serves him well both trading and on the road, but he’s not
a man I’d like to cross.
  “How long?” The caravan-master matched Caiazzo’s tone.
  “Two days.”
   Eslingen thought he heard a hint of relief beneath the projected
boredom, and glanced again at Caiazzo. Rathe had hinted that not
all of the long-distance trader’s businesses were legitimate, but the
caravan was public enough that it surely had to be—unless it was
the source of the coin that was problematic? There had been talk in
the kitchen the night before about a ship that had just come in…
He shook himself away from that line of thought, and concentrated
on the conversation at hand.
   Rouvalles hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, showing his
easy grin. “Right, we can wait that long, but we’re cutting it very
close this year, Hanse.”
  “I know it,” Caiazzo answered. “There’ve been some—unexpected
events.”
  “Like last night?”
  “Not like that.”
  “What I might call problems, then?” Rouvalles asked, almost
cheerfully, but his eyes didn’t match his tone.
  Caiazzo nodded once. “You probably would. But it’s nothing that’ll
affect you.”
  “No more than it already has,” Rouvalles answered.
  “Not seriously,” Caiazzo corrected. It looked for a moment as
though Rouvalles might protest, but Caiazzo fixed him with a stare,
and the younger man spread his hands in silent acceptance.
  “There’s one other thing,” Caiazzo went on. “Your troop-master,
Cijntien, you said he was here?”
  Rouvalles nodded, looking wary.
  “You said I could ask him myself,” Caiazzo said. “About Eslingen
here. Well, I want to.”
  “I’ll send him up,” Rouvalles answered, but Caiazzo shook his
head.
  “Aice can go.”
   The magist showed no sign of annoyance at being asked to do a
servant’s job, but slipped almost silently out the door. She returned
a few minutes later, Cijntien in tow. The troop-master looked
uneasy at being brought upstairs, Eslingen thought, with some
sympathy, but kept his own face expressionless.
  Caiazzo leaned back in his chair. “I understand you know
someone I’ve taken into my household.”
  Cijntien glanced toward Eslingen. “Philip?” he asked, and then
looked as though he wanted to recall the word. He looked instead at
Rouvalles, who nodded.
  “I guess you do, then. Go ahead.”
  The troop-master relaxed slightly. “I know Eslingen, yes, sir. I
served with him, oh, seven, eight years. He was a corporal, then a
sergeant under me.” He glanced again at Eslingen, then back at
Caiazzo. “He’s a good man.”
  “Reliable, or clever?” Caiazzo asked. He enjoyed the
awkwardness of the situation, Eslingen realized suddenly, not quite
out of malice, but more out of temper. Rouvalles had made him
uncomfortable; he was perfectly happy to visit the same discomfort
on everyone else in reach.
  “Both.” This time, Cijntien refused to look at his former
subordinate. “Clever enough to lead raiding parties—hells, he was
the man I’d pick first for that, over anyone else—but I’d trust him
at my side. Or my back.”
  “And that’s where it really counts,” Caiazzo murmured, and
looked at Rouvalles.
  “If Cijntien speaks well of him, you’re safe enough.” Rouvalles
smiled again, suddenly, with more than a hint of mischief in his
eyes. “After all, I’ve been trusting him with your business for two
years now.”
  And that, Eslingen thought, is a score for the Chadroni.
  “Right, then,” Caiazzo said. “Thank you, Cijntien. Rouvalles, I’ll
send word as soon as the coin is ready.”
  “I’ll expect to hear from you,” Rouvalles answered, with a nod,
and turned away before Caiazzo could dismiss him more explicitly.
The door closed again behind him and Cijntien, and Caiazzo looked
at Eslingen.
  “As you will have gathered, things are—complicated—for me at
the moment. I can’t afford not to investigate all the possibilities,
especially where my knife’s concerned.”
  It was, Eslingen realized with some surprise, a sort of apology.
He gave another half bow, and said, in his most neutral voice, “Of
course, sir.”
  Caiazzo studied him for a moment longer, as though wondering
what lay behind those words, then looked at Denizard. “Aice, get
him settled—find him decent rooms, some better clothes, make sure
he knows what’s expected of him. And send Vianey back in.”
  “Right,” Denizard answered, and gestured for Eslingen to precede
her from the room. He obeyed, wondering again just what Rathe
had landed him in.
  Over the next few days, he began to find a place for himself in
the household. No one mentioned the night of the clocks, not even
in whispers, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or nervous.
The university published an official explanation—the approach of
the Starsmith, it said, had caused the clocks, more attuned to the
ordinary stars, to slip momentarily out of gear—but few of
Caiazzo’s people seemed convinced. Nor, for that matter, were most
Astreianters, if the broadsheets were anything to go by, Eslingen
thought. They blamed evil magists—foreign, of course—and the
changes in society since the old queen’s day, and in general
anything else they could think of. One or two blamed whoever it
was who was stealing the children, or at least called it a
punishment or a warning to find the missing ones before worse
happened. That was something Eslingen could agree with
wholeheartedly, but he had little time for such matters. Caiazzo
required his presence at most meetings, including a second
encounter with the Chadroni caravan-master. There was no money
for him this time, either, and Eslingen was beginning to be certain
there was something very wrong. Clearly, Caiazzo had expected to
have cash in hand by now—even had the trader been inclined to
take that kind of advantage of his business partners, Rouvalles was
not the sort to put up with these delays for more than one
season—and Eslingen found himself wondering if Rathe had been
wrong after all, if the trader was involved with the child-thief. But
he could see no connection between a lack of funds and vanishing
children: if Caiazzo was involved, he decided finally, he would be
more likely to have coin in hand, not to be short of money. Still, he
found himself listening carefully to the dinner gossip—he was
eating with the rest of the middle servants now, the cook and the
steward and the chief clerk Vianey, though not Denizard— and
equally carefully to the sessions in Caiazzo’s counting room.
  On the fifth day of his employment, he was leaning against the
casement while Vianey droned through a list of expenses—mostly
relating to the upkeep of the house and boat—when a knock came
at the door. Caiazzo stopped pacing to glare in the direction of the
sound, and Denizard said, “Come in.”
  “I’m sorry, sir.” That was one of the male servants, a tall man
Eslingen knew only by sight. “But he insisted on seeing you.”
  He had a boy by the collar of a thoroughly disreputable jacket,
Eslingen realized, and the boy himself was even less prepossessing
than the clothes, a thin creature with a missing eye-tooth and the
first scattering of what promised to be a bumper crop of adolescent
pimples. Caiazzo eyed him with disfavor, but, to Eslingen’s
surprise, didn’t explode immediately.
 “I’ve a message for you, sir,” the boy said, and held out a
much-folded sheet of paper.
  Caiazzo crossed to him in a single stride, took the paper from him
and scanned it quickly, his frown deepening as he read. “Right.
Take him down to the kitchen, see if he wants anything to eat.
Aice, Eslingen, come with me.”
  The servant bowed—he had never loosed his hold on the boy—
and backed away, dragging the boy with him. Denizard frowned
too, looking more worried than Eslingen had ever seen, and reached
for the coat she had left over the back of a chair.
  “Where are we going?” Eslingen asked, and Caiazzo swung to
face him.
  “Does it matter?”
   “Yes.” Eslingen spread empty hands. “Your safety’s my business;
if you want me to do my job, I need to know where we’re going.
You’re not happy, but that could mean anything—we could be going
to your factor, or anywhere.”
  Reluctantly, Caiazzo smiled. “We’re not going to my factor, no.
I— have business, in the Court.”
  Eslingen blinked, but then managed the translation. Even in the
few weeks he’d spent in Astreiant, and especially these last few
days in Caiazzo’s house, he’d learned the difference between
business at court, business in the courts, and business in the Court.
And if it was the last… no wonder Caiazzo wanted his bodyguard
along, if he was visiting the Court of the Thirty-two Knives. He had
wheedled the story behind the name out of one of the maids—it had
been the base of a band of knives who had controlled most of the
southriver neighborhoods a century ago, and it had taken three
regiments of Royal Dragons to bring them down—and if even half
the stories about their descendants were true, Rathe’s and
Devynck’s warnings had been restrained. “I’ll fetch my pistol, then,”
he said aloud, and Caiazzo nodded.
  “Do that.”
  Denizard looked up sharply. “She won’t like that.”
  “Then she can come here, next time,” Caiazzo answered. “Get
your pistol, Eslingen, and hurry.”
  They went by river, for all it was a short journey, just to the
public landing north of Point of Graves. The city gallows stood
there, Eslingen knew, and wondered if it was for the pointsmen’s
convenience. He followed Caiazzo and Denizard through the
narrowing streets, aware of the curious and covetous looks, aware,
too, of the way women and men melted out of sight into doorways
and alley mouths. Warning someone? he wondered. Or themselves
warned off by Caiazzo’s presence? Caiazzo didn’t seem to see, but
when Eslingen looked closer, he could see a small line like a scar
twitching to the left of the trader’s mouth. He was still angry, and
Eslingen wondered again just what he was getting into.
  The streets narrowed further, walls springing up between the
buildings themselves, and Eslingen realized with a small shock that
they were in the Court proper. Once, generations ago, it might have
been some noble’s country house, back when the landames kept
their country houses on the south bank of the river, but it had long
since been broken up, first into merchants’ houses, and then into
tenements, until the shells of the once-elegant building had
acquired odd accretions, and rickety lean-tos propped up the
tottering stones of the walls. It would have been a bad place to
attack, Eslingen though, thinking of the other Royal Dragons,
would still be a bad place to attack, or to be attacked. He could feel
the weight of the pistol in the pocket of his coat, balanced by the
familiar drag of his sword, and was not fully reassured. They were
being watched, more closely than before, and he risked another
glance at Caiazzo. The trader’s mouth was set, but the scar was no
longer twitching, and Eslingen hoped that was a good sign.
  Caiazzo stopped at last in front of a low shopfront, low enough
that he had to bend his head to pass under the broad lintel.
Denizard followed without a backward glance, and Eslingen went in
after her, the skin between his shoulder blades prickling. If they
were attacked inside, the low doorway would make it very hard to
escape. To his surprise, however, the only visible occupant of the
shop was an old woman, neat in a black skirt and bodice, an
embroidered cap covering her grey hair. She sat on a high stool in
front of a writing board, ledger open in front of her, her feet not
quite touching the ground, fixed Caiazzo with an unblinking stare.
There were no goods on the counter, Eslingen realized, no
indication of what—if anything—this shop sold.
 “How’s business, dame?” Caiazzo asked, and tipped his head in
what was almost a bow.
  The old woman shook her head, closing the ledger, and hopped
down off her stool. Standing, her head barely reached to the
trader’s armpit, but Eslingen was not deceived. There would be a
bravo, probably more than one, within easy call, and the gods only
knew what other protection.
   “Well enough,” she said. “My business. But what about yours,
Hanselin? That’s less well, by all accounts. You bring not only your
left hand, you bring a new dagger with you, whom I’ve never seen
before. Do you feel the need of a dagger?”
  Caiazzo shrugged, the movement elegant beneath his dark coat.
“Times are uncertain.”
  The old woman looked far from convinced, but she nodded.
“Inside.” She turned without waiting for an answer, and pushed
through a door that had been almost invisible in the paneling.
Caiazzo made a face, but moved to follow. Eslingen put a hand on
his arm, all his nerves tingling now.
   “Permit me,” he said, and stepped in front of the trader to go
through the door behind the old woman. There was no shot, no hiss
of drawn steel, and he glanced around the narrow room, allowing
himself a small sigh of relief as he realized it was empty except for
a table and chairs.
  The old woman took her place at the head of the table, fixed
Eslingen with a dark stare. “Not what you expected, eh, knife?
Thought it would be more dangerous?”
  Eslingen blinked once, decided to risk an answer. “I see enough
danger right here, ma’am. I’ve been a soldier, I know what old
women can do.”
  Caiazzo shot him a warning glance, but the woman laughed. “I
dare say you do, soldier. I knew you were one, from your boots.”
  Caiazzo said, “No hurry, dame, but you said it was important.”
   The old woman looked at him. “That’s rude, Hanselin, and not
like you. Business must be bad.”
   “Business, in general, is well enough,” Caiazzo said, through
clenched teeth, “except for the one small thing that you know
about. Somewhere between here and the Ile’nord something’s
breaking down. If it’s here, dame, you’ve got problems.”
  The woman’s stare didn’t waver. “We both have the same
problem, Hanselin. Nothing has come in from the Ile’nord. Nothing.
Not coin, not goods, not word.”
  Caiazzo flung himself into the chair opposite her, swallowing an
oath. “It’s your business, too, dame. What’re you doing about it?”
  She raised an eyebrow, clearly getting close to the end of her
patience, and Eslingen saw Denizard tense fractionally. The old
woman merely folded her hands on the table top, and said, “The
same as you. I sent men north, a few weeks back, when you first
mentioned the problem to me. Yours or mine, one of them will find
out what’s keeping her, Hanselin. She owes us—forgive me, owes
you too much to be playing us foul like this. I expect one or both of
mine back within the next few days.”
  “Mine should be in soon, too,” Caiazzo said. “But the fair is well
underway. I have two seasons of trade to underwrite. Without that
gold, it could be a very cold winter, and I won’t be the only one
feeling the chill.”
  The old woman leaned forward, her hands flattening, palms
down, on the smooth wood. “Your knife is new, untested, and you
trust him with knowledge like this?”
   Eslingen felt his shoulder blades twitch again, wondering if
Caiazzo had blundered, and if he, Eslingen, was going to be the one
to answer for it. The trader barely glanced his way.
   “Oh, and am I so poor a judge of character? A fool who’s useful
for channeling the gold—forgive me, goods—we both need, but not
to be trusted in matters of my own business, my own household?”
With a single fluid movement, Caiazzo pulled a short, wide-bladed
knife from beneath his coat, and drove it into the table between
him and the old woman. She didn’t move, her eyes going first to the
knife and the new cut, the first, it made in the polished wood, and
then back to Caiazzo. “I know you, dame,” Caiazzo went on. “You’ve
still got the arm for it. If you can’t trust me, or worse, think I’m too
fatally stupid to be your associate in this, then do something about
it. Otherwise—”
   He let the word hang, and the old woman looked back at him,
cold eyes unchanging. Gods, the man’s mad, Eslingen thought, and
if it’s on his challenge, there’s damn all I can do. He slipped his
hand into the pocket of his coat, wrapping his fingers cautiously
around the butt of his pistol, and, out of the corner of his eye, he
saw Denizard’s hand close on the back of Caiazzo’s chair, the
knuckles white beneath the skin.
  The old woman reached out, jerked the knife free with an
expert’s hand, her expression still the same, and Eslingen thought,
gods, if she goes for his heart, I’ll go for hers, and we can sort it out
later. He tilted the pistol, still in his pocket, hoping the flint would
work in the confined space. It would be more likely to set his coat
on fire, if it fired at all, but there wasn’t room to draw his sword,
and his knife was no good at this range.
   “I’d forgotten,” she said at last, “that your mother was a binder.”
She laid the knife down flat on the table, and pushed it back across
to Caiazzo. “You’ve kept it well. She’d be pleased.” She looked at
Eslingen, and he let the pistol ease back into its place. “My
apologies if I touched your honor.” She leaned forward as Caiazzo
reached for his knife, placed her hand on his. “I do trust you,
Hanselin, as I would my own child. This business with the
Ile’nord…” She shook her head. “If I didn’t trust you, if I didn’t
trust your judgment and acumen—well, as you say, we wouldn’t be
doing business together. I’ll send word to you as soon as I hear
anything.”
  It was clearly a dismissal, and Eslingen glanced curiously at
Caiazzo. The trader rose, nodding. “And I’ll do the same. But you
know that’s of use only if they bring the gold.”
  “If they bring word only, Hanselin, your autumn ventures are
still safe. Your reputation is still more than sound. One way or
another, the money will be there for you.”
  “Yes, but…” Caiazzo gave a grim smile. “Then where will my
reputation be? I appreciate it, dame. I don’t want to take you up on
your offer.”
   “Nevertheless, it stands.” The old woman smiled back, widely this
time, and Eslingen shivered. The implication was clear enough even
to him: if Caiazzo failed, she would provide the capital, but at a
price.
   Caiazzo bowed again, his temper barely in check, and stalked
from the room. Eslingen followed hastily, and heard Denizard shut
the door again behind them. Caiazzo said nothing until they were
well clear of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, and had turned
onto the street that sloped down to the landing.
  “I bet it stands,” he said at last. “Nothing she’d like better than to
get that far inside my business. Well, it’s not going to happen—” He
broke off, head going back like a startled horse, black eyes fixing on
something beyond the landing. Eslingen reached automatically for
his pistol, and Caiazzo laughed aloud, looked up to the sky. “Gods,
Bonfortune, it’s about time the stars turned my way.”
  Eslingen looked again, and saw another caravel, larger than the
one he’d seen before, making its way cautiously up the river.
Caiazzo’s red and gold pennant flew from its mast, and the deck
was piled high with cargo.
  “Aurien, by the Good Counsellor,” Denizard said, sounding as
startled as the trader, and Caiazzo laughed again.
  “A half month early, thank Bonfortune, and heavy laden. We’ll
meet him, Aice, see what he’s brought me. You, Eslingen—” He
turned to face his knife, his whole expression suddenly alive and
excited. “Go to my counting house—do you know where it is?
Tailors’ Row, by the Red Style—tell Siramy and Noan to meet me
at the wharf. Then—” he grinned, gestured expansively, “take the
afternoon off.”
 “Yes, sir,” Eslingen said, and the trader hurried toward the
waiting boat.
   Eslingen watched him go, suddenly aware that he had been left
on his own at the edges of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, and
then, impatient, shook the thought away. The Tailors’ Row was
well clear of the Court, back toward Point of Sighs; he lifted a hand
to the boat, saw Denizard wave in return, and then turned west
toward the Tailors’ Row.
   It wasn’t a long walk to the counting house, a narrow,
three-story building tucked between two much larger warehouses.
He delivered his message to a clerk and then to Siramy herself,
watching her expression change from uncertainty to a delight that
hid—relief? He couldn’t be sure, and hid his own misgivings behind
an impassive face. Caiazzo was definitely short of coin, that much
was obvious, but why and what it meant was anybody’s
guess—except that it probably meant that the long-distance trader
was not involved with the missing children. Rathe had been right
about one thing: Caiazzo didn’t get involved with anything that
didn’t promise a hefty profit, and this venture with the old woman,
whatever it was, had certainly been intended to provide decent
funds. Except, of course, that it had clearly gone wrong. Eslingen
sighed, wondering if he should use his unexpected freedom to find
Rathe and let the pointsman know what had happened. There
would be less risk now than any other time, but he found himself
suddenly reluctant to betray Caiazzo’s interests. The man was
having enough troubles; the last thing Eslingen wanted to do was to
add to them. The two factors—and a harassed-looking clerk, arms
filled with tablets and a bound ledger—hurried past him toward the
river, and Eslingen turned toward the Rivermarket. Whatever else
he did, whether he contacted Rathe or not, he did have to buy some
new shirts. He could make his decision after he’d searched the
market for something decent.
   The Rivermarket was less crowded than it had been the other
times he’d ventured into its confines. Probably most people were
shopping at the Midsummer Fair, he thought, and hoped that would
mean he would be able to strike a few bargains with the
secondhand clothes dealers. There was a woman who claimed
contacts at the queen’s court, who swore that she had the pickings
of the landames’ cast-offs, and he threaded his way through the
confusion until he found her stall. The clothes, some good, some
much-mended or threadbare, good only for a seamstress to take a
pattern from it, were piled every which way on a crude trestle
table, watched by the woman and a beetle-browed man whose knife
was easily at the legal limit. He was dividing his attention between
the stock and a thin girl a little younger than apprentice-age, and
Eslingen wondered just which one he’d been hired to watch. The
man saw him looking, and frowned; Eslingen met the stare with a
bland smile, and began sorting through the piled clothes, pulling
out shirts. Most were too worn to be of use, though one still had a
modest band of lace at the collar and cuffs, and he set that one
aside to examine more closely later. The lace was good quality;
maybe, he thought, he could pick it loose and find a seamstress to
attach it to a different garment. He dug deeper into the pile, found
another shirt that looked almost new, and spread it out to check for
damage. The linen was barely worn, the only sign of its provenance
a ripped hem—and that, he thought, holding it up to gauge the size,
he could even mend himself. It would be large, but not unwearable,
and he bundled it with the other, bracing himself to haggle.
  “Eslingen!”
  It was Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen turned, not knowing whether
he was glad or sorry that the decision was taken out of his hands.
The pointsman had abandoned his jerkin and truncheon, was
wearing a plain half-coat open over shirt and trousers, and he
carried a basket loaded with what looked like the makings of a
decent dinner. Eslingen blinked at that—he had somehow assumed
that Rathe would have someone to do his housekeeping—and
nodded a greeting. “Rathe.”
  “I hope you’re doing well in your new employment,” Rathe went
on, the grey green eyes sweeping over the other man’s clothes and
the shirts he held in his hands.
  “Well enough,” Eslingen answered, and took a deep breath as the
stall-keeper moved toward them. “I need to talk to you, if you’ve got
the time.”
  Rathe nodded, without surprise. “Always. Can I buy you a drink?”
  “I’m not sure that would be fully politic,” Eslingen said, grimly,
and Rathe grinned.
  “Maybe not, at that. New clothes?”
  Eslingen nodded, and the stall-keeper said, “Those are from Her
Majesty’s own court, good clothes that’ll stand a second owner. And
they don’t come cheap.”
  Eslingen took a breath, irritated by the assumption, and Rathe
said, “From Her Majesty’s court, maybe, but by way of the other
Court.” He looked at Eslingen. “You wouldn’t credit the trouble we
have with laundry thieves.”
  Eslingen grinned, and the woman said, “That’s not true, or fair, I
get my goods legitimately and you know it.”
 “And charge court prices for clothes you bought from northriver
merchants,” Rathe answered.
 It seemed to be a standing argument. Eslingen said hastily, “How
much?”
  The woman darted a look at Rathe, then resolutely turned her
shoulder to him. “A snake and two seillings—and the lace alone is
worth that much.”
  It probably was, Eslingen admitted, but pretended to study the
shirts a second time.
  The woman crossed her arms. “That’s my only price, Leaguer.
Take it or leave it.”
  “I’ll take it,” Eslingen said, and fumbled in his pocket for the
necessary coins. The woman took them, and Eslingen folded the
shirts into a relatively discreet package. “Shall we?”
  Rathe nodded. “Where are you bound?”
  “I hadn’t decided. I was told to take the afternoon off.”
  “You should see the fair, then,” Rathe answered.
   “Actually, I had some business at Temple Fair,” Eslingen said.
“I’d like to see what the latest word is on the clocks.”
  “Bad, that.”
  “And what do the points say it was?” Eslingen asked.
  “The same as the university,” Rathe answered. “I’ll walk you to
the Hopes-point Bridge.”
  “Good enough,” Eslingen said, accepting the rebuff.
   They made their way through the market and climbed the gentle
slope to the Factors’ Walk in a surprisingly companionable silence.
At the base of the bridge, the Factors’ Walk ended in a paved
square where the low-flyers gathered between fares. In the summer
heat, the air smelled richly of manure and the sour tang of old feed,
but the fountain and trough at the center of the space was
surprisingly clean. Eslingen paused to scoop up a drink in his
cupped hands, disdaining the cup chained above the spigot, and
Rathe said, “So. You wanted to talk to me, you said.”
  Eslingen stopped himself from glancing around—there would
have been nothing more suspicious—and shook the water from his
palms. “Yes. I suppose so, anyway.”
  He stopped there, not knowing where to begin, and Rathe said,
“Anything on the children?”
   “No. And I doubt there will be.” Eslingen hesitated, resettling the
shirts under his arm. “Caiazzo’s having troubles, yes, but I don’t
think it has anything to do with the children—the opposite, in fact.”
Quickly, he went through the events of the past few days, from the
caravan-master’s visit to the meeting with the old woman to
Caiazzo’s relief at the arrival of the ship. “It seems to me,” he
finished, “that if Caiazzo was involved in all this, he’d have money
in hand, not be seeking it.”
  Rathe tipped his head to one side, eyes fixed on something in the
middle distance. “Unless the business, whatever it was, had gone
wrong somehow.” He broke off, shaking his head.
  Eslingen said, “If he’s acting for someone else, which I think he’d
have to be, from what I’ve heard, well, that someone would have to
be a fool, to keep Caiazzo short of coin. If nothing else, it draws
suspicion—as witness our conversation, pointsman.”
  Rathe grinned at that. “No, I daresay you’re right, Eslingen. I
wish to Sofia I knew what he was up to, though.”
  Eslingen shook his head in turn. “Oh, no, that’s not part of the
bargain. The children only, thank you, Rathe.” He smiled then. “I’m
starting to enjoy my work.”
  “I was afraid you would,” Rathe answered. “But, thanks,
Eslingen. I appreciate this much.”
  Eslingen shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. “It matters,” he
said. “These lads—” He broke off, shaking his head. “It matters,” he
said again, and turned away before the pointsman could say
anything more. He could feel Rathe’s gaze on him as he climbed the
steps to the bridge, but refused to look back. He had done as much
as he’d agreed to do; Rathe was repaid for his favor, and that was
an end to it.
Rathe watched him go, the blue coat soon lost among the brightly
dressed crowd on the bridge. He hoped the soldier was right—and
logically, he should be; if Caiazzo were involved, he should have
coin to spare, not be scrambling to outfit his caravans, or forced
into dealings with mysterious old women. Rathe had a shrewd idea
of who she was—Catarin Isart was a blood descendant of the Chief
of the Thirty-two Knives, and had long been rumored to have
dealings with Caiazzo—and he didn’t envy the long-distance trader
if ever she did get a finger into his business. But Isart would deal in
children if the price was right, and that meant, he acknowledged
silently, that a trip of his own to the court was in order. He had
contacts there, people he couldn’t quite call friends, but on whom he
could rely, at least up to a point. And for once the job in hand would
work to his advantage: no one, not even the sharpest of knives,
would dare, or want, to protect the child-thief. But first, he decided,
he would go back by Point of Hopes, and tell Monteia where he was
going. There was no point in taking chances with the court and its
denizens.
  It was late in the afternoon by the time he reached the court,
crossing the rickety bridge that spanned one of the nastier gutters
running down to the Sier. He let his blade show under his open
half-coat, knowing he was being watched, and knowing, too, that
the watchers would assume a second, hidden weapon, or maybe
more than one. He followed the main path through the warrens,
counting intersections, turned at the fifth, beneath a sign that had
once been a purple fish, but was now fading to an unlovely puce.
The building he was looking for stood three doors further on, its
door sagging from rusting hinges. It had been part of the original
mansion, but the stones were beginning to sag, the mortar
crumbling from between them, the frames of the windows and the
wooden sill starting to rot. He grimaced, thinking of the floor
beams, and stepped back to glance up to the second story windows.
A lantern stood in the center of the three, unlit but very visible, and
he smiled, and pushed open the main door. The stairs looked as
rotten as the window frames, though he knew at least some of the
dilapidation was designed to trap the unwary, and he stepped
carefully, testing each step before committing his weight to it.
Several of the boards creaked alarmingly, and one cracked sharply,
but he reached the second floor without mishap, and stepped onto a
landing that looked a good deal sturdier than anything else in the
building. There was only one door, but before he could raise his
hand to knock, it was pulled open. A woman stood there, leather
bodice laced over a sleeveless shift, skirts kilted to her knees. She
was holding a knife several inches longer than the one Rathe
carried, and he lifted his hands away from his side.
  “That’s not legal, that is,” he said. “How’s business, Mariell?”
  “You don’t want to know, pointsman, trust me.”
  “That good,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded bitter. “Is Mikael
in?”
  “Why?” Mariell’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not been working, you
know. Or have you come on a hire?”
  “I try to do my own dirty work,” Rathe said, mildly. “And I know
he hasn’t been working, but even if he had been, that’s not what
I’m here about.”
  “It’s all right, Mariell, let him in.”
   The speaker was a dark giant of a man, his face unexpectedly
ruddy under a thatch of coarse black hair, only his beard showing a
sprinkling of grey. Mariell stepped back, still frowning lightly, and
Rathe edged past her. The door was narrow, had had slats added to
it to make it narrower, and he couldn’t help wondering how Mikael
himself got in and out of it.
  Mikael smiled, genial, looking for all the world like a
guild-master well satisfied with life—as well he might, Rathe
thought. Mikael was at the top of his profession, and Rathe was
irresistibly reminded of Mailet. The butcher was clearly a man of
choleric nature who was good with a knife, whose stars had steered
him to a peaceable profession. Mikael was a good-natured man who
also happened to be very good with a knife, whose stars had led him
to a less peaceful life, sometimes as bodyguard or bravo, sometimes
as a killer.
  “So, Nico. What brings you this far in? Business?” Mikael seated
himself in a barrel chair by the open window, gestured for Rathe to
take the stool opposite. The air was a little fresher up here, and
there were herbs scattered along the floor and hanging from the
rafters. Rathe recognized one of the hanging bunches as
woundwort, and for a moment was dizzied by the thought of Mikael
as physician as well as executioner. Well, he thought, why not. In
the Court, it made as much sense as anything.
  “Business of a sort,” he answered.
  “Blaming us for the clock-night, probably,” Mariell said.
   Mikael ignored her and held up a sweating stone pitcher in silent
offer. Rathe nodded. Mariell made a disgusted noise, and
disappeared into an inner room, slamming the door behind her.
   Mikael shook his head, but said nothing, picked up a mug and
filled it, handing it to Rathe.
  Rathe decided not to pursue the issue. “Who’s good these days?”
he asked, and nodded toward the wine jug.
  Mikael made a face. “Piss poor most of it is, I tell you, but Harin
has gotten in a couple hogsheads that I’m not embarrassed to drink,
and she’s not embarrassed to sell. It’s all been piss poor even since
old Grien died.”
  “Did Grien die?” Rathe asked, all innocence. “All I’d heard was
that she’d disappeared, and young Grien took off for parts
unknown. Good thing Harin stepped into the breach.”
  “Yes, wasn’t it?” Mikael replied, equally bland. “So, what sort of
business?”
  Which meant Mikael had had enough of that topic. Rathe leaned
back, balancing awkwardly on the stool, not particularly reassured
by the weight of the knife at his side. “The city’s strange these
days, Mikael. You must have felt it. You been working more or less
than usual?”
  “What kind of question is that for a working man, Nico?” Mikael
demanded, and Rathe spread his hands.
  “Off the books, Mikael, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going
on these days. Kids disappearing…”
  “And you only take notice because they’re merchants’ spawn,
don’t you?” The tone was less angry than the words, almost a token
protest.
  Rathe sighed. “That’s not fair, Mikael. You have to admit, this is
something outside the ordinary. The Quentiers were telling me
they’d lost a—prentice, I guess you’d call him.”
  Mikael’s lips twisted beneath the beard. “Bet they didn’t go to the
points, did they?”
  “Well, they told me, and I’ve added it to my books.” Rathe
matched the other man’s half smile. “Unofficially, of course, Estel
wouldn’t thank me if I made it official. But that’s not all of it.
Caiazzo is more than commonly edgy these days. I mean, we all
know he’s not the most serene individual, but he’s close to the edge.
And that’s bad for business, Mikael.”
  Mikael’s eyes narrowed, and Rathe knew the other man had
taken his oblique meaning. “You’ve been trying to close Caiazzo
down for, what, five years now, Nico?” the knife said at last, and
Rathe shrugged.
  “Sure. But the fact of the matter is, his business keeps the peace
along much of the southriver and in the outer Court.”
 “His and Dame Isart’s,” Mikael corrected automatically. Rathe
met his stare, and it was the big man who looked away first.
  “What is it you really want to know, Nico?”
  “Just what I said, really,” Rathe answered. “What’s going on with
Hanse? Things aren’t right with him, and he’s letting it show. Have
you done any work for him this summer?”
  Mikael shook his head. “All right, Nico, and this I’ll give you for
free. No, I haven’t worked for him this summer, and that’s not
usual, not through the fair. He usually hires me on to keep an eye
on things for a couple of his merchants who come in for the fair.
And there’s a banker you might know, Dezir Chevassu, changes a
lot of Hanse’s money as it comes in and out. Usually that’s good for
two weeks solid hire, and not too much heavy work, there never is
with bankers, not really. This year…” He gestured, showing empty
palms. “Nothing. Not a damned thing. He hasn’t even told me he
won’t be needing my services, and you know Hanse, polite to the
last, or if you’ve offended him, you don’t know it until it’s too late.”
  “Yes, but who could he hire to finish you, Mikael?” Rathe asked.
“How many takers do you think there’d be for a job like that?”
  Mikael favored the younger man with a smile that was almost
indulgent. “And how many young hotheads do you have in the
points, Nico? Idiots who should know that a job is suicide, but see it
as their way of proving themselves? No, there are plenty of people
who’d try to hit Mikael, if Caiazzo wanted to hire someone, I can
give you the names of half a dozen. But he hasn’t. And he hasn’t
given me the brush. Just—nothing. And that’s not normal.” He
paused then, the animation draining from his face, and Rathe
guessed he was thinking of the children, making the same
unwelcome connections that Rathe himself had been making. “Go
see Chevassu,” Mikael said at last. “She might have some answers
for you. Truth be, told, I think Hanse took more than a little
business away from her. She used to have some interests as a
merchant-venturer.”
  “So is she now a resident?” Rathe asked, and Mikael shook his
head.
  “Chevassu favors the money side of things. She’s solely banking
and exchange these days.”
  Rathe set his empty cup on the table—ruddywood inlaid with
white stone, a pretty piece of work, and probably good to have at
hand in a brawl. He wondered if Mikael had liberated it from one of
the locals. “I’ll do that,” he said, and stood slowly. Mikael didn’t
favor sudden movements. “I assume this Chevassu isn’t located in
the Court.”
   Mikael snorted. “Not likely. Chevassu lives well north of the
river—further north than most of her clients. And that argues a
lack of diplomacy, to my mind. You’ll find her in the Chancery
district, on the Temple Road. Or at the Heironeia, during business
hours. And, Nico.” He fixed the younger man with a sudden, baleful
stare. “If Hanse is involved in the child-stealing, I expect you’ll let
me know. He’s a good employer, but this—this is bad, bad business,
bad for business. I don’t like it.”
  Rathe met the stare squarely. “If he is involved—and I don’t have
any real reason to think he is, Mikael, I’m clutching straws
here—then he’s mine. This is a points matter.”
  “Unless I get there first,” Mikael answered.
  Rathe nodded slowly, acknowledging what he couldn’t prevent.
“But I’ll do my best to stop you. I want this one very badly, Mikael.
Just so you know.”
  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Mikael said, and opened the narrow door.
  Rathe made his way back toward Point of Hopes, his mood
hovering vaguely between satisfaction and guilt. Mikael had spoken
honestly, for once, and that was good, but Rathe wished it hadn’t
been at the price of spreading suspicion against Caiazzo. He sighed
then. Worse than that was the nagging fear that the surintendant
might be right after all.
   Chevassu lived in Manufactory Point—well northriver, as Mikael
had said, but not as undiplomatic a choice as the knife had implied.
It was a good neighborhood, but not old; for a woman who’d almost
certainly been born southriver, it was a wise choice. The adjunct
point at Manufactory was a woman named Talairan, small, with a
deceptively lazy air. Rathe had seen her crack skulls once, during
an ugly guild fight, and was not deceived. She grinned up at him as
he came into the station, and jerked her head toward a side room.
Rathe nodded, relieved—he wasn’t particularly fond of Huyser,
Manufactory’s chief point—and followed her into the narrow
workroom. She closed the door firmly behind him, and perched on
the end of the bare table.
   “What in all hells is going on southriver, anyway, Rathe? One
riot, one near riot, and a man shot dead in the street? And before
the clocks, so there’s no excuse.”
  “That was self-defense,” Rathe said, automatically, and Talairan
shook her head.
  “Sounds like you’re having a rare old time down there.”
  “Nothing we’d like more than to share it with you,” Rathe said
dryly. “You telling me it’s all peace and tranquility here?”
  Talairan’s mouth twitched. “Hardly. Not only are these missing
kids not in the manufactories, no matter what they think
southriver, we’ve lost some of the ones that are supposed to be
working there. Now, some of them are just runaways—and I can’t
fully blame them, not from most of those places, it’s not like they’re
learning a trade. My feeling is, the older ones are thinking, well, if I
get caught, I can always blame it on the child-thieves.”
  Rathe nodded, not surprised. The manufactories weren’t the
worst places to work in the city, but they weren’t the best, and they
lacked the community of the guild system, and room for
advancement. A chairmaker there would make chairs all her life;
an apprentice carpenter had at least some faint chance of becoming
a master, though that, too, was changing. “I’ve a question for you,”
he said, and saw Talairan’s gaze sharpen.
  “About the children?”
  “I don’t know yet. I don’t think so. But the sur thinks possibly.”
  Talairan lifted an eyebrow. “You’re flying high these days, my
son. All right, try it on.”
  Rathe nodded, and took a breath, wondering precisely how to
phrase his questions. “There’s a banker lives hereabout, name of
Chevassu. Know her?”
   Talairan laughed. “Sure I know her. I keep my beady eye on her,
seeing as I’m sure she shaves the rate of exchange the way her
lessers shave coins. Last I heard, though, bankers were hardly the
most likely suspects.”
  “Tell me about her,” Rathe said.
  Talairan blew air from puffed cheeks. “Where to begin? She’s a
respected woman hereabouts, the question is how she got that
respectable—seeing as she came from southriver.” Rathe nodded,
unsurprised, and Talairan went on, “Rumor has it she has partial
interest in a couple of the better class houses over in Hearts, which
is where her own coin comes from, and, of course, they say she
banks for folk in the Court—not the queen’s—and the ’Serry and
the Old Crossing. Why?”
  Rathe ignored the question. “Is she a fence?”
  “No. Or not anymore. Like I said, my main concern is how she
juggles her books and with whom.” She fixed him with a sudden
glare. “I would take it very badly, Rathe, if you were going after
her on my ground.”
  Rathe shook his head. “No—my word on it, Tal. It’s just… well,
you mentioned court connections. I hear they’re with Caiazzo,
probably legal enough, and I’ve some questions for her. That’s all.”
  Talairan nodded, appeased. “I’ve been hearing some very odd talk
about him, trickling up from Fairs’ Point. Business problems, I
heard. Is there a connection with the children?”
  “I don’t know—I didn’t think so, still don’t, really. But there’s no
denying there’s something wrong there.”
  “He’s never dealt in human flesh,” Talairan said, doubtfully, “and
especially not children.”
 Rathe nodded, ran a hand through already disheveled hair. “Tell
me about it. But I don’t like the coincidence, what pointsman does?”
 “A lazy one,” Talairan answered, and jerked her head toward the
wall she shared with Huyser’s office.
  Rathe smiled, but wryly. “So I need to look into it.”
  “Caiazzo’s rightfully Customs Point’s concern.”
  “Customs Point,” Rathe said, enunciating each syllable with acid
precision, “thinks Hanselin Caiazzo is an honest businessman and a
boon to the district.”
  Talairan stared at him. “They said that?”
  “They’ve said it,” Rathe said grimly.
  She whistled softly. “His fees must be powerful.”
  “So they tell me. Thanks for your help, Tal.”
  “You’re welcome, for what it was worth. I’ll ask for the return of
the favor some day.”
  “I don’t doubt you will,” Rathe answered, and let himself out.
  Despite what Mikael had said, Chevassu was not at the
Heironeia. Swearing under his breath, Rathe retraced his steps,
threaded his way through Manufactory’s crowded streets to the
banker’s house. It was an expensive-looking place, but at second
glance he could see that the glass in the upper windows was of
distinctly lesser quality, and the stone of the facade was not
matched on the sides. Monetary difficulties? he wondered, as he
tugged the heavy chain of the bell, or just southriver practicality?
The door opened after only a moderate wait, and a tall, greying
man in footman’s livery looked down at him. The discrepancies
between facade and sides were just practicality, Rathe decided,
looking at the quality of the linen and the metal braid that guarded
every seam of the man’s narrow coat. If she could afford to dress
her servants like that, she could afford good glass if she wanted it.
  The footman opened his mouth—to direct him to the trades door,
Rathe was sure—and Rathe cut him off with a smile that showed
teeth. “Adjunct Point Rathe from Point of Hopes. They told me at
the Heironeia that Madame Chevassu’s here.”
  “Point of Hopes?” The man was visibly startled, but recovered
himself quickly. “We’re in Manufactory Point—”
  Rathe shook his head, and the man stopped.
  “May I ask your business?”
   “You may not,” Rathe answered, pleasantly. “Just tell Chevassu
that I’d like to speak to her, please. I don’t think she’d refuse.” He
let the words hang.
   For a moment, it looked as though the footman would protest
further, but then southriver habits took over, and he stepped back
from the doorway. Rathe followed him in, as always a little annoyed
by his own methods. It was bad enough to use a woman’s past
against her, worse when it was the same as his own—and worst of
all when it made him into a bully.
  “Wait here,” the footman said, and disappeared up the main
staircase. He was back a moment later, and paused disdainfully at
the top of the stairs.
  “Madame will see you now.”
   Rathe nodded, and climbed to join him, the wood of the railing
warm under his hand. The house smelled expensive, herbs and wax;
the furnishings were good, obviously chosen by someone with an
eye for quality, and he revised his opinion of Chevassu’s fortunes
once again. If she needed funds, all she would have to do was sell
one or two of the tapestries that adorned her upper hall—so what,
he wondered silently, is Caiazzo up to, that he doesn’t just borrow
from her?
  “Pointsman Rathe, madame,” the footman said, flinging open a
painted door. “Point of Hopes.” He stressed the last word, and
Rathe couldn’t repress a grin of his own.
  “Adjunct Point, actually, madame,” he said, and stepped past the
man into Chevassu’s workroom. It was a cluttered place, full of
good furniture and better paintings, and the fittings on table and
sideboard were all of silver. “I appreciate your seeing me.”
   Chevassu was easily sixty, maybe older, her hair a grey
somewhere between iron and silver. Her skin was the color of very
old ivory, and her eyes were the palest blue Rathe had even seen,
barely darker than the ice blue silk of her gown. She didn’t rise
from behind her table, but gestured for Rathe to take one of the
fragile chairs instead. It was a nice balance of courtesy and status,
Rathe reflected, and perched carefully on the carved and gilded
seat. It creaked under his weight, but he thought it was stronger
than it looked.
  “I’ll be blunt, I’m curious what Point of Hopes wants with me,”
Chevassu answered. She wore no paint, either on hands or face,
and her skin was crisscrossed with a web of fine lines, like soft and
crumpled paper. “I’ve done no business there these past, sweet
Heira, seven years. Do you tell me my past has come back to haunt
me?”
  “I’m more interested in your present, madame, and I’ll say
straight out it’s nothing to do with Point of Hopes,” Rathe
answered. He watched her closely as he spoke, but saw no change
in her calm expression. “I understand you handle the exchange for
Hanselin Caiazzo.”
   “I have done,” she answered, and Rathe tilted his head to one
side.
  “But not this year?”
  “I fail to see why I should tell you—” Chevassu began, sounding
almost indulgent, and Rathe lifted a hand.
  “Bear with me a moment, madame. You know what’s been
happening in Astreiant this summer, you know why we in the
points are looking sideways at anything out of the ordinary. And
you also know that Caiazzo’s dealings, business and otherwise, have
not been exactly ordinary. I understand, you do business with him,
you wouldn’t want to jeopardize that, and I wouldn’t ask you to—in
the normal way of things. But things are not normal.”
  “Are you accusing Caiazzo of being behind these child-thefts?”
Chevassu demanded. She sounded, Rathe thought, almost more
outraged by that than by anything else he’d said.
  “I don’t know,” he answered, bluntly. “But there are people who
do think so, and I’m duty bound to make sure he’s not.”
  Chevassu tipped her head back, bringing him into the far-sighted
focus of the old. “Off the books, pointsman?”
  “As far as I’m able.”
  She studied him for a moment longer, expression thoughtful,
then nodded. “I’ll take the chance. Hanselin Caiazzo’s not one to
deal in these goods. Let me tell you a little bit about him.” It was
the tone a grandmother used to begin a story on a winter-eve, and
Rathe smiled back at her, not the least deceived.
   “Hanselin is one of the canniest and most intelligent businessmen
I’ve worked with, not excepting his mother, who was as canny as
they come. The two don’t always go together, but Hanselin—ah, he
has both, in roughly equal portion, and what I wouldn’t give to see
a copy of his nativity.”
  So would I, Rathe thought. He knew almost nothing of the
trader’s stars, he realized, with some surprise, not even the major
signs of his birth.
  “It’s not the usual nativity of a long-distance trader, I would
wager,” Chevassu went on, “and it’s equally not your usual
southriver knife’s, however much he likes walking that line. How
many questionable businesses do you think he fees, either the
whole or in part, here in Astreiant?”
  She seemed to expect an answer, and Rathe shrugged. “I’ve lost
count, but then, I have a suspicious mind.”
  She gave him an approving nod, as though he’d passed some test.
“You probably do, it’s a hazard of your profession, and I’m not
surprised you’ve lost count, because it changes year to year. He
keeps the money moving in and out and that keeps
his—associates—on their toes, and that keeps them all the safer.
But there’s always been one thing that puzzles all of us. For all he’s
a shrewd judge of the chance, and a hard man for a bargain, he’s
had more coin than he ought for the past several years. Oh, the
Silklands caravan is well managed, extremely well managed
indeed, and that pays well and in coin, but he’s always had more to
hand than he reasonably should have, coin that’s not tied up in
goods until he chooses to spend it. Now, here it is, time for him to
be changing monies, setting his Silklands caravan on the road,
outfitting his ships… and things have been very quiet from
Customs Point this year. Aurien’s caravel coming in, that was luck,
but it hasn’t helped. So, Caiazzo’s problem is a money problem,
pointsman, and one that has roots years back. Whatever’s wrong
can’t have anything to do with the children, but it could get him
into serious trouble, in and out of the court. Which I would surely
hate to see.” She smiled. “And now you’re wondering why I’d tell
you this much.”
  Rathe blinked. “Frankly, yes.”
  Her smile widened. “Hanselin has a nice hand in his business, a
subtle hand. There are people who would like to take his place
whom I would very much dislike dealing with. Which is why this
old woman has been rambling on at you, pointsman, and you’re
very kind to listen to her.”
  Rathe blinked again, a kind of awe filling him. She had told him
everything he could have thought to ask, and never once had
directly implicated herself or anyone. “Not at all, madame, it’s been
my pleasure to listen to you ramble.”
  “Because that’s all it is, of course, pointsman.”
  Rathe’s eyes met hers, his expression as ingenuous as her own.
He’d agreed to keep it off the books; she could and would deny ever
having said any of this, if he were foolish enough to try to make a
points matter of it. But he did believe her—if nothing else, it fit in
too well with what Eslingen had said. Caiazzo was having
problems, and with something that had worked well in the past.
And that argued that he didn’t have anything to do with the
missing children: the two events just didn’t fit. In other times, the
sources of his coin might be Rathe’s concern, but at the moment, he
could leave that to Customs Point, and concentrate on the children.
“Of course, madame. And I thank you for letting me take up so
much of your time. You must be very busy.”
   She sighed, and lifted an enameled bell that stood beside the
silver inkwell. “I could be busier, and hope to be so soon. My man
will see you out.”
  The door opened, and the footman loomed in the doorway. Rathe
nodded politely to Chevassu—almost a bow—and followed the
servant out.
Caiazzo’s temper had improved markedly since the arrival of
Aurien’s caravel, and for the first time, Eslingen began to
understand why the long-distance trader’s household was so fiercely
loyal to their employer. With the immediate problems somewhat
relieved, Caiazzo relaxed, showing a deft awareness of his people
that surprised and, unexpectedly, charmed the soldier. The
household relaxed, too, as the night of the clocks receded without
further consequence, and Eslingen found himself made cautiously
welcome.
  “You’ve done well, settling in,” Denizard said, as they climbed
together toward Caiazzo’s workroom.
  Eslingen shrugged. “I’m not ungrateful, but I’m also not unaware
that at least some of them think I’m good luck. And that’s a chancy
reputation.”
  Denizard grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about Azemar, she’d follow
every broadsheet astrologer in the city if she could just figure out
how to do it all at once. No, seriously, you’ve done well. I think
Hanse will want to keep you on, if you’re willing.”
  Eslingen hesitated. Now that it had come to an offer, he found
himself surprisingly reluctant, but then he shook the thought away,
impatient with himself. This was the best place he’d had, not
excepting his post with Coindarel, and he’d be a fool to turn it
down, particularly when he couldn’t have put a name to the
reluctance. “Thanks,” he said. “I—it’s a good place, I’d be glad to
stay.”
  “Good—” Denizard broke off as the door to the counting room
snapped open, and Caiazzo himself stood framed in the doorway.
   “Oh, there you are. Good. Eslingen, I want you to go to the fair,
to the caravan-masters, and tell Rouvalles he can send for his coin
tomorrow—any time after second sunrise, tell him. And you can
make reasonable apologies for me, but don’t give him any
explanations.”
  “Sir,” Eslingen said.
  “After that—” He rolled his eyes at Denizard. “After that, meet
me at the public landing at the northriver end of the Manufactory—
the Point of Graves—Bridge. You’re in for a treat, Eslingen, we’re
going to see my merchant resident.”
  “Sir?” Eslingen said again, and immediately wished he’d left the
question unasked.
  Caiazzo’s grin widened. “Oh, you’ll like Madame Allyns, Eslingen,
and, more to the point, she’ll certainly like you.” He glanced over
his shoulder at the standing clock. “Be there by noon, that should
give you enough time with Rouvalles.”
  The dismissal was obvious. “Sir,” Eslingen said, for the third
time, and took himself off.
  The fair was in full swing at last, and Eslingen wasn’t sorry to
have an excuse to explore its byways. The older members of the
household grumbled that this fair was a shadow of its usual self,
that the commons of Astreiant were too busy looking over their
shoulders and keeping a hand firmly on their children to loose their
purse strings, but for Eslingen the rows of stalls—some of them
easily as big as an ordinary shop-front, and as well stocked—were
an almost magical experience. He had been to the various fairs of
Esling as a boy, and once to the Crossroads Fair held at the autumn
balance outside Galhac, south of the Chadroni Gap, but none of
them compared with this display of goods. He took a roundabout
road to the corrals on the eastern edge of the fairground, dizzying
himself with the scent of spices from the Silklands and the strange,
musky ambers and crystal flowers from the petty kingdoms north
and west of Chadron. They lay in baskets and shallow dishes on
every counter, and the suns’ light sent the pungent odors skyward.
Between the drapers and the dyers, he nearly walked into a
black-robed astrologer, orrery out as he spoke to a girl in an
apprentice’s blue coat. Eslingen murmured an apology, but the
astrologer had already turned away, pocketing his orrery, and faded
into the crowd.
   “Hey,” the girl called, but he was already almost out of sight. She
swore and started after him. Eslingen blinked, startled—what had
the man been promising her, to run so fast—but shrugged the
thought away. The leathersellers’ alley was too crowded to
pass—Astreiant was noted for its leatherwork, but bought most of
its hides from the League—and he skirted the mob of masters, each
with her train of apprentices and journeymen. Handcarts trundled
between the stalls and the river, hides in various stages of
preparation stacked so high that the sweating laborers could barely
see the path in front of them. Eslingen kept a wary eye out, and
wasn’t sorry to reach the end of that section.
   The caravan-masters, by a commonsense tradition, had the two
rows of stalls on the eastern edge of the fairground, by the corrals
where they and their people lived for the duration of the fair.
Someone had set up an altar to Bonfortune at the southern end of
the makeshift street, and the smiling statue was draped with
flower wreaths and printed offering-slips. The ground at its feet
was dark, sticky with spilled wine and shreds of rice and noodles:
the caravaners were impartial in their allegiances, and in their
methods of worship.
  Caiazzo’s booth—another small shop, really, with a bright blue
canvas roof over half-height wooden walls—lay closer to the
western end of the street, marked by the pennants with his
house-sign hanging from the tent poles. Eslingen waited until the
factor had finished with her customer, a stocky woman in plain
brown who clutched a letter, credit or introduction, in one painted
hand, before he stepped up to the counter. It was padded with
leather to protect the bolts of silk brocade and silk velvet from the
rough wood. There was silk gauze as well, a length embroidered
and re-embroidered with gold and pearls; he reached out to touch it,
in spite of knowing better, and winced as his fingers caught on the
delicate fabric. A bolt of this was worth a common man’s salary for
years, and the nobles who bought it paid in gold; he was not
surprised to see a solid-looking man watching him from the
shadows inside the stall.
 “Can I help you, sir?” the factor said, and blinked. “You’re
Hanse’s new knife, aren’t you? Trouble?”
  Eslingen shook his head. “No trouble, and yes, I’m Eslingen. I
have a message for Rouvalles, if he’s here.”
 “He’s back at the corrals,” the factor answered. “Do you know the
way?”
  “No, but I can probably find it,” Eslingen answered.
  The factor grinned. “You can’t miss his camp, it’s got the house
pennants all over it. We use the fourth corral—it’s almost directly
behind where we are now—and Rouvalles has the stable beyond
that.”
  “It sounds simple enough,” Eslingen said, dubious, and the
factor’s smile widened.
  “Look for the house pennants,” she advised, and turned to greet a
tall woman in a beautifully cut bodice and skirt.
  Eslingen sighed, but knew better than to come between her and a
potential customer, especially one as well dressed as this woman.
He found a path between two of the stalls that seemed to be in
general use, and emerged into the confusion of the corrals. There
were five of the wood and stone enclosures, each one filled with
horses; the low buildings beyond, clearly built as stables, seemed to
be being shared impartially by people and animals. The air was
hazed with dust, and a thicker plume of it rose over the furthest
pen, where a trio stripped to shirts and breeches were attempting
to cut a single animal out of the herd. The horses, each one marked
by a ribbon braided into its mane, snorted and swirled, unwilling to
be caught; Eslingen snorted himself—he would never had let his
troopers handle their mounts that badly—and made his way toward
Caiazzo’s pennant hanging above a stable door.
   The stalls in that section seemed to be occupied exclusively by
horses, and Eslingen nodded his approval even as he glanced around
for someone who could direct him. Rouvalles was wise to keep his
horses out of the common herd; you never knew how well anyone
else kept their animals, and the last thing you needed was to have
your best mounts down sick when you were ready to move out. A
skinny man was mucking out the furthest stall, and Eslingen
moved toward him, inhaling the familiar scent of hay and dung.
  “I’m looking for Rouvalles,” he said, raising his voice a little to be
heard over the noise outside.
  The skinny man straightened, showing a wall eye that made him
look rather like the horse he was tending, and jerked his thumb
over his shoulder. “Above.”
   Looking more closely, Eslingen could see the stones of a steep
stairway set into the wall at the end of the building. “Thanks,” he
said, and climbed to the floor above. The space had obviously once
been intended for hay storage, and indeed the broad boards were
still scattered with bits of straw, but at the moment it had been
turned into an indoor campsite. Bedding was piled in neat rows
along each wall, beneath windows propped open to the fitful breeze,
and carpets hung from a web of ropes at the far end of the space,
creating a makeshift room. A group of four or five men, mostly
Chenedolliste, by their looks, were sitting around an unlit brazier,
tossing dice on its flat cover. The nearest stood easily, seeing
Eslingen, and stepped into his path.
  “Can I help you?” he asked, around a stick of the sugar-candy the
Astreianters sold ten-for-a-demming, and Eslingen lifted the badge
he wore on a ribbon around his neck.
  “I’m here to see Rouvalles,” Eslingen said, patiently. “From
Caiazzo.”
   The man scowled around his candy, and Eslingen wondered just
how much bad feeling the delay had engendered. “I’ll see if he’s
free,” he said, and ducked under the carpets without waiting for an
answer. He reappeared a moment later, scowling even more deeply,
and Rouvalles himself held aside the carpet that served as a door.
  “Come on in—Eslingen, isn’t it?”
   Eslingen nodded, and ducked under the heavy fabric. It smelled
of horses and smoke and sweat and leather, all the scents of a
campaign, and he took a deep breath, savoring even the heat of the
enclosed space. Rouvalles gave him a wry smile.
  “Regretting your change of employment already?”
  The smile, Eslingen saw, didn’t touch his eyes. “Not so far,” he
answered. “But this does bring back memories.
  Rouvalles gave a short laugh, easing some of the tension and
anger in his face, and gestured to one of the stools. “I bet it does.
So, tell me, what does Hanse want?”
  Eslingen seated himself, taking his time with the skirts of his
coat. All the furniture around him was portable, he saw, from the
stools to the narrow table and the narrow bedstead; all would break
down into easily-carried pieces. The entire room, carpets, bedding,
furniture, even the strongbox that lay half-hidden under a worn
square of blanket, would fit easily on a single pack animal.
  “Cijntien told me he’d made you an offer,” Rouvalles said, and
shrugged. “I suppose it still holds, though Hanse wouldn’t thank
you— and I’m not sure how much I care about that, just now.”
  Eslingen brought himself back to the matter at hand. “No, so far
I’m quite comfortable with my employment, thanks. Caiazzo sent
me to tell you that the money will be ready tomorrow. You can send
a couple of men to collect it any time after second sunrise.”
   Rouvalles paused in the act of pouring two glasses of wine: anger
at the delay notwithstanding, customs of hospitality, bred on the
caravan routes, died hard. He turned to Eslingen, one eyebrow
lifted, then Eslingen thought he saw the other man’s shoulders
relax slightly.
  “Well, that’s good news at least,” the Chadroni said, after a
moment. He made a face, as though he had forgotten he was
holding the cups, and handed one to Eslingen. “I rather thought
you’d come to put me off again.”
  Eslingen took a careful swallow of what proved to be a heavy,
aromatic wine. He said, “Not this time. And I can’t say I blame you
for wanting to leave the city as soon as possible.”
   Rouvalles frowned slightly, as though puzzled, then his face
cleared. “Oh, the children. I thought you meant the clock-night. No,
neither one’s made my life any easier, let me tell you.”
  “Nor anyone’s,” Eslingen said, and remembered what Jasanten
had said—had it only been a week ago? Children born under Seidos
might well find employment with the caravans, though why a
caravan-master would steal children was beyond him—unless, he
thought suddenly, there was someone foreign, someone in the
Silklands, say, who wanted them? It didn’t seem likely, but he owed
Rathe at least that much of an effort. “Have the broadsheets been
blaming you lot, then?”
   Rouvalles scowled, the pale eyes narrowing. “Along with
everybody else, yes, they’ve mentioned the caravans, and we’ve had
a few worried mothers wandering through, peering in corners when
they think we’re not looking.” He shook his head as though amazed
at the thought, then looked sharply at Eslingen. “And you can tell
Hanse I don’t hire kids, and never have done, he should know that.”
  So much for being subtle, Eslingen thought. At least he assumed
I was asking on Caiazzo’s behalf. He said, “I’ll pass that on.
But—and this is me asking, not Caiazzo, I’m just curious—does
that mean you don’t take apprentices?”
   “Did you see any apprentices in the hall?” he asked, but his tone
was milder than his words. “Oh, we take apprentices, all right, or I
do, but what we get… it’s always the ones who’ve already failed at
something else. Nobody in Astreiant—nobody anywhere—sets out
to become a caravaner.”
  “Did you?” Eslingen asked. “I mean, if you’re going to be good at
something, it doesn’t seem as though you’d go into it by default.
And from what Caiazzo says, you’re probably the best.”
  Rouvalles tilted his head, stared into space for a few moments,
then said, “I didn’t set out to become a caravaner, no. Never
thought it was—open—to me. But once I did, I discovered I liked it,
and had a knack for it. Rather like you and soldiering, I would
imagine?” he asked, making it not quite a question, and the blue
eyes were pale, cool.
  “A lot like soldiering,” Eslingen agreed. He finished the rest of his
wine, stood up. “Thanks for the drink, it’s a thirsty day.”
  “Are you sure you won’t come along?” Rouvalles asked. “This is no
time to be a Leaguer, either, in Astreiant.”
  “I’m trusting Caiazzo can protect me,” Eslingen answered, with
more confidence than he entirely felt. “If you’ll send to him
tomorrow, after second sunrise, he’ll have the money for you.”
  “We’ll be there,” Rouvalles said, and Eslingen thought there was
the hint of a threat in his tone. He lifted an eyebrow in question,
and the Chadroni spread his hands. “No ill meant, Eslingen, but I’m
a week later than I should be, and I still have supplies and goods to
buy, so it’ll be another two weeks before I’m on the road.
Hanse—but Caiazzo knows all this.”
  Eslingen nodded in restrained sympathy, “I’ll tell him, but, as you
say, he knows.”
  “If he knows,” Rouvalles said, and the good-humored face was
suddenly grim, “if he knows, why in all the hells hasn’t he sent the
money I need?”
  Eslingen shrugged, regretting his casual remark. “You’ll have to
ask him yourself.”
  “Don’t think I haven’t,” Rouvalles answered.
  Eslingen didn’t answer, but ducked through the improvised door
into the hall. The group was still gathered around the brazier, he
saw without surprise, making a very bad pretense of interest in the
dice game. The carpets would absorb some sound, but not all of it; it
was no wonder they had listened. He smiled cheerfully at them, and
went down the staircase to the stables.
  He was early at the landing, and sat in the sun nibbling half a
dozen ripe strawberries purchased on the edge of the market while
he watched Caiazzo’s boatmen bring the barge expertly across the
current and alongside the landing. The long-distance trader sprang
out almost before the ropes were snugged home, Denizard following
more decorously, and stalked up the gentle slope toward the street.
“Come on, then,” he said, as he drew level with the soldier, “we
don’t want to keep madame waiting.
   Eslingen fell into step half a pace behind him, wondering why
not, but the look of mischief in Caiazzo’s eyes was enough to keep
him from asking aloud. He risked a glance at Denizard, but the
magist looked, if anything, a little bored. Eslingen sighed, and
resigned himself to whatever would happen. Caiazzo led them
through the Manufactory district, skirting half a dozen brick-walled
compounds that smelled of wood and glue and other,
less-identifiable substances, and up the queen’s-road into a
neighborhood where sober-looking shops alternating with small,
well-built houses. He turned into the courtyard of one of the larger
of the latter, and the door opened before he could knock. A servant
in sober livery bowed them into a reception hall, murmuring
something Eslingen couldn’t quite hear, and vanished through a
narrow door.
   As the door closed behind him, Eslingen glanced surreptitiously
around the hall, impressed in spite of himself by the carved panels
and the interlaced tiles that faced the hearth. There was real silver
on the sideboard—put out for show as well as use, surely—and the
livery had been of good linen, generously cut. The candles—unlit, at
this hour, when the sun poured through the unshuttered windows,
filling the room with light—were wax pillars as thick as a man’s
wrist. Surprisingly good taste from a woman who was partner to a
southriver rat, he thought, but his heart wasn’t in the sneer, not
confronted by this restrained wealth, the dark wood that showed
highlights as cool as the polished silver, the quiet service. Oh, the
house itself might be on the wrong side—the Manufactory side—of
the queen’s-road, but the interior was as rich as any petty-noble’s
palace, or richer.
  Caiazzo saw him looking then, and smiled. It was an expression
Eslingen had already learned to distrust; he glanced sideways at
Denizard, and saw her grave and unsmiling as ever, her painted
hands folded into the sleeves of her master’s robe. That was
reassuring—if there were real trouble, Denizard would be tensed
for it—and Eslingen sighed as unobtrusively as possible. So it really
was just one of Caiazzo’s jokes, something he thought would startle
or shock his new knife, and Eslingen braced himself to meet the
surprise as calmly as possible.
  The door to the rest of the house opened then, and a liveried
servant stepped through. “Madame Allyns,” he said, and Eslingen
caught his breath.
   The woman who swept through the doorway was enormous and
beautiful, skin like rich cream from the top of her breasts to the
roots of her golden hair, eyes blue as summer skies, lips—slightly
pouting— the pink of the inside of a shell. A strand of pearls a
half-shade lighter than her skin wound twice around her neck, and
vanished into the shadowed valley of her cleavage: A brooch the
size of a man’s hand— Oriane and the Sea-bull, Eslingen thought,
not quite incredulous, in full congress—clasped her bodice, drawing
the eye irrevocably to the divide between her massive breasts. She
was as large as any two women, and four times as lovely.
  “Hanse,” she said, and swept forward, hands outstretched in
greeting.
   Caiazzo caught them, brought each in turn to his lips, bowing
slightly. “Iniz. How pleasant to see you again.”
  “I trust so,” Allyns answered, and turned, smiling, to the others.
“Mistress Denizard I know—and I’m delighted to see you again, my
dear—but this gentleman—” The smile was back, full of
heavy-lidded speculation. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
  Eslingen swallowed hard, willing his arousal to subside. Caiazzo
said, “May I present Philip Eslingen, late of Coindarel’s Dragons?
My new knife.”
  “A soldier,” Allyns said. “How charming.” She held out her hand,
and Eslingen bowed over it. She smelled of roses, heavy-scented,
late season flowers, a fragrance men could drown in… And then she
had twitched her hand deftly out of his grasp, and turned back to
Caiazzo, one delicate brow lifting. “And I hear you have need of a
knife these days, Hanse. I’m—concerned.”
  “There’s no cause for worry,” Caiazzo answered, and Allyns
smiled again, too sweetly.
  “But there is for concern, is there not? Our partnership has been
a profitable one. I’d hate to have to find another long-distance
trader, especially this late in the season. But I’d hate it even more if
my investments failed to materialize.”
  “I doubt very much it will come to that,” Caiazzo answered.
“Even considering your legendary prudence, Iniz. Shall we go in?”
   Allyns regarded him for a moment longer, and then nodded. She
turned away, the rich silks of her skirts hissing against the stone
floor, against each other. Caiazzo, suddenly, startlingly drab
against her opulence, followed, and the servant shut the door
behind them. Eslingen glanced at Denizard, wondering if he should
follow, but the magist shook her head fractionally. She seemed to
be listening for something, and Eslingen tilted his head to one side,
too, not sure what he was waiting for. The house was very quiet; in
the distance, he heard a door close, and then, from the street, the
rattle of wheels and the sound of a horse’s hooves.
  At last Denizard relaxed, looked at him with a rather wry
expression. Eslingen said, “It’s all right, then?”
  The magist nodded. “Oh, yes. Or, if it’s not, it’s far too late to
worry about it.” She saw Eslingen stiffen, and added, “They’ve been
partners for fifteen years, Philip. We’re as safe here as in our own
house.”
   Eslingen nodded back, reluctantly. He knew that most
long-distance traders—Merchants-Venturer, as the guild called
itself— formed partnerships with Astreiant’s Merchants Resident:
each needed what the other could supply, goods exchanged for
capital, and markets for each other’s products, but that didn’t
explain the particulars of the situation. “She didn’t sound happy,”
he said, and Denizard looked away.
 “There have been some—difficulties this year,” she said, after a
moment. “As you’ve probably gathered.”
  Eslingen nodded. “Is it something I should know about? To do my
job?”
  Denizard sighed. “Hanse said I should use my discretion, telling
you. And since you’ve said you’ll stay on… about five years ago,
when Seidos was in the Gargoyle, Hanse and Madame Allyns
bought a seigneurial holding in the Ile’nord—in the Ajanes, west of
the Gap.”
  “I thought,” Eslingen said, and chose his words carefully, “I
thought only nobles—nobles of four quarterings—could own those
holdings.”
   Denizard nodded. “That’s right. But there was a woman, a
woman of I think eight quarters, who owed Madame quite a bit of
money. So they made a bargain: d’Or—this woman would take the
title, paid for with Madame’s money, and Hanse’s, and send a share
of the estate’s takings to them as payment.”
   Eslingen took a slow breath, let it out soundlessly. Caiazzo played
dangerous games, and not just the ones southriver. Under the law,
a commoner who presumed to purchase a noble title would lose her
investment if she were found out, might, if the offense were
particularly egregious or open, be sentenced to a fine—but that
wasn’t the real deterrent. The nobles of the Ajanes were jealous of
their privileges, jealous to the point of having forced the queen’s
grandmother to agree to attach the rule of four quarters to the sale
of all estates in their domain. And they were old-fashioned enough
to try to wipe out such an insult in the commoner’s blood. Eslingen
could feel the hairs stirring on the nape of his neck at the thought
of trying to protect Caiazzo from Ajanine nobles and their servants.
He had served under an Ajanine captain once, for eight months
when he was sixteen; it had been the first time he had deserted,
and that had been the only thing that had saved his life. Three days
after he had run, the Ajanine had thrown his company into a mad
assault on a well-garrisoned Chadroni fort, and had lost them all in
the space of an hour. Eslingen, and the ten men sent to track him
down, had been the only survivors; they had enlisted together
under a sober League captain less than a moon-month after that
battle. He shook that memory away, said, still cautiously, “But
what’s to stop this woman from refusing to pay, now she’s got the
estate?”
  Denizard gave him a grim look. “Madame Iniz still holds notes of
her hand, for one thing, worth more than that estate.”
  “Notes can be repudiated,” Eslingen said.
  Denizard nodded. “Not easily, but, yes, they can be. But Hanse
trades through there, too. And I wouldn’t want to annoy Master
Caiazzo, would you?”
  “No,” Eslingen agreed. But I’m not an eight-quarter noble from
the Ajanes . The words hung between them, unspoken, and Denizard
made a face.
 “It seemed worth the risk. There’s a gold mine on the estate, and
merchants are always short of gold.”
   Eslingen started to whistle, cut the sound off in a hiss of breath.
Gold made all the difference, made the risks worth taking, both the
risk of buying the property and of threatening the true noble who
held it for them. Merchants are always short of gold, indeed; it’s
gold that builds the manufactories and pays the caravan masters
and the Silk-lands merchants when there’s nothing else to trade. I
see why they did it, why it’s worth it, but, Seidos’s Horse, it’s a
risk.
  “And,” Denizard went on, “the stars were favorable.”
  They would have to be. Eslingen squinted slightly. Seidos had
been in the Gargoyle, she had said, which made sense. The
Gargoyle was Argent’s sign, and Argent-Bonfortune was the god of
the merchants: the planet of the nobility in the sign of the
merchant, a reasonable omen. But if Seidos was in the Gargoyle in
the Demean reckoning, that meant it was—somewhere else—in the
Phoeban zodiac. “If Seidos was in the Gargoyle,” he said aloud, “it
was also in, what, Cock-and-Hens?”
   Denizard looked away. “We’re common, it’s Demis who rules our
lives.”
  But that’s noble land. Eslingen killed that response—he was no
magist, and his astrological education came from the broadsheets
he read assiduously; there was no reason to think he was right,
when Denizard said otherwise. But the estate in question was
noble, and fell under Phoebe’s rule, under the signs of her solar
zodiac. And by that reckoning, Seidos was in the sign of the
Cock-and-Hens, the winter-sun’s sign, sign of changing seasons, of
change and suffering and impending, inevitable death. You could
interpret the purchase as a change, and a kind of death, but still…
it’s not a chance I’d want to take.



                                 8
                                                             «^»
rathe leaned over Salineis’s shoulder as she made the last of the
nightwatch’s entries in the station’s daybook—a call to locate a
strayed maidservant, who’d turned out to be standing at the well
chatting with her leman, barely a quarter hour overdue, the sort of
thing they were all seeing entirely too much of these days—and
then added his initials to the entry. It was his day to supervise the
station, something of a welcome break in what had begun to seem
like months of walking from point to point in search of clues to the
missing children. It also meant that Monteia would not be there,
and, since Rathe had had little chance to pursue the question of the
unlicensed printers, he was just as glad not to have to explain that
to her.
  “Not a bad night, on the whole,” Salineis said, and Rathe dragged
his attention back to her.
  “How’re things by the Old Brown Dog?”
   The woman shrugged, and unclasped her heavy jerkin. The
bodice beneath it was sweat-dark at her underarms, and another
damp patch showed between her shoulder blades as she turned to
hang it on the wall. “Not too bad, actually. The Huviet boy’s
master, what’s his name, Follet, he’s let it be known he blames
Paas, and that’s shut up most of them. Of course, Follet’s never
liked Mistress Huviet—who does?— but at least it seems to be
keeping the peace.”
  Rathe nodded. “And Aagte?”
 “Devynck,” Salineis said, with some precision, “is keeping her
mouth shut and herself out of sight, for which I thank her stars and
all my gods.” She shook her head, set a dashing cap on top of her
piled hair. “And it seems to be working. They’re doing a decent
business again, and Timo says he saw some of the locals drinking
there when he checked in last night. If they blame anyone, it’s that
knife of hers.”
   “That’s good news,” Rathe said, and meant it. Eslingen was well
clear of Point of Hopes; he could afford to take the blame for a little
longer, at least until it had been forgotten.
  “Well, we’ve needed some, after clock-night,” Salineis answered,
and turned away.
   Rathe seated himself in front of the daybook, paged idly through
the events of the last three days. The clock-night had frightened
and sobered the city, it seemed; since then things had been
relatively quiet, except for the false alarms, and, best of all, no
children had gone missing in that period. Half a dozen had been
reported, but all of those had been found within a few hours. And
that reminds me, he thought, I still have to get myself over to Point
of Dreams and see if the Cytel boy is really with Savatier’s
company. The memory brought with it a twinge of real dread:
surely, he thought, if Albe was there, and safe, Gavi would have
told me… But Jhirassi had been working; their waking hours had
not overlapped. Still, he decided, I’ll make it my business to walk by
there on my way home tonight.
   The front door opened then, and he looked up, expecting one of
the duty points or someone come to report another missing child. To
his surprise, Monteia swept in, bringing with her the distinct scent
of manure. She scowled at him, scraping her shoes on the iron blade
set in the floor by the sill, and Rathe said, cautiously, “I didn’t
expect you in today, Chief.”
  “No more did I.” Monteia inspected her soles, swore under her
breath, and scraped again. “I dined with the other chiefs last night,
Nico, and there’s some business that won’t wait.” She looked at her
shoes again, nodded, satisfied, and leaned back out the door.
“Vatan! Send one of the runners to sweep the gate and clean up
here, and then get in here yourself. I need to talk to Nico.”
  Rathe rose, already dreading her news, and followed her into the
workroom. Monteia kicked her shoes into a corner, padded in
stocking feet to her chair and sat down, planting both elbows solidly
on the cluttered surface.
  “Sit, man,” she said. “It’s not you I’m annoyed with, not
personally.”
  There was no good answer to that, and Rathe perched warily on
the nearest stool.
  “I take it the night was quiet?” Monteia went on.
  “According to Sal, yeah. Nothing but false alarms, though by the
look of the book that kept them on the run.”
  Monteia grunted. “That’s what I’m hearing from all the points,
and it’s one piece of good news, I suppose. There hasn’t been a child
stolen in the last ten days—oh, plenty of reports, but those kids
have all been found.”
   “So what’s the bad news?” Rathe asked, after a moment. “Aside
from the fact we haven’t found the first eighty-five.”
   Monteia gave him a sour look. “The bad news is what I’m hearing
from our own markets. Not only are all of us too busy to do more
than shake our fists at the illegal printers, the printers are blaming
us for the kids—and I want to see that stopped. Claes tells me you
were inquiring after one called Agere?”
  Rathe nodded. “She’s printed some of the worst that I’ve seen sold
here. I told Claes we’d split the point if we made it, since Agere
works out of Fairs’ Point. I handed the sheets I got over to the
judiciary.”
  “Fair enough.” Monteia’s scowl deepened again. “But I want her.”
  Rathe hid a sigh. Tracking down illegal printers seemed less than
vital, given the missing children, but he knew Monteia was right.
They couldn’t abandon everything else, no matter how much they
might want to concentrate on the children. “I’ll do what I can,
Chief.”
  “I know.” Monteia shook her head. “Sorry, Nico, it was a long
night.”
  “More bad news?” Even as he asked, Rathe knew that wasn’t it,
or not precisely so, and wasn’t surprised when Monteia shook her
head again.
  “Not exactly—it might even turn out to be good news. Have you
heard there’s a new species of astrologer working the fair?”
  “I’ve heard something. I’ve spoken with a few people about them.
Not affiliated with the university or the temples, and the Three
Nations are all upset because they’re undercutting the student
prices.”
  “That about covers it,” Monteia said. “Fairs’ Point say they think
there are six or eight of them, but they’re very shy of the points.”
  “Probably don’t want to pay the fees,” Rathe said.
  Monteia gave him a thin smile. “Only Claes says he thinks
they’re paying entirely too much attention to children.”
  “Did he question them on it?” Rathe demanded.
  “Of course he did, do you think he’s an apprentice?” Monteia
reined in her temper with a visible effort. “They say—and I’ll be
damned if I can contradict them—that of course they are, since
children are most in need of protection and advice these days.”
  “But still—” Rathe leaned forward, unable to keep still. “No one
knows who these people are, or where they’ve come from, right? So
we should find out, and fast, before anyone else goes missing.”
  “They could be a visitation from the gods,” Monteia said, and
snorted. “After clock-night, I’d believe it. Some people would rather
blame anybody else before they’d question an astrologer.” She held
up her hand, forestalling Rathe’s instant response. “But I agree
with you, Nico. Claes is having them watched, but I want you to
start on it from our end. See what you can find out, see if there’s
any connection between them and our missing, and do it fast,
before this lull ends, and we start losing children again.”
  Rathe pushed himself up from the stool, his mind already racing.
He would visit Mailet’s workshop first, he decided; the rest of the
children came from families or work places that were less settled
than the butcher’s, would be harder to find. “I’ll talk to Istre, too,”
he said aloud. “The university has a stake in dealing with these
hedge-astrologers.”
  Monteia nodded. “We’ve been working them pretty hard, even
your friend. We’re not the only people who had the clever notion of
sending nativities to the magists. Between the twelve of us, I think
we’ve sent nearly eighty birth-stars over there, and none of us have
gotten anything back yet.”
  That was sobering, but Rathe shoved aside the uncertainty. “I’ll
ask Istre when I speak to him,” he said. “Gods, this could be the
chance we’ve been waiting for.”
   He made his way quickly through the streets, barely aware of the
uncertain glances, truculent and oddly embarrassed all at once, as
he reached the Knives Road. Mailet’s hall was busy—busy enough,
Rathe saw, that Mailet himself was working the front of the shop,
flanked by sweating journeymen. The air smelled of animals and
blood, and Rathe was glad they were working in the street and not
in the close confines of the building. Mailet glanced up at Rathe’s
approach, brows drawing together in a scowl, but he mastered
himself instantly, and finished his business with his customer
before turning on the pointsman.
  “And what do you want here this time, Rathe?”
  “I want to speak to Trijntje Ollre,” Rathe said, and curbed his
own excitement before it could turn into irritation.
  “Why—?” Mailet broke off, his eyes focussing on something over
Rathe’s right shoulder. “Not before time, Liron. Now, get these
stones sluiced down.”
   Rathe glanced back, to see an older apprentice hurrying toward
them, water buckets hanging from a carrying yoke balanced on his
shoulders. He turned his attention back to Mailet, and said, “I need
to talk to her because we have some new information.” He
grimaced at the sudden hope in Mailet’s face, “It’s nothing solid, not
yet, but—it would help if I could talk to Trijntje.”
  Mailet took a deep breath, but jerked his head toward the main
door. “You know your way by now. She’s in the hall with the
others.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe said, and ducked past him into the shop.
  As promised, the apprentices were at work at their long tables,
knives flashing in the sunlight that poured in through the high
windows. They seemed in less of a rush this time—Rathe didn’t see
a magist to keep track of favorable stars—but the piles of
vegetables at each broad table were still visibly diminishing. He
could smell the peppery, pungent odor of all-save, and saw a young
apprentice moving from table to table distributing the shabby
bunches. The journeyman Grosejl saw him then, and moved quickly
to intercept him, her face drawing into a wary frown.
  “Any news?”
  Rathe shook his head. “Not directly, no. But there are some
questions I need to ask Trijntje—we have some new information
that may help.” He saw the hope flare in her eyes, and added,
guiltily, “I don’t know for certain—I can’t promise anything.”
  “Something’s better than nothing,” Grosejl answered, and waved
toward the line of tables. “Trijntje! Come here a moment.”
   The girl put down her knife obediently, and came toward them,
wiping her hands on her apron. “Is—” She broke off, unable to
finish the question, and Rathe shook his head.
  “We haven’t found anything, either way, but there are some
questions I need to ask.”
  “I don’t know what else I can tell you.” She wound her hands in
her apron, then frowned at herself, and stopped.
  Rathe said, “Have you—did you and Herisse consult any
astrologers recently? Or did any of the other girls?”
  Ollre looked up at him, her frown deepening, but more perplexed,
he thought, than angry. He caught himself holding his breath, not
wanting to say more, for fear of telling her what he wanted to hear.
   “At the First Fair, we did,” she said at last, and shrugged. “It’s
supposed to be auspicious for butchers, and then Metenere was
trine the sun, and all. So we had our stars read.”
  Rathe nodded. “You and Herisse together?”
  “Yes.”
  He held his breath again. “What stall did you visit, do you
remember? Or did you go to one of the students?”
  Ollre shook her head. “We didn’t have to go to one of the booths
or the Three Nations, which was a good thing, too, at their prices.
There were some astrologers walking around, I don’t know their
affiliation— I thought they were students, at first, but their robes
were black, not grey. So we went to one of them.” She seemed to
see something in Rathe’s expression, and her head lifted. “Well,
neither one of us had coin to waste, and he was cheap enough, and
honest-sounding. Not at all forbidding, or obnoxious, like the Three
Nations.”
  “What sort of a reading did he give you?” Rathe asked. He heard
the sharp intake of breath, saw the startled look on her face: it was
not good manners to inquire into someone’s stars, but he was past
caring, swept on before she could protest. “Did he give you
anything—a written horoscope, a broadsheet, anything?”
  Ollre blinked at him, visibly uncertain, and Grosejl said, “I don’t
see what the details have to do with anything, pointsman.”
   “I need to know what kind of service he provided,” Rathe said. He
looked at Ollre. “You don’t have to tell me the details, but I do need
to know how he read you, what he did for you.”
   Ollre looked suddenly embarrassed. “Well, he didn’t actually do
much for me, my nativity’s not that good, just to the hour. So he
just said general things, and said he couldn’t help me much—except
for this.” She reached under her apron, into the pocket she wore
beneath the skirt, and brought out a small disk. “He said it was for
luck, that the stars were going to be unsettled for a while, and that
I’d need it.” She made a face. “He was right there, wasn’t he?”
  Rathe stared for a moment at the dark round of wax, then said,
“May I?”
   Ollre shrugged and held it out, and he took it from her hand. It
was a crude thing, stamped with planetary signs around a central
figure of Areton with his shield. He recognized most of them, but
couldn’t begin to guess what the sequence meant. But b’Estorr
would know, he thought, and turned it over. The reverse was blank.
“Did Herisse get one of these?”
  “Oh, yes, and she talked to him for a lot longer—of course, she
knows her stars to the minute.” Ollre’s fond smile vanished
suddenly. “Here, you don’t think that has anything to do with her
vanishing, do you?”
  “I don’t know,” Rathe said. “It’s possible, yeah, but we don’t know
for sure. Can I keep this?”
 “If it had anything to do with—” Ollre shuddered. “I don’t ever
want to see it again.”
  “And if it didn’t,” Rathe said gently, “I’ll see it gets back to you.
Can you tell me what this astrologer looked like?”
  The girl shrugged, looked embarrassed again. He’d been of middle
years, not grey, not young; of middle height and middle color and
spoke without an accent, beyond the normal tang of Astreianter
speech. It wasn’t much, but Rathe hadn’t been expecting much, and
nodded politely. “Thanks, Trijntje, this has been a help.”
  The girl nodded, looking as though she wanted to ask something
more, but Grosejl touched her arm. “All right, Trijntje, get back to
work.” She looked at Rathe as the apprentice moved slowly back
toward her table. “What’ll you do with it, anyway?”
   Rathe looked down at the little charm, then, very carefully,
slipped it into his purse, knotting the strings securely over it. “Take
it to a magist I know at the university.”
   Grosejl nodded. “Gods, I hope you find her—all of them. It’s the
not hearing, you see. It’s the—the blindness of it all. No word, no
knowing what might have happened.” Her lips twisted. “Death isn’t
all bad, pointsman. At least it’s an end.”
  You don’t have a friend who’s a necromancer, Rathe thought. He
could feel the excitement rising in him at the first real evidence
he’d found, and thrust it sternly down before the journeyman could
see and misunderstand. He made his excuses quickly, and headed
back out to the street. He would visit the other shops and families,
at least the ones he could find, and then he’d head to the fair, let
Claes know about this new connection. And then… he fought back
the sense of certainty. Then he would go to the university, and see
what b’Estorr had to say about the charm.
  It took him the better part of three hours to contact the relatives
and employers of the children on his book, and the results were less
than conclusive. The brewers’ apprentices had certainly gone to the
First Fair, and had had their stars read, though the remaining
apprentices couldn’t say whether it had been by the Three Nations
or the black-robed strangers. The price would have mattered, they
admitted, but they simply didn’t know. One of the shop boys had
been star-mad, had his stars read at every possible opportunity, and
he had definitely spoken to one of the hedge-astrologers—but, the
counterwoman had warned, he’d also spoken to a student of the
Three Nations, and had at least gone into a booth run by the
Temple of Sofia. As for the rest, no one could remember whether or
not they’d spoken to any astrologers, but at least, Rathe thought,
they couldn’t say they hadn’t either. He knew the dangers of
overconfidence, of building too much on too little fact, but couldn’t
seem to stop himself from hoping. It was the first decent piece of
luck they’d had—Astree, send it’s the right piece, he thought, and
paused at one of the shrines outside the Pantheon to buy and light a
stick of incense.
  The fair was as busy as ever, and Rathe knew from experience
that he was more likely to find Claes at the point station than in
the fairground itself. Even so, he couldn’t resist the chance to pass
through the teeming market, keeping an eye out for black-robed
astrologers. It was too much to hope he’d catch them at
something—if they were involved, they’d been far too careful to
arouse suspicion—but still, it would be good to get a look at them.
   He reached the printers’ row without seeing any sign of them,
however, and the sight of Agere’s faded sign took the edge off his
pleasure. He turned toward it, falling in behind a well-dressed
matron whose broad body and full skirts helped screen his
approach, and then reached around her to slip a sheet from the top
of its pile. Agere turned toward him, her smile faltering as she
recognized the jerkin and the truncheon at his belt.
  “You’re not with Fairs’ Point,” she said, confidently enough.
“You’ve no jurisdiction here, pointsman.”
  “Unfair, Agere, I might just want to buy a sheet.” Rathe
skimmed through the smudged printing, feeling his face stiffen
with anger. “Not this one, though.” It was the worst he’d seen yet,
openly blaming the points for failing to protect the missing children,
and hinting that they—and perhaps the metropolitan and the city
government—were somehow behind the disappearances. He set the
page back on its pile, and gave Agere his least pleasant smile. “So
now we’re conspiring with Astreiant herself? You flatter us, usually
it’s the Leaguers, or the manufactories, or the soldiers—of
whatever nation—or anyone else you think you can attack and get
away with. And I don’t see a bond-mark here.”
  “I don’t print those,” Agere said, without inflection. “I’m selling
them for someone else.”
  That was the usual excuse, and Rathe’s lips damned. “Oh, Agere,
couldn’t you say something I hadn’t heard a hundred times
already?”
  “I didn’t print it,” Agere snapped. “Is it a fee you’re after? Then
have the decency to say so.”
   Rathe regarded her a moment longer. She had been right about
one thing, he had no jurisdiction here. To make the point stand, he
would have to fetch someone from Fairs’ Point to make the arrest,
and by the time he’d done that, Agere would simply have disposed
of the offending broadsheet. He said, “No fee for a warning, Agere.
Caiazzo’s not fond of politics—yeah, I know you print under his
coin—and there’s not a fee high enough to buy me off when I can
watch Caiazzo drop you. And then we will score you without that
counterfeit license to protect you. Have a good fair, printer.”
  He walked away, aware of the printer’s eyes burning into him,
her anger only just leashed. He turned the next corner, blindly,
found himself in the leathersellers’s quarter, and stopped, surprised
that his hands were shaking. It was one thing to listen to the
rumors, the insults, to have it told to him, but to see it in print, in
the broadsheets that were the lifeblood of Astreiant… the plain
black-and-white of the type was somehow more threatening that
any spoken accusation. Words disappeared as soon as they were
spoken, but the letters on paper stayed to haunt a man.
  He found Claes at the Fairs’ Point station, as he’d expected,
presiding over the ordinary chaos of the main room with a tankard
in one hand and his truncheon in the other. Rathe sidestepped a
drunken carter, bloody-nosed and furious, and lifted his hand to get
Claes’s attention.
  “Can it wait?” the chief point called back. “We’ve a pack of fools
here who started their drinking with the first sunrise.”
  “It’s important,” Rathe said, and waited.
  Claes swore. “It had better be. You, Gasquet, take over here, sort
them down into the cells—and I’ll take it very ill if you let them kill
each other before they’ve had a chance to sober up.” He gestured for
Rathe to precede him into the station’s counting room, and shut the
heavy door behind them. Rathe blinked in the sudden quiet, and
Claes said, “So. What in Tyrseis’s name is so important?”
  “Monteia said you were worried about these hedge-astrologers,”
Rathe said. “The freelances. I’ve talked to the kin of our missing
children. One of them, the butcher’s girl, she got a charm from
them a few days before she disappeared, and at least three of the
others probably consulted them. The others may or may not have
talked to them, but I can’t prove they didn’t.”
  Claes was silent for a long moment. “That’s thin, Rathe. Very
thin.”
  “It’s more than we’ve had before,” Rathe answered, and the chief
point sighed.
  “True. But that was nothing at all.”
  Rathe swallowed hard, banking down his irritation. “Look, I
know it’s not much. But four of our lads who probably talked to
them—one definitely, and she got a charm from him, which I’m
taking to the university to see what the magists make of it—gods,
Claes, we can’t afford to ignore it.”
  “And I don’t intend to ignore it,” Claes answered. “I don’t trust
them, I don’t know what they’re doing here, and they don’t charge
nearly enough not to want something besides their fees. But I can’t
act on just this, and you know it.”
  Rathe nodded. “I know. But I did think, the sooner you knew
about it, the sooner you—and all of us—could start checking on the
other kids, see how many of them talked to these astrologers before
they disappeared.”
  Claes grinned. “And you’re right, certainly—and, yes, this was
important, I’ll give you that. But I’d like more to go on, Rathe,
that’s all.” He waved a hand in dismissal, and Rathe opened the
workroom door.
  “I’m working on it,” he said, and made his way back out into the
streets of the fair.
Claes was right, of course. It wasn’t much to go on, and Rathe felt
his mood plummet as rapidly as it had improved. And that, he
knew, was as unreasonable as his earlier optimism. The connection
with the astrologers was still the most solid—the only—link they
had between the child-thefts; he couldn’t afford to ignore it, or to
build too much on it, at least not yet.
   He made his way back through the fair by a different route,
avoiding the printers and the crowds that always filled the
leathersellers’ district, and found himself among the smaller booths,
where the smaller merchants venturer sold their mix of goods
directly. It was crowded here, too—most of the stalls carried less
expensive items, trinkets, small packets of spices, silk thread,
Chadroni ribbons, beads, the coarse southern glassware, that even
an apprentice could afford—but this year there were few enough of
them in evidence. There were few children in general—occasionally
a northriver child, escorted not just by the usual nurse, but also by
an armed man or woman of the household; more often a
plain-dressed girl or boy hurrying on some errand, unable to give
more than a wistful glance at the gaudy displays—and Rathe was
suddenly angry again. This was no way for a child to see the fair,
and, especially for the older ones, the ones who worked for their
keep, their mistresses’ fears were depriving them of one of the few
long holidays in the working year. Not that anyone could afford to
let their apprentices and the like have the full three weeks of the
fair completely free, of course, but most employers tolerated a
certain relaxation of standards over the course of the fair. He
himself, when he had been a runner, could remember getting two
or three days off—days to explore and spend one’s carefully hoarded
demmings on strange foods and goods from the kingdoms beyond
Chenedolle—and vying for errands that would send him near the
fairgrounds. But this year, it looked as though the average
apprentice was getting none of that.
   Without consciously meaning to, his roundabout course had
brought him into the center of the fairground, where the cookstalls
were set up. The air was heavy with the smell of Silklands spices,
almost drowning the heavy scent of mutton stew and the constant
tang of hot, much-used oil. He threaded his way past a gang of
Leaguers, carters by their clothes, who were monopolizing the stall
of a cheerful-looking brewer, and dodged another stall where a
woman in a Silklands headscarf twirled skewers of vegetables over
a long brazier. Half a dozen children, the first large group he’d
seen, were clustered around a woman selling fried noodles, and
another pair was standing gravely in front of a candyseller,
choosing from among figures shaped like zodiacal beasts. He
checked for a moment, torn between admiration and fear, and then
made himself walk on. Heat radiated from the open fires and he
was glad to reach the edge of the cooking areas. So, by the look of
things, were most people: the spaces between the stalls were wider
here, and people stood in groups of twos and threes, talking and
eating. Rathe glanced around instinctively, looking for any sign of
the astrologers, and to his surprise recognized a slim, dark-haired
woman who stood in the shade of one of the awnings, nibbling on a
fried pastry. Cassia LaSier usually preferred to work later in the
day, when the pickings were richer—and at the moment she
seemed to be concentrating on her meal, one hand cupped to catch
anything that fell from the fragile shell—but she might also enjoy
the challenge of the noon-time crowd. Rathe turned toward her, and
she looked up sharply, her mouth curving into a wry smile.
  “Working the fairground, Rathe? I wouldn’t’ve thought it was
your patch.”
  Rathe shook his head. “It’s not. I had some errands here.”
  “Well, that’s a relief for honest working people,” LaSier
answered, and swallowed the last of her pastry.
  “Oh, are you working?”
  “Not if you are,” she retorted, and Rathe allowed himself a grin.
  “Not the fair, anyway.”
   “The children?” LaSier’s eyes were suddenly alert. “No luck, then,
still?”
  “Maybe,” Rathe answered, and shook his head at the sudden
eagerness in the woman’s face. “But we’re still having horoscopes
done for the missing kids, which should tell you how ‘maybe’ it is.”
  “Damn.” LaSier licked grease from her fingers, wiped them
discreetly on the hem of her skirt. “Are all the stations doing it?”
  “From what Monteia says, yes. Why?”
  “We didn’t make a formal complaint to Sighs, of course, so I
suppose I can’t complain. Still, it’d be nice if Gavaret had the same
chance of being found as the others.”
  It would, and it would be more than nice, Rathe thought, it would
be the only fair thing to do. The Corthere child might grow into a
serious nuisance to the points, but he certainly had the right to live
that long. He said, “He’s as entitled as anyone, but he’d have to
know his stars pretty closely for it to be much help.”
  “But he did,” LaSier said, and corrected herself. “He does. And
they were good for our line of work, let me tell you—who’d want an
apprentice who was born to be hanged, right?” She shook her head
in regret. “No, Gavaret knows his nativity, and he revels in it.”
  “Do you know it?” Rathe asked.
  LaSier gave him a sidelong glance. “Thought you said you weren’t
working.”
  “Thought I said yes, on the children.” Rathe sighed. “I can take it
for you, off the books, though why I’d want your apprentice found is
beyond me.”
  “And a damn dull world it would be without us,” LaSier
answered. “He was born on Midsummer Eve fourteen years ago, in
Dhenin. He crowned at midnight, his mother told him, and was
born at the half-hour stroke.”
  Rathe made the note in his tablets. Midsummer was a major day;
any half-competent astrologer—anyone who owned an ephemeris,
for that matter—could calculate the full nativity from what LaSier
had told him. “Born under Tyrseis,” he said aloud, “and the
Gargoyle. How appropriate.”
  LaSier grinned. “And not born to hang.”
  “We don’t hang pickpockets, Cassia,” Rathe said.
  “I know.” She looked down, brushed a few crumbs from her
bodice. “Well, good luck, Nico. You’ll need it.”
  “Thanks. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
  “Oh, yes. Good luck with that, too,” she answered, and turned
away. Rathe watched her go, the slim figure with its waterfall of
black hair soon lost in the crowd. It was rare enough for one of the
’Serry’s inhabitants to wish any pointsman well, and he was
grateful for the gesture. He glanced again at the notation in his
tablets—one more reason to visit b’Estorr—and replaced them in
his pocket. Gavaret Corthere was a child like thousands other
southriver, and like so many of them, he would find his livelihood in
the ’Serry or the Court, maybe lodge with the points more than
once, maybe live to old age, or more likely die at the hand of a rival
or the wrong victim. Except that Gavaret Corthere knew his
nativity, and those stars marked him as appropriate for an
apprenticeship with the Quentiers, a step up in the world, by the
’Serry’s reckoning, at any rate. Rathe had never quite realized
before just how similar their family business was to the more
conventional guilds. He shrugged to himself. It made sense, in any
business: why take on anyone born to fail at this line of work?
Though, of course, a person’s desire didn’t always run in tandem
with their stars, and the stars didn’t guarantee, they merely
indicated… Those were the phrases one learned in dame school, and
he shook them away.
   A flutter of black caught his eye, and he looked sideways to see a
figure in dark robes moving slowly across the central space,
occasionally nodding to a passerby. Rathe tensed, ready to call for
assistance, then hesitated. The robes might be black, might mark
one of the astrologers, but they might also be dark grey, and the
man just another university student adding to a limited income. He
started after the man, but a whistle sounded, shrill and imperious,
and he stopped abruptly as a trash wagon rumbled past, cutting off
his view of the stranger and bathing him in its sour stench. He
dodged around it, nose wrinkling, but the man was nowhere to be
seen. He swore under his breath, scanning the crowd a final time,
then turned toward the bright blue pennants that marked the tents
where the Temple of Astree was acting as arbiter of the fair. Maybe
the arbiters will listen, he thought, even if Claes can’t act. At the
very least, they should be warned.
  The other temples had set up their booths around Astree’s tents,
some under Areton’s shield for changing money, some offering
horoscopes, a few, like the Demeans, offering certification of foreign
goods. This part of the fair was the busiest yet, and Rathe had to
work his way through a solid crowd before he could reach the
arbiters’ tents. Their flaps were drawn closed, though muffled
voices leaked through the heavy cloth, and a tall woman whose coat
bore the wheel-and-web badge of Astree was shaking her head at a
pair of women who carried a basket. The two women stalked away,
obviously angry, and the first woman looked at Rathe. “Can I help
you, pointsman? As you can see, we’re—occupied—at the
moment…”
   “It’s not business,” Rathe said, “or not that kind of business. But
I’d like to speak to a senior arbiter, if one’s free.”
 The woman touched her badge. “I’m free enough at the moment.
Gui Vauquelin.”
  “Nicolas Rathe. I’m the Adjunct Point at Point of Hopes.”
 “You’re a ways from home,” Vauquelin observed, but her tone
was neutral.
  “I know.” Rathe took a breath. “These astrologers, the new
ones— what do you know about them?”
   “Aside from the fact that they’re a pain in the ass?” Vauquelin
sighed. “Which I shouldn’t say, but they’ve been more headache
than they’re worth. Don’t tell me the points are interested.”
  “Maybe,” Rathe said again, and her gaze sharpened.
  “The children?”
  “We don’t know. There may be a connection.” Quickly, Rathe
outlined what he’d found, scrupulous to point out that Claes, whose
point this rightfully would be, didn’t think there was anything they
could do yet. When he’d finished, Vauquelin shook her head.
  “We’ve had trouble with them from the day they arrived. Oh—”
She held up a hand. “That’s not fully fair, either. We haven’t had
any trouble from them, they seem ordinary enough, except that
they’re ostentatious about not owing allegiance to any particular
temple. We’ve had our juniors talk to them, officially, and
unofficially, we had one of our girls get her stars done, and they
seem sound enough. It’s basic, but not outright wrong, so there’s no
basis for complaint there. But the Three Nations are up in
arms—and I offer thanks daily that that’s not literally
true—because they’re taking the students’ business.”
  “Couldn’t you do anything on those grounds?”
  “The student monopoly is customary, not legal,” Vauquelin
answered, and shrugged. “Besides, there are plenty of people here—
northriver, I mean—who’d like to see the students taken down a
few pegs. I’ve had a woman tell me to my face that these new
astrologers have to be better just because they aren’t students.”
  Rathe swore again under his breath. He had forgotten, more
precisely, he rarely encountered, the old rivalry that pitted the
students’ Three Nations against the ordinary folk who had the
misfortune to share their neighborhoods. It had been almost five
years since the last riots, and he’d hoped that tensions had eased
since.
  Vauquelin smiled, ruefully. “Which makes it difficult to question
these people without seeming to favor the students, and that I will
not, cannot, do.”
  “But if they are involved—” Rathe broke off, gesturing an
apology.
  “We are watching them,” Vauquelin said firmly. “And I know
your people are doing the same. Yes, they talk to children, but
we’ve never seen a child fail to return from talking to them. And it
could be coincidence. Children are most at risk, these days, no
wonder they want to offer any guidance they can.”
   “I suppose,” Rathe said. It was the same thing the astrologers
had told Claes’s people, and it was true enough, but still, he wished
he could share her detachment. Vauquelin was Astree’s arbiter, had
to be scrupulously balanced in her judgment—but it was hard to be
blamed oneself, and see a more likely suspect embraced by at least
the north-river populace.
  Vauquelin looked at him as though she’d read the thought. “Don’t
mistake me, Adjunct Point. If we see anything to make us at all
suspicious, we’ll let you and yours know.”
  Rathe nodded, embarrassed that she’d read him so accurately. “I
know. And I appreciate it, really.” He turned away, his stride
lengthening as he headed across the fair toward University Point.
b’Estorr was not at the university. Rathe stood for a moment at the
foot of the stairway, staring at the doorkeeper, then shook himself
hard. “When will he be back?” he asked, and the old woman
shrugged.
  “By first sunset, I expect, pointsman.”
   She started to close the upper half of her door, but Rathe caught
it, forced a smile. “Will you tell him—no, can I leave a note?”
  The old woman’s eyebrows rose, but after a moment’s search she
found a slate and half a broken chalk pencil. Rathe scrawled a quick
note, the crude point squeaking over the stone—need to talk to you,
will be back tonight, nico—and handed it across. “It’s important
that he get this,” he said, without much hope, and the old woman
sniffed, and shut the door without comment. Rathe sighed, and
headed back across the Hopes-point Bridge.
   It was almost the end of his shift, but he stopped by the station
anyway, read over the daybook before he hung up jerkin and
truncheon and headed back to his lodgings. It lacked an hour to the
first sunset; the sensible thing to do, he told himself, was to eat a
decent dinner and put his thoughts in order before he went back to
the university.
   He rented three rooms—almost half the floor—on the second
floor of what had once been a rich merchant’s or petty noble’s
house, and shared what had been the courtyard gardens with the
half a dozen other households that lived in the warren of rooms.
The gardens were, usually, a luxury at this time of year, but now
he winced as he passed his plot, straggling and unwatered, and
hoped that the goats that the weaver kept in the former stable
would eat the worst of the weeds before he was utterly disgraced.
The air in the stairwell was close, and he winced again as he opened
the door of his room. He had left the shutters closed and latched;
the air was hot and still, tasting of dust and something gone rotten
in the vegetable basket. He swore, loudly this time, and flung open
the shutters, then stirred the stove until he found the last embers
under the banked ash and lit a stick of incense. He set that in the
holder in the center of the Hearthmistress’s circular altar, and then
glared at the stove. No amount of banking would keep those few
embers going overnight, but he didn’t relish the idea of building up
the fire in this heat. Nor did he particularly enjoy the thought of
fumbling with flint and tinder once he’d gotten back from the
university, but that was his only alternative. And I cannot, he
decided, face a fire just now. He set his tinderbox and a candle in a
good, wide-saucered stand on the table by the door, and then caught
up the end of a loaf of bread and went back down to the garden.
   The well at its center was still good, still supplied the entire
structure with water, and he hauled up the bucket, the cup
attached to its handle clattering musically against the wooden
sides. He drank, then poured the rest of the bucket into the
standing trough, for the gods, and went back to where a stone
bench stood against the wall beside the base of the stairs. It was
still warm, but he could feel the first touch of the evening breeze,
and the winter-sun was almost directly overhead. He sighed, then
began methodically to eat the bread, thinking about the missing
children. The Corthere boy was, by all accounts, no different from
the rest, except in his profession. He’d disappeared without
warning, without a word, and his nativity contained nothing
immediately remarkable. Being born on the stroke of midnight was
a little unusual, but not completely out of the ordinary. He stopped
then, considering. Corthere knew his stars to the minute, assuming
the town clocks in Dhenin were accurate—and town clocks were,
the city regents paid good money to be sure of it, just because
people took their nativities from them. That was why the
clock-night had been so bad, had shaken the city into something
like good behavior for the last week. And Herisse Robion knew hers
to the quarter hour, as did the missing brewers—as did every single
child who’d been reported missing to Point of Hopes. They all knew
their birth stars to the quarter hour or better.
  Rathe sat up straight, his dinner forgotten. One or two, and
especially the children of guildfolk, he would have expected that,
but all of them? Most southriver women worked too hard for birth
to be much more than an interruption in the business of existence;
they noted the times as best they could, but when you had only the
person helping with the birth—and her not a trained midwife, more
often than not, just a sister or a neighbor—small wonder times
were inexact. There were the exceptions, notable days like the
earthquake, and there were enough clocktowers so that with care a
woman could note the time, but still, for so many—for all of
them—to know their nativities so precisely… it had to mean
something, was too strange to be mere coincidence.
  He looked again at the sky, guessing the time to first sunset, and
a voice said from the side gate, “Unbelievable. First at Wicked’s,
and now here? I don’t know if I can stand the shock.”
  Rathe smiled, almost in spite of himself, and Jhirassi closed the
gate behind him, came across the beaten dirt to join him. “I have
some news for you—good news,” Jhirassi added hastily. “I was
going to tease you with it, but I don’t think that would be playing
fair. The clerk’s child you asked me about, he’s with Savatier.
Frightened witless when he realized his mother thought he’d gone
the way of the others, but there. He’s not bad, for a boy. And
Savatier thinks he could make something of himself.” He sighed.
“Just what we all need, more competition.”
  “Keeps you young,” Rathe said, automatically, a slight frown
forming between his brows. There had been something odd about
Albe Cytel’s nativity—there wasn’t one, he remembered suddenly.
For some reason, premature labor, or just ordinary carelessness,
Cytel’s mother had not managed to note the time of her son’s birth,
and that was the child who was not truly missing.
  “What’s wrong?” Jhirassi asked, and Rathe shook his head.
  “Nothing, I don’t think. Gavi, I want to talk to him—Albe. Can
you take me to him?”
  “I just got home,” Jhirassi protested, but sighed, seeing Rathe’s
intent expression. “Oh, very well. I don’t suppose you can afford to
buy me dinner in return?”
  “No.”
  “I didn’t think so,” Jhirassi said, sadly. “All right, I’ll take you to
Savatier. Maybe I’ll buy dinner.”
  Rathe followed him through the knotted streets where Point of
Hopes joined Point of Dreams, and then out into the broader
squares where the better theaters stood. Savatier’s was a good
house, fully roofed, but at the moment the front doors were closed
and locked. Jhirassi ignored that, and led the way to a side door
that gave onto a narrow hall. It ended in a tangle of ropes that
controlled the stage machinery, and Rathe followed gingerly as
Jhirassi wove his way through them. There was a narrow staircase
beyond that, and Jhirassi went up it, to tap on a red painted door.
  “The counting-house,” he said, succinctly, and the door opened. A
stocky woman—Savatier, Rathe assumed—stood looking out at
them, barefoot, a sweating metal cup in one hand.
  “Gavi? What can I do for you?”
   “I’m sorry to bother you, but this is Nicolas Rathe—he’s adjunct
point at Point of Hopes, and a friend of mine, too. He wants to talk
to Albe.”
  Savatier leaned heavily against the door frame. “We’re not
stealing children, Adjunct Point, the boy came here of his own free
will, theater-mad, and not without talent.” Her eyes narrowed.
“And what business is it of Point of Hopes, anyway?”
  “You’re Dreams’ business, Savatier,” Rathe agreed, “and I don’t
think you’re stealing children. But I do need to talk to the boy. He
may have some information.”
  “About these disappearances?” Savatier asked.
  “Yes.”
   She looked at him a moment longer, then sighed deeply. “All
right. Gavi, he’s down in the yard with the rest.” She looked back
at Rathe. “A new script we’re rehearsing, and it’s not coming
together. And if bes’Hallen can’t make it work…” She shook her
head, as much at herself as at them. “Go on then,” she said, and
closed the door firmly in their faces.
  Rathe looked at Jhirassi, who smiled, and started back down the
stairs. “And if it’s the piece I think it is, it’s not going to get any
better. We passed on it.”
  He led the way back through the backstage and then a narrow
door into a small courtyard. There were perhaps a dozen actors
there, women and men about evenly mixed, some leaning against
the high walls, a group of three huddled over a tattered-looking
sheaf of paper.
  There were a few apprentices as well, and Rathe guessed that the
youngest, a fair-haired, ruddy-skinned boy, was the missing Albe
Cytel. As the door opened, one of the women detached herself from
the group, and lifted a hand to Jhirassi. She was a striking woman,
hair worn loose under a Silklander scarf, and Rathe recognized her
as Anjesine bes’Hallen. He had seen her several times before on
stage, usually as tragic queens, and he wondered if she would be
able to make this impossible play work. She looked determined
enough for it, anyway.
  “Gavi, joy, I thought you were settled with Mattie,” she said, and
Jhirassi sighed.
  “Anj, this is Adjunct Point Nicolas Rathe, from Point of Hopes.
He’s also my downstairs neighbor, so I’ll vouch for him. He’d like to
talk to Albe.”
  The boy moved closer to the actress, and bes’Hallen put a hand
on his shoulder. Rathe remembered the gesture from one of last
year’s successful plays, only, since the playwright had been Chresta
Aconin, better known as Aconite, he had to think the original intent
had been ironic.
  “His mother will just have to send someone from Dreams if she
wants him back,” bes’Hallen said. “We’re not letting him go with
just anyone, pointsman, not under the circumstances—no offense,
Gav, but you know what they’re saying about the points.”
  “Oh, for the dogs’ sake,” Gavi snapped, “that only plays well on a
really large stage.”
   Rathe blinked—that was not the tack he’d expected Jhirassi to
take—but after a heartbeat, bes’Hallen grinned, and let her hand
fall from Cytel’s shoulder. “Oh, it plays better in the small spaces
than you might think, dear, if you weren’t afraid of a little honest
emotion. But, really, we can’t—”
  “Nico just wants to talk to him—I don’t even know if he’s told
Dreams or not—”
  “I haven’t,” Rathe said. “I will, but I haven’t had the time.”
   “I’ll chaperone,” Jhirassi finished. “If that will make you happier.”
bes’Hallen lifted an eyebrow at that—another practiced gesture—
but nudged the boy forward. “All right. Go with Gavi, dear, and
don’t worry. You’re welcome here. Savatier has said so, and so have
I.”
  “Let’s go in,” Jhirassi said. ‘It’s more private.”
  Rathe stood aside to let the boy follow Jhirassi, and then went
with them into the crowded backstage. Savatier’s troupe clearly
spent a decent sum on stage settings: there were at least a dozen
rolled canvases stacked against the wall, and there was real
furniture scattered about the space. Jhirassi chose one of the
chairs, shook it to make sure it would hold his weight, and sat with
grace.
  “Sit down, Albe—find a stool, for Oriane’s sake.” He looked at
Rathe. “You’d think you were going to eat him for dinner.”
  Rathe sighed. “Albe, I’m not here to bring you back to your
mother—you heard bes’Hallen, I’m from Point of Hopes, and this is
Point of Dreams’ affair. But I do need to ask you some questions.”
He paused, looking at the boy’s wary face. “It may help find the
other children, or I wouldn’t be bothering.”
  The boy nodded slowly. “All right.”
  “First,” Rathe said, “do you know your nativity?”
  Cytel scowled. “Yes, well, sort of. Within the hour anyway.” He
seemed to see Jhirassi’s surprise, and burst out, “It’s not my fault, I
was born early, the midwife wasn’t very good. But, no, I don’t have
a real good nativity.”
   Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief. So far, the pattern was
holding true, at least in the cases he’d dealt with. “Now, did you go
to the fair, or the First Fair, before you—came—to Savatier’s?”
  Cytel blinked, but nodded. “Yes.”
  “By yourself, or with other people?”
   Cytel shrugged one shoulder. “Maseigne Foucquet gave a dozen of
us an early afternoon so we could go. Palissy—she’s the senior
clerk-journeyman—she went with us.”
  Rathe nodded. “And once there, I’m assuming you did the usual
things. Did you get your stars read?”
   The boy looked embarrassed again, and Rathe willed him not to
become mulish. “I was thinking about it, yes, because I don’t want
to go to the judiciary, and I do want to be an actor, and I wanted to
see what my stars said about that.” He scowled. “Even my mother
admits they’re not right for the law.”
   Rathe held his breath. A negative answer wouldn’t disprove any
of his theories, but if the boy had spoken to one of the
hedge-astrologers… “But you didn’t?” he asked, when Cytel seemed
unwilling to continue. “Get them read, I mean?”
  “Is it important?”
  “Yes,” Rathe said, and only just controlled the intensity in his
voice. “It’s important.”
  Cytel shrugged again. “Well, I did, only not at the temples.
They’re expensive, and I didn’t have much money with me. There
was an astrologer, one of the new ones, who offered to read them
for me. He said I looked like I had a career ahead of me.” His lips
curled slightly.
  “Which is pretty safe to say, I suppose. But when I told him my
stars, he told me it’d be hard to give me a proper reading because I
didn’t have the details—like I didn’t know that—but he only
charged me half a demming so I can’t complain.”
  “So he didn’t do a reading,” Rathe said.
 “I told you, he did sort of a one, but it wasn’t very detailed. About
what you’d expect, I guess.”
  “Did he give you any kind of charm, say anything about trouble
coming?” Rathe asked.
   “Oh.” Cytel looked startled, reached into his pockets. “Yes, he
said times were going to be hard for people in my sign, and I should
take care—he gave me a sigil, just a piece of wax, but I think I’ve
lost it.”
 “That’s all right,” Rathe said. “But if you should find it—send it to
me, or to any pointsman. Don’t keep it.”
  Cytel’s eyes widened. “You don’t think—”
  “I don’t know that it’s anything,” Rathe said, firmly, “but this is
not the time to take chances.”
  “I won’t,” Cytel answered.
  “Good. Thanks for your help.” Rathe sighed, thinking of Foucquet
and his responsibilities there. It seemed a shame to send the boy
back when he was obviously happy here, but he shoved the thought
away. “I’ll have to tell Maseigne Foucquet where you are. And she
will tell your mother. But it looks as though Savatier wants you
here.”
  “She’s never met my mother,” Cytel said.
  “I’ll put in a word with Maseigne,” Rathe said, “but I can’t
promise anything. But I will talk to her.”
  “Thank you,” the boy said, with doubting courtesy. He pushed
himself to his feet, and, at Rathe’s nod, hurried back toward the
courtyard.
  “Did you get what you want?” Jhirassi asked, and stood,
stretching.
  Rathe spread his hands, trying to contain his excitement. “I don’t
know. I don’t even know for sure what I’m looking for. But—yes, I
think so. It’s what I hoped he’d say.”
  Jhirassi lifted his eyebrows, but visibly decided not to pursue the
question. “Well, then. Shall we get dinner? I’m starving, myself.”
  “You go ahead,” Rathe answered. “I have business at the
university.”
  “Your friend from Wicked’s?” Jhirassi asked.
  “Yes.”
  “Do say hello to him for me, would you? And if he doesn’t
remember who I am, I don’t want to hear about it, Nico. Lie.”
  “Oh, he’ll remember. Istre doesn’t forget people—” Rathe saw the
other draw himself up in mock anger, and added hastily. “And I
doubt anyone who’s ever met you has forgotten you.”
  “Better,” Jhirassi said. “All right, then, go on, and here I was
going to buy you dinner from Wicked’s. You won’t get better at the
university, you know.”
  “I know,” Rathe agreed, and let himself out the side door.
   By the time he reached the university precinct, the sun was well
down, and the winter-sun’s cool light threw pale shadows across the
grassy yard. A gang of students, all male, and mostly Ile’norders by
their accents, were arguing loudly on the steps of one of the
dormitories; from an upper window, the delicate notes of a cittern
floated down, sour now where the player missed her fingering, and
a trio of gargoyles tumbled quarreling across the path in front of
him. It was all appallingly ordinary, all signs of the clock-night
erased, as though the troubles that had hit the rest of Astreiant had
bypassed the university completely, and for an instant he could
understand northriver folk’s anger at the students. But then he
passed one of the outside gates, and saw the bright tassels of
protective charms dangling from the posts. There was a guard, too,
a big man, leather-jerkined, sitting unobtrusively in the shadow of
the nearest building, and Rathe shook his head. The university
knew, and was taking precautions.
   b’Estorr had left word he was expected, and the old woman
swung open her door before he could even ask. Rathe climbed the
long flight of stairs, lit by hanging oil lamps against the
winter-sun’s twilight, and found b’Estorr’s door ajar. He caught his
breath, and in the same instant dismissed his fear. No one would
rob a magist, especially not on his own home ground. He tapped on
the frame, and pushed open the door. The room was dim, only a
single lamp lit on the worktable. b’Estorr himself was sitting in one
of the window seats, a tablet tilted to the pale light, looked up with
a smile at Rathe’s appearance.
  “Good, you’re here.”
   Rathe closed the door behind him, and flicked the latch into place.
“Is it because your stuff is hard to fence that you leave the door
wide open?” As he spoke, there was a familiar eddy of cold air, like
the trailing of fingertips across the nape of his neck. They were the
real reasons for b’Estorr’s confidence, of course; the palpable
presence of the ghosts would discourage all but the most hardened
thieves, and those would know better than to give a ghost the
chance to reveal their identities.
   b’Estorr grinned. “Oh, I daresay there are shops around here that
would buy a used orrery or an astrolabe, and no questions asked.”
He folded his tablets, and crossed to the table to light the candles
that stood in a six-armed candelabrum. The warm light spread,
filling the center of the room, but Rathe could still feel the cool
presence of the ghosts. It was stronger at night, when the shadows
seemed to give visible shape to the odd breezes, and he had to make
an effort not to peer into corners.
  “Have you eaten?”
  b’Estorr asked, and gestured to the remains of a pie that stood on
the table. There was a dish of strawberries as well, and cone-sugar
and a grater, and Rathe felt his mouth water.
  “No, I haven’t, but you don’t have to keep feeding me.”
   “You might as well eat when you can,” b’Estorr answered, and
poured a glass of wine without being asked. Rathe took it, glad of
its delicate tang, and accepted a wedge of the pie as well. He had
eaten at the fair, a fried pie snatched in haste, and there had been
the bread at his own lodgings, but this, cold cheese and onions, was
far better than anything he’d had in days.
  “Anything more on the clocks?” Rathe asked, his mouth full, and
b’Estorr’s eyebrows twitched.
  “Not really. There are no records of anything similar happening
at starchange, though of course, the records aren’t great for the last
time the Starsmith was in a shared sign—for one thing, clocks were
very rare then.”
  “That was, what, six hundred years ago?” Rathe asked. Before
Chenedolle had become one kingdom, before Astreiant itself was
more than a minor fief of a petty not-yet-palatine.
  “About that,” b’Estorr answered. “You should know, though, that
there’s a minority view that holds that it was someone playing with
powers they shouldn’t.”
  “Gods above,” Rathe said, involuntarily, and b’Estorr gave him a
sour smile.
  “I doubt it’s that—the sheer scale of the power is just too great—
but the masters and scholars are looking sidelong at each other,
and at all the tricksters among the students. It’s a mess, Nico.”
  “Better yours than mine,” Rathe answered.
  “Thank you. Is there any news of the children?” the necromancer
went on, and Rathe nodded, swallowing hastily.
   “Maybe, but it’s more than we’ve had yet. There are two things,
really, and I need your help with both of them.” He reached into his
pocket, brought out his purse and carefully unknotted the strings.
He poured its contents onto the tabletop, the wax disk he’d gotten
from Ollre dark among the mix of coins and tokens and a pair of
flawed dice. He handed the disk to b’Estorr and swept the rest of it
back into the purse, saying, “Trijntje Ollre—she’s Herisse Robion’s
leman, they’re both apprentice butchers—she tells me they had
their stars read by one of these hedge-astrologers, and he gave her
this.”
   b’Estorr picked it up curiously, held it in the sphere of brightest
light from the candles. “A pretty poor piece of work it is, too. It’s
supposed to be sort of a generic ‘from-harm’—you know, the sort of
things mothers give their babies before they go off to dame school—
but it’s not very well made. All the signs are generic, and it
wouldn’t be much more effective than throwing coins in a wishing
bowl.” He shook his head, and handed it back. “You say it’s from
one of those new astrologers? I can’t say I’m surprised. They can’t
be that well trained.”
  “So it’s not harmful,” Rathe said.
  b’Estorr shook his head again. “Not likely. It’s not helpful, either,
and if the girl paid money for it, well…”
  Rathe waved that away. “What would you say if I told you I’d
found another child—obviously not one of the missing—who’d
gotten a charm from another one of these astrologers?”
  “I’d be—intrigued,” b’Estorr said. “Can I see it?”
  Rathe shook his head regretfully. “The boy didn’t have it, said
he’d lost it, but from the sound of it, it was pretty much the same
as this one. What makes it really interesting, though, is that half
the kids who’ve gone missing from Point of Hopes had their stars
read before they vanished, and probably by one of the
hedge-astrologers.”
   “You’re right,” b’Estorr said. “That’s very interesting.” He lifted
the charm again, holding it to the light. “Mind you,” he went on,
reluctantly, “it could just be coincidence—these aren’t very
effective, and maybe they just didn’t work.”
  “It has to mean something,” Rathe said. “We don’t have anything
else to go on.” He took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing.”
  “Oh?” b’Estorr gave him an odd look, and set the charm down
again. “I wonder if it’s the same thing we’ve been noticing, with
these nativities.”
   Rathe bared teeth in an angry smile. “It could be. And there’s one
in particular that clinches it for me. When I was at the fair this
afternoon, I ran into a woman I know, a pickpocket, part of a
dynasty, really, working out of the old Caravansary. They’d lost one
of their apprentices, told me about it a couple weeks back.”
  “I thought the ’Serry was in Point of Sighs,” b’Estorr said.
  “It is.” Rathe shrugged. “What were they going to do, go to Sighs
and say, please help us, one of our apprentice pickpockets is
missing?”
  “But you’ve asked around,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe nodded.
  “And when I ran into Cassia, I mentioned the horoscopes, and she
said it was a shame Gavaret—that’s the boy—wasn’t getting the
same chance as the rest of the kids. I didn’t think there’d be a
chance of getting a nativity on him, and I said so, but she had it.
And it’s very detailed, Istre, close to the minute.” He reached into
his pocket, pulled out his tablet and read from the dark wax. “Born
on Midsummer Eve fourteen years ago in Dhenin. The mother said
he crowned as the town clock struck midnight and was born at the
half hour. You don’t get much better than that, not even in nobles’
houses. And all of our missing kids, every last one of them, have
nativities just as precisely noted. It’s not natural, and it’s got to
mean something.”
   b’Estorr was nodding even before he’d finished. “It’s not just your
kids, Nico. We—those of us here who’ve been doing the horoscopes
for the stations—we’ve all noticed it. All of the children, eighty-four
of them, for Dis’s sake, know their births to better than a quarter
hour. Your pickpocket—he’s just one more.” He leaned back. “Of
course, we haven’t found anything else in common, but we are
looking.”
  “There’s another oddity here, too,” Rathe said quietly. “The boy
who’d lost his charm, he’s northriver born—son of a judiciary clerk,
in fact. But he doesn’t know his birth stars, only to the hour. And
he’s not missing, even though he did talk to one of these
astrologers, though I haven’t got a shred of real evidence that
they’re involved.”
   “Can’t you do something?” b’Estorr asked. “Ban them from the
fair—hells, can’t you arrest them on suspicion? I’d think the city
would be delighted to see that happen.”
  Rathe shook his head. “The arbiters control the fair, and they say
they can’t ban them because people think of them as a good thing,
and a good alternative to the Three Nations, for that matter.”
  “Ah.” b’Estorr sat back in his chair, frowning.
  “And as for arresting them, gods, I’d like nothing better,” Rathe
went on. “We don’t have the authority.”
  “If you don’t, who does?” b’Estorr snapped, and Rathe held up his
hand.
  “Bear with me, will you? It’s complicated. The points are
relatively new here, we started out with the writ to keep the peace,
and the rest, everything else we do, has developed from that.”
  “Including tracking down lost property—and children?” b’Estorr
asked.
  “It’s all a matter of the queen’s peace, isn’t it?” Rathe answered.
“The theory being that if a woman’s household and her property
aren’t safe, then she’s more likely to break the peace trying to
preserve them—which I’ll admit is a good argument. But that’s
where our authority comes from, not anything else. Right now,
yeah, we spend most of our time trying to figure out who’s done
what to whom, and even why, but we don’t really have the queen’s
warrant for that. And if we tried to arrest the hedge-astrologers,
well, you’ve seen the broadsheets. People would cry we were
blaming them to save ourselves, and the judiciary would probably
uphold them as a matter of the queen’s peace.”
  “So where does that leave you?”
  b’Estorr asked, after a moment.
  Rathe sighed. “Confused. Why would astrologers be stealing
children, anyway?”
  “Stealing children who know their nativities to better than a
quarter hour,” b’Estorr corrected, frowning again. “We’ve been
trying to see what these nativities have in common, but maybe
we’re going at it backwards.” He looked up sharply, the blue eyes
suddenly vivid. “Maybe the astrologers already know the link, and
they’re picking out the children accordingly.”
   “Which would explain why only the ones who know their stars
closely are missing,” Rathe agreed, “but it doesn’t tell us why
they’re wanted.”
  “No.”
  b’Estorr lifted one shoulder. “Finding that’s just a matter of time
and effort, though, sorting through books. Look, thousands of
magistical procedures require the worker to have a specific
horoscope—it’s like any job, only more so, and we all trade off,
depending on when we were born, do a favor here, get a favor
there.” He broke off, shaking his head at his own distraction. “But
there aren’t that many for which you’d want children—for most of
them, in fact, children would be all wrong. And the sheer number
involved is unusual. That’s got to help narrow it down.”
  “If you say so,” Rathe said, dubiously. He looked down at the
charm again, thinking of what Monteia would say when he told her
about this, and then remembered something else she had told him
that morning. “There may be another problem, Istre. There haven’t
been any real disappearances over the past few days, not since the
twentieth of the Gargoyle. We were thinking it was good news, but
now I’m not so sure.”
  “You’re thinking they—whoever they are—have gotten everyone
they need,” b’Estorr said. He shook his head. “You’d think someone
would have noticed someone trying to hide eighty children
somewhere.”
  “Unless they were taken out of the city,” Rathe answered. “And
they must’ve been, someone would’ve seen them. The city’s been
looking too hard not to.”
  “Well, then, you’d think someone would notice anyone trying to
herd eighty-four, no, eighty-five with your pickpocket, eighty-five
children anywhere, it has to be harder than trying to hide them,”
b’Estorr muttered.
   “They must have been moved in small groups,” Rathe said, and
stopped. Even so, the only people who could hope to hide, or travel
with, large numbers of children would be people who were expected
to travel, and that meant another trip to the fair. He had friends
among the caravaners, could ask them what they’d heard. He
sighed then, thinking of the one hedge-astrologer he’d seen. “The
astrologers are still around, though who knows for how long.” He
stopped then, staring at the books that filled one tall case and
overflowed onto the table beside it. The candlelight trembled on the
rubbed gilt of the bindings, drew smudged highlights from the
heavy leather. If this were an ordinary crime, he thought,
something southriver, stolen goods, say, or pimping, we’d send
someone to buy from them, see what happened. Could I do that
here? I’d have to send a runner, none of the points at Hopes could
pass for apprentice-age, and that’s bad enough—unless Istre could
provide some sort of protection? He said, slowly, “Istre, is there
anyway you, or someone here, could protect a child from being
stolen?”
   “If we could,” b’Estorr said, sourly, “don’t you think we’d’ve done
it?”
  “I mean, knowing they’re looking for something—”
  “Without knowing what,” b’Estorr said, “there’s damn all I can
do.” He looked at the pointsman. “Why?”
  Rathe made a face. “I told you, we’d have to catch them actually
doing something before we can claim the point on them. I was
thinking about offering them some bait. If any of our runners know
their stars well enough, or even if they don’t, maybe we could fake
a nativity for them, we could send them to the fair, see what the
astrologers do about them.” He saw b’Estorr’s startled look, and
looked disgusted with himself. “Yeah, I know, it’d be dangerous. I’d
take everyone I could from Point of Hopes—hells, I’ll borrow from
Fairs, if Claes’ll let me—and make damn sure the kids never get
out of our sight. But it’s something to do, before they all disappear
back to wherever they took the kids.”
   b’Estorr was silent for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “It
might work—but don’t try faking nativities, to do it right takes
time, and unless you do it very carefully, they’ll know something’s
off. It’s a risk, of course, but what are the odds they’ll have the
right conjunction?” He leaned back in his chair again, stretching to
reach a sheaf of scribbled papers. “Right now, I’d say don’t use
anyone who has Areton in the Anvil—that’s the one thing I’ve seen
more of than I’d expect. Of course, that means about as much as
saying most of them have sun or moon in a mutable sign, anything
or nothing.”
  Rathe nodded, and scratched the prohibition into his tablet. “Is
there anything else I should know about?”
   b’Estorr shook his head, his pale hair gleaming in the candlelight.
“I wish there were, but, as I told you, there isn’t a pattern.
Just—have them be very careful. Anyway, you say you’ll be
watching them?”
   “Oh, yes,” Rathe said, grimly. And if none of our kids know their
stars well enough, someone from Dreams or Sighs will, he added
silently. And I’ll make very sure they come home safe again. He
stood and stretched, hearing the muscles crack along his spine.
“Thanks for dinner, Istre, but I’d better go now, if I want to get
home before second sunset.”
  “I’ll let you know if I—we—figure out anything,” b’Estorr said,
and smiled. “Whatever the hour.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe said again, and let himself out into the dimly lit
stairway. It wasn’t much, he thought, but it was more than he’d
had before. Monteia wouldn’t like it—hells, he thought, I’m not sure
I like it—but it stands a chance of working. He lengthened his
stride, heading through the shadowed streets toward the
Hopes-point Bridge. And I’m very much afraid it’s a chance we’ll
have to take.



                                 9
                                                             «^»
the winter-sun had passed the zenith, was declining toward the
housetops across the wide road. Eslingen eyed it cautiously, wishing
there were more clocks in Point of Hearts, guessed that he and
Denizard had been waiting for more than an hour. Not that it
wasn’t a perfectly nice tavern, the service deft and discreet—Point
of Hearts was living up to its reputation as the neighborhood for
assignations—and the wine excellent, but still, he thought, whoever
it is we’re waiting for should have been here by now.
  A shadow fell across the table, and he looked up to see Denizard
returning from the open doorway. She was frowning, her fingers
tapping against the bowl of her wine glass, and one of the waiters
hurried to her side.
  “Is everything all right, madame?”
  Denizard forced a smile, nodded. “Fine, thanks.” She glanced at
the table, littered now with emptied plates. “You can bring us
another serving of the cakes, however.”
  “At once, madame.” The waiter bowed, and hurried away.
  Denizard made a face, and reseated herself, settling her skirts
neatly around her.
  “No sign of—?” Eslingen, asked, and left the sentence delicately
unfinished.
  The magist sighed. “No. And if he’s not here by now, I doubt he’s
coming.”
  Eslingen waited, but no more information seemed to be
forthcoming. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Can you tell
me, I mean? I’m generally more useful when I have some idea of
the circumstances I’m dealing with.”
  Despite his best efforts, the words came out more sharply than
he’d intended, and Denizard gave him a hard glance. “You’re not
indispensable, however, Eslingen.”
  Eslingen held up his hands. “Agreed. But, until you dispense with
me…” He gave her his best smile, and, to his surprise, the magist
smiled back reluctantly.
   “True. And Hanse said I should use my discretion.” She glanced
around again, and Eslingen looked with her. The tavern was hardly
crowded, most of the drinkers clustered at the far side of the wide
room by the unlit fireplace. A man and a woman, the woman in a
wide-brimmed hat and hood that effectively hid her face, sat at a
corner table, leaning close, their plates forgotten. Conspirators or
clandestine lovers, Eslingen guessed, and not much interested in
anything except each other.
  “It’s the Ajanine property,” Denizard said. She kept her voice low,
but didn’t whisper. “Hanse—and Madame Allyns, but mostly
Hanse; he takes the risk for her—has owned this land for four
years now, and we’ve never had any trouble, but this year…” She
shook her head again. “This year, we haven’t seen our gold, or had
word from the so-called landame. The mine is seigneurial, the
landame has full control of the takings. So she pays her debt in
gold, and we—Hanse has the funds he needs to finance his caravans
and caravels. But this year, Maseigne de Mailhac hasn’t done her
part.”
  Which explained a great deal, Eslingen thought. It explained
Rouvalles’s impatience, and Caiazzo’s temper, and probably even
the old woman in the Court. He said aloud, “You can’t mean we’re
waiting for the gold. Not just the two of us.”
  “I thought you were good, soldier,” Denizard answered.
  “No one’s that good.”
   Denizard grinned. “At least you’re honest. We’re waiting for one
of Hanse’s men, he sent him north a good month ago, and he should
have been back some days since.” She shook her head, the smile
fading. “There’s something very wrong at Mailhac, Eslingen, that’s
for sure. And I’m very much afraid Hanse is going to have to send
one of us to deal with the situation.”
  Eslingen nodded, but said nothing. Denizard sighed again, and
pushed herself away from the table, went to the door again to peer
out into the soft twilight. Eslingen watched her go, turning the
stem of his wine glass in his hand, and wondered what he should do
with this knowledge. He had promised Rathe word of anything
strange about Caiazzo’s business, and part ownership of an Ajanine
gold mine—an Ajanine gold mine located of necessity on noble
land—was certainly out of the ordinary. Except, he added, with an
inward grin, maybe for Hanselin Caiazzo. He had known from
Rathe’s own words that Caiazzo’s dealings weren’t all legal, but he
was only just beginning to understand the scope of the
long-distance trader’s operations, legitimate as well as not. Perhaps
an Ajanine manor wasn’t so far out of Caiazzo’s usual range as he’d
thought.
  He leaned back as the waiter returned with the dish of cakes,
replacing the previous dishes with quick deference. He liked
Caiazzo’s service, liked the sober elegance of the house and his own
place in it, suspected he would be aping the cut of Caiazzo’s coat for
years to come. He didn’t want to give it up—and why should he,
especially for Rathe, whom he’d known less than a solar
month?—and he’d be lucky if the job was all he lost if he betrayed
Caiazzo to the points. He remembered the old woman in her empty
shop at the heart of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, and
shivered, trying to blame it on the evening air. If she found out he’d
betrayed Caiazzo, he’d be fighting off her bravos for the rest of the
year, and think himself lucky to escape to the border fighting.
Besides, illegal Caiazzo’s dealings might be— were, he corrected
himself, unmistakably outside Chenedolle’s laws— but they had
nothing whatsoever to do with the missing children. That was all
he’d promised Rathe; unless and until he found any indication
Caiazzo was dabbling in that, he would keep Caiazzo’s business
strictly to himself.
As Rathe had expected, Monteia didn’t like the idea of using the
runners to force the hedge-astrologers into the open. She shook her
head when he had finished, and leaned back against the window
frame, her long face very sober.
  “It’s a long shot, Nico, a very long shot,” she said at last. “I think
you’re right, this has to be the reason these kids are being taken,
but to risk our runners…” She shook her head, her voice trailing off
into silence.
  “Can you think of a better way of stopping them?” Rathe asked,
and Monteia shook her head again.
  “Not offhand, no. But I want to try. I owe them that much, Nico.”
She drew herself up, planted her elbows on the table. “I’m going to
draft a letter to all the points, and to Claes in particular—that
might get his attention better than just sending you to talk to him.”
   Rathe made a face, but admitted that Monteia was probably
right. Claes was ready to be annoyed with Hopes over his presence
in the fair the day before; better to follow protocol than to risk
angering him just when they would need him most.
  “On the other hand,” Monteia went on, “there’s one thing you
said that we can follow up on, and we haven’t yet. If the kids aren’t
in the city, then where are they?”
  “They have to have been taken away,” Rathe said. “We’d’ve found
them otherwise.”
  Monteia nodded. “I agree. And I know you’ve got friends in the
caravans.”
  “In a manner of speaking,” Rathe said. “I did Monferriol a favor
once.”
  “Then he can do you one,” Monteia said. “Give a shout for Andry
and Houssaye, will you?”
  Rathe did as he was told, and a moment later the pointsmen
appeared in the doorway, looking puzzled.
  “Come on in,” Monteia said, “and close the door. I’ve got work for
you.”
  The two filed in, wedging themselves into the space between
Rathe’s chair and the wall, and Houssaye shut the door carefully
behind him.
  Monteia nodded. “All right. Nico, you’ll take the caravans at the
fair, since you know Monferriol. Andry, I want you and Houssaye to
take the river, Exemption Docks to the Chain. We’re looking for
any way that these child-thieves could have taken the kids out of
the city— anything out of the ordinary, someone leaving too soon or
too late, hiding his cargo, anything at all.”
  The pointsmen exchanged glances, and then Andry said,
cautiously, “We’ve done a lot of that already, Chief. And so far,
nobody’s noticed anything.”
  “Well, do it again,” Monteia answered. She hesitated, then said,
almost reluctantly, “We may have something to go on. Nico and his
necromancer friend have found something all the kids have in
common, though the gods alone know why it matters. All of them
knew their stars to better than the quarter hour. You can pass that
on as you see fit—it may calm some people down—but be careful
with it.”
   Andry nodded, his face thoughtful, and Houssaye said, slowly, “I
don’t think the river-folk are involved, Chief. I’ve spoken to friends
of mine in Hearts and Dreams, and they say they’ve been keeping a
close watch on the Chain. Nobody’s gone upriver without being
searched.”
   That was not good news, Rathe thought. The Sier was a major
highway for trade, but if the upriver traffic was being searched,
then that left only the downriver, and that led to the sea and the
Silklands. He shivered in spite of himself at the thought of the
missing children being taken out of Chenedolle entirely, and saw
from Andry’s expression that the same thought was in his mind as
well.
  “Look anyway,” Monteia said. “Gods, if they were taken to sea—”
She broke off again, not wanting to articulate the thought, but the
three men nodded. She didn’t need to articulate it: they had no
authority outside Astreiant, but at least anywhere in Chenedolle
they could appeal to the royal authority. If the children were
outside the kingdom, the gods only knew whether the local rulers
would listen to them. And, worst of all, least to be spoken, there
was the chance that the children had simply been taken to sea and
abandoned to the waves. In ancient times, Oriane’s worship had
demanded those sacrifices; Rathe crossed his fingers, praying that
no one had decided to revive those customs.
  “Our best chance is probably the caravans or the horsemarket at
the Little Fair,” Monteia said briskly, and Rathe shook away his
fears. “Nico, I’m sorry to be asking you to handle it alone, but it’s
more discreet that way. I don’t want to antagonize Fairs if I can
avoid it.”
  Rathe nodded. “I’ll be careful,” he said and Monteia nodded.
  “Right. Be off with you, then.”
  Rathe made his way to the fair by the Manufactory Bridge,
skirting the fairgrounds proper until he reached the quarter where
the caravaners camped. It was busy, as usual; he had to wait while
an incoming train, a good two dozen packhorses, all heavily laden,
plus attendants, made their way up the main street and were
turned into a waiting corral. He followed them toward the stables,
walking carefully, and felt a sudden pang of uncertainty. The
arriving caravan was obviously one of the ones working the shorter
routes—to Cazaril in the south, say, or across to the Chadroni gap.
They came in almost daily throughout the fair, and most of them
would stay a few days beyond the official closing, to ensure they
sold all their goods. The ones working the longer routes, however,
would almost certainly leave earlier, well before the end of the fair,
especially if they had to take a northern route. And Monferriol was
a northern traveller. Bonfortune send I haven’t missed him, Rathe
thought, and in the same instant saw a familiar blue and yellow
pennant flying over one of the tents set up outside the stables.
Monferriol worked for a consortium of small traders, had a knack
for taking his principals’ goods safely through the Chadroni Gap,
across Chadron itself, and into the Vestara beyond, keeping just
ahead of the worst weather until he reached
Al’manon-of-the-Snows. He wintered there, and returning to
Astreiant with the first thaws, bringing the first shipments of the
northern goods, wools, uncured leathers, wine, and all the rest. Of
necessity, his timing was precise, and his awareness of his
surroundings exquisitely tuned: he would know if anyone had left
ahead of him, and where they were going, and why.
  He turned toward the stables, stopped the first hostler he saw
who carried Monferriol’s yellow and blue ribbons. “Is Monferriol
about?”
  The woman looked up at him, took in the jerkin and truncheon,
and sighed. “Oh, gods, did he forget to pay his damned bond again?
I wish he’d stop playing these games with you lot, the rest of us
have work to do.”
   Rathe shook his head. “I’m not from Fairs’ Point, I’m from Point
of Hopes—and I’m a friend of Jevis’s, just wanted to say hello.”
   The hostler pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak
of dust along one cheekbone. “I think you’ll find him in the factors’
tent, pointsman.”
  “If he’s busy—”
   She looked at him, her mouth twisting into a gap-toothed grin.
“Do you know a single factor who’s up at this hour, or at least here?
I don’t, and I don’t think I’d want to. No, he’s just gloating over the
route again, the bastard. You know where it is? Right, the fancy
one.” She turned back to the corral even as she spoke, and Rathe
turned toward the factors’ tent.
  It was elaborate, he thought, but then, the consortium probably
had to make more of a display than established traders like Caiazzo
or older consortia like the Talhafers. And it was bright, crimson
canvas— not much faded, yet—flying a bright yellow pennant with
Monferriol’s blue ferret rampant in a circle. He could hear a
toneless, rumbling humming through the walls, and pulled the flap
aside.
  “Jevis? Planning new tortures for your people?”
  “Gods above, boy, don’t scare me like that, I thought you were
the competition,” Monferriol bellowed, and Rathe saw that, indeed,
he did have a knife in his hand. Rathe’s expert eye gauged it as just
within the city’s legal limits. It might be a little longer, but not
enough to make it worth a pointsman’s while to question it.
  “Is business getting that cutthroat?” he asked, and Monferriol
dropped back onto his high stool, snorting. He was a huge man, tall
and heavy-set, hair and beard an untidy hedge.
  “Isn’t it always? That bastard Caiazzo’s got the eastern route
sewed up, and a damned good caravan-master he has too, but he
can’t touch me in the north, for all he keeps trying.”
  “That’s something to be satisfied with, surely,” Rathe said,
mildly. He knew perfectly well that Monferriol and his consortium
had been trying to make inroads into the eastern route for the last
few years.
  “It’s something to keep me awake nights,” Monferriol answered,
and looked back at the maps spread out on the table beside him.
“Though why I should lie awake when none of my principals do, I
bloody well don’t know.”
 “It’s their money and they trust you?” Rathe guessed, and
Monferriol made a face.
   “More to the point, it’s my blood and my reputation on the line,
every time we cross the blighted Gap. Godless people, the
Chadroni.” He looked down at the maps, shaking his head. “It
figures Caiazzo would have one for his master.”
  “Then why do it?” Rathe asked. He should get to his own
business, he knew, but the sheer scale of Monferriol’s affairs—and
ego—always fascinated him.
   “Why? Gods, boy, because I can. Because I’m the best there is at
managing a caravan through the Gap and Chadron and the
Vestara. Why in all hells are you a pointsman? Because you’re good
at it, and if you didn’t do it, someone else would, and get all the
glory—or else muck it up and leave you fuming at them for a pack
of incompetents.”
  And that was true enough, Rathe reflected, and not what he’d
expected to hear. He saw an almanac open beside the map, and
nodded to it. “What are the temples forecasting for this winter?”
   Monferriol stuck out his lower lip as he looked down at the little
book. “Heavy snows in the Gap, they’re saying, the worst in
memory. Of course, last year they predicted a mild winter, and we
all know how accurate that was.”
  Rathe grinned. The previous winter had been unusually bad, with
snow before Midwinter in Astreiant itself.
  “So,” Monferriol said, and swung around so that his back was to
the table. “What can I do for you, Nico?”
  “I need your—advice, your expert knowledge,” Rathe said. “It’s
about the children.”
   “Oh, that. That’s a bad business. What are you lot doing about
it?”
   “What we can,” Rathe answered. “What I want to know from you
is whether you’ve noticed anything odd among the caravans this
fair.”
  “We’re an odd lot,” Monferriol answered, but Rathe thought he
looked wary. “What did you have in mind?”
  “Has anyone changed their usual plans, left earlier than
expected, not come in till late, anything?”
  Monferriol’s face screwed up in thought. He was acting, Rathe
thought suddenly, and bit back his sudden anger. Before either man
could speak, however, the flap was pulled back again. “Gods above,”
Monferriol roared, and Rathe thought there was as much relief as
anger in his tone. “What is this, a waystation? Oh, it’s you,
Rouvalles. What do you want.”
  The newcomer lifted an eyebrow, but said, equably enough, “I’ve
come about those extra horses you wanted. I can spare you two, but
you’ll pay.”
 “I always do when I deal with the godless Chadroni,” Monferriol
muttered.
   The other man—Rouvalles—lifted a shoulder in a shrug. He was
almost as tall as Monferriol, his long hair drawn back with a strip
of braided leather that had probably come from a broken harness.
“They’re good horses and you know it.”
  “Better than those last screws you sold me?”
  “Those screws are pure Vestaran blood, Jevis, but if you don’t
want them you don’t, and there’s no point in my forcing them on
you.” Rouvalles glanced at Rathe, nodded politely. “Sorry to
interrupt.”
  “How in the name of all the gods, and poor Bonfortune above all,
does Caiazzo ever turn a profit with you?” Monferriol demanded,
rolling his eyes to the tent’s peak. “You won’t bargain, you won’t
even allow the possibility of haggling—”
   “I don’t have time to haggle,” Rouvalles said, cutting through the
tirade with what sounded like the ease of long practice. “I’m already
two weeks late, as you damn well know. You can have the horses or
not, it makes no difference to me.”
  “Money came through finally, did it?” Monferriol asked, and
Rouvalles shrugged.
  “As you also know.”
  “So you’re Caiazzo’s caravan-master,” Rathe interjected. He
hoped he sounded casual, but doubted it.
  Rouvalles glanced at him, the smile ready enough, but the pale
eyes cool and assessing. “You know Hanselin, then—oh, I see.
Pointsman.” He grinned suddenly, and the humor looked genuine.
“Then I guess you would know him. Yes, I’m his caravan-master,
and no, I’m not spiriting any children out of Astreiant. You can
check my camp if you like, but you wouldn’t find any children there
in any case, they’re useless on a long route like mine.”
  “Fairs’ Point already spoke to you, then,” Rathe said,
apologetically, and was surprised when Rouvalles shook his head,
one dirty gold curl escaping from the tied leather.
   “No. Hanse’s new knife, in actual fact, which should count in
Hanse’s favor. Have you been looking in his direction, pointsman?
It wouldn’t be like him, you know.”
  “I do know,” Rathe agreed. “You said you’re late leaving the city.
You haven’t noticed anyone who’s left early, or in a hurry, or just
been acting odd?”
  Rouvalles shook his head again. “Not that I’ve noticed.” He looked
at Monferriol. “So, Jevis, you want the horses?”
  “I want the damn horses, yes.”
 “All right, then, I’ll have them brought round once you send the
money. How many children are you missing, pointsman?”
 Monferriol slid off his stood. “Oh, very funny, Rouvalles, indeed.
Would you get out?”
  “No, I’m curious.” Rouvalles lifted a hand, and Monferriol
subsided, muttering. Gesture and response seemed automatic: the
Chadroni was almost aristocratic, for a caravaner, Rathe thought,
and stilled his own instinctive rebellion. “How many?”
  “Throughout the city, eighty-five. Why?” He fixed his eyes on
Rouvalles, and the Chadroni looked away.
  “You should probably ask Jevis why he’s buying horses so late in
the season.”
  “You bastard,” Monferriol flared, and Rouvalles glared at him.
  “I’ve heard the same story from half a dozen people, and if you lot
won’t go to the points you brag of in every other city in the world—
well, by all the gods, I will.”
  “Jevis?” Rathe looked at Monferriol, and the big man threw up
his hands.
  “There’s no law against selling horses, for Bonfortune’s sake. And
there’s no reason to think this had anything to do with the
children.”
  “Except,” Rouvalles said, “that this pointsman is asking about
anything out of the ordinary. And by Tyrseis, this is just that.”
  Rathe looked from one to the other. “One of you can start from
the beginning and explain. Jevis?”
   Monferriol looked distinctly abashed. “It’s nothing, really—almost
certainly. But, oh, a week or two ago, maybe seven, eight days, a
man came to me and wanted to buy a pair of draft horses. Suitable
for pulling a baggage wagon—hells, I thought he was a damn
mercenary, there are enough of them around these days. But he
offered me half again what the beasts were worth, and when I
hesitated—I thought I’d heard him wrong—he upped the price
again. So I sold them, and even at his prices—” He jerked his head
at Rouvalles. “—I’ll still make a profit.” He stopped then, glaring
first at Rouvalles and then at the pointsman.
  Rathe shook his head. “Interesting, but I don’t see—”
   Rouvalles stirred, and Monferriol said hastily, “The thing is, the
same thing’s happened to a dozen of us, a man coming and wanting
to buy draft horses. And offering too good a price to turn him down.
It hasn’t been the same man, always, but still, well, it got some of
us wondering. They’re not traders, that’s for sure, but beyond that,
who knows? We didn’t know if we should go to the points or not.
Nico, it might have been something ordinary.”
  Rathe nodded, absently, his mind racing. A dozen traders, selling
one or two horses each—that would easily be enough to transport
eighty-five children. The only question was, where had they been
taken? He said, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who this person
was?”
  Monferriol shook his head. “I told you, I thought he was a
mercenary, the successful kind. He dressed like an upper servant,
mind you, nice coat, nice manners.”
 “What did he look like?” Rathe asked, without much hope, and
wasn’t surprised when the big man shrugged.
  “Ordinary. I’m sorry, boy, he was—well, middling everything.
You know the sort, sort of wood-colored.”
  Rathe grinned in spite of himself, in spite of the situation. He
knew exactly the sort of man Monferriol was describing,
brown-haired, brown-skinned, brown-eyed, utterly unremarkable
features—the points took dozens of them for thieving every year,
and released half of them for lack of a victim to swear to them.
“What about you?” he said to Rouvalles, and the Chadroni shook his
head.
  “All I know is what I’ve heard from Jevis and some others. I don’t
use draft horses, you can’t take carts over the land-bridge.”
  Rathe sighed—that would have been too much good luck—and
looked back at Monferriol. “Jevis, I’m going to tell you this once,
and I want you to do it for me. Consider it the favor you owe me.”
  “We’ll see,” Monferriol said, but nodded.
  “Go to Fairs’ Point with this,” Rathe said. “Get together
everybody who’s sold to these people, and go to Guillot Claes, he’s
the chief at Fairs’, and tell him what you’ve told me. They’ve
probably left the city, but it’s worth trying to find them, and this is
Fairs’ business, not mine.”
  “You couldn’t keep us company,” Monferriol said, without real
hope, and Rathe shook his head.
  “It would look better if it was just you.”
   “Right.” Monferriol made a face. “Bonfortune help me, but I’ll do
it.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe said, and included Rouvalles in his nod.
  The Chadroni smiled, the expression a little melancholy. “It’s a
bad business, this,” he said. “Not to mention bad for business. I
hope you find them.” He looked back at Monferriol. “Send the
money, and I’ll send the horses. And sooner would be better than
later, I’m going to be busy the next few days.”
   “You’ll get your money,” Monferriol growled. Rouvalles waved a
hand, acknowledgement and farewell, and ducked back out the tent
flap. Monferriol looked at Rathe. “I would’ve gone to the points
sooner, Nico, but—hells, I didn’t realize, none of us did, just how
many horses were being bought this way.”
  “Go now,” Rathe said, gently. “Claes will be grateful, I’m sure of
that. It’s one of the first solid things we’ve had.”
  “I hope you catch the bastards,” Monferriol answered. “Hanging’s
too good for them.”
  “We’re doing what we can,” Rathe answered, and followed
Rouvalles out of the tent. And that was more than he’d thought
they’d be able to do yesterday, he thought, as he made his way back
toward Point of Hopes, but still not enough.
  Monteia was waiting in the station’s main room, fingers tapping
impatiently on the edge of the worktable. She rose as he came in,
saying, “Well?”
  “More news, Chief,” he answered. “Monferriol says that some
people—not traders, not anything he recognized—have been buying
draft horses from various of the caravaners. A lot of horses, Chief,
enough to pull enough wagons to carry eighty-five children.”
  Monteia went very still. “Any idea of who, or where they went?”
  Rathe shook his head. “I told Jevis—Monferriol—to take himself
and the others over to Fairs’ Point, let them work on it. But I think
we know how they’re being moved now.”
  “And damn all good it does us,” Monteia muttered. “We know two
hows, how they’re choosing the kids and some of how they’re
moving them, but that doesn’t get us anything useful.”
  “Not yet,” Rathe answered, and hoped it was true.
  Monteia sighed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said this
morning. I still don’t like it, but I can’t think of anything better.
Let’s get the runners in here, and see if any of them are willing to
be bait.”
  Rathe flinched—put that baldly, the idea seemed to have even
less merit—but went to the door and looked out. The youngest of
the runners, a child from the Brewers’ Court who looked even
younger than his ten years, was sitting on the edge of the empty
horse trough, and Rathe beckoned to him. “Laci! Find the rest of
the runners, will you, and ask them to come in here, please.”
  “Are we in trouble?” The boy looked warily at him, and Rathe felt
his smile turn sickly.
  “No.” Not unless we make some bad mistakes, he added silently,
and Astree send we don’t. “The chief has a job for some of you,
that’s all.”
  “All right.” The boy turned away, and Rathe called after him.
  “As soon as possible, please.”
  Laci lifted a hand in answer, and darted away. Rathe stood for a
moment, looking at the now-empty yard, and then went back into
the station. To his surprise, however, Laci was back in less than a
quarter of an hour, and half a dozen of the other runners were with
him.
   “This was all I could find, Nico,” Laci announced. “Is that all
right?”
  “That’s fine,” Rathe answered. He stood back, letting the little
group file past him into the station, and saw Monteia shake her
head.
   “In the workroom, please,” she said aloud, and the runners edged
in, whispering and murmuring among themselves. Rathe followed
them in, and closed the door behind them. He knew all of them, of
course: Laci; raw-boned Jacme, who’d been kicked out of his own
house and slept behind the bar at the Cazaril Grey; willowy Biatris,
who would get her apprenticeship next year if the station itself had
to pay her fees; Surgi, dark and stocky, born in the Rivermarket
docks; Fasquelle de Galhac, who had a brain despite the pretensions
of her name; stolid Lennar with his crooked nose; and finally
Asheri, his favorite of this year’s group. She was standing a little
apart from the rest, her thin face very grave, and he wondered if
something was wrong. Then Monteia had seated herself behind the
table, gestured for the runners to make themselves comfortable.
  “As you may or may not have heard, we’ve found something all
the missing lads have in common,” she began bluntly. “They all
knew their stars to a quarter hour or better, and a lot of them,
maybe all of them, had their stars read by one of these new
astrologers we’ve been hearing about. Which gives us an obvious
option.”
  Biatris was already nodding, her thumbs hooked into the belt she
wore beneath her sleeveless bodice. Asheri tipped her head to one
side but made no other move, while Surgi and Lennar exchanged
nervous glances. Monteia gave them all a jaundiced look.
  “I’ll say from the start that I’m not particularly happy with this
idea, but it could work, and it’s vital that we catch these bastards.”
She took a deep breath. “What we need is someone of the right
age—your ages—who knows her stars close enough to go and get a
reading done. We’ll be watching you, of course, myself and Nico and
Houssaye and Salineis, but there’s a chance something could go
wrong. So think about that before you answer.”
  Surgi and Lennar exchanged looks again, and Lennar said, “I’d do
it—”
  “—in a minute,” Surgi agreed.
  “—but I don’t know my stars that well,” Lennar finished. “And
neither does Surgi. Couldn’t we pretend?”
   “I asked about that at the university,” Rathe said. “Istre—a
friend of mine who’s a necromancer—said that they’d be able to
tell.”
  “Oh.” Surgi’s shoulders sagged visibly, but then he brightened.
“We could go with everybody, help make sure the astrologers don’t
steal them.”
  “We’ll see,” Monteia said. “All right. Do any of you know your
stars to the quarter hour?”
  There was a little silence then, and Asheri said, “I do. Better than
that, actually, I was born on the hour.”
  Biatris nodded. “I know mine to just about the quarter.”
  Monteia nodded again. “And would you be willing to do this—
knowing it could be dangerous?”
  There was another silence, longer this time, and then Biatris
shrugged. “If it might help, yeah, sure.”
  Asheri looked at her shoes, and Rathe felt unreasonably guilty.
She didn’t want to be a pointswoman, he knew that well
enough—her real love was needlework, and one of the reasons she
worked as a runner was to save the fees she needed to join the
Embroiderers’ Guild. He tilted his head, trying to see her face, and
was relieved to see it merely thoughtful, neither afraid nor angry.
She looked up then, and nodded. “All right. I’m willing.”
  “I think we should all go,” Lennar said, and Jacme nodded. He
was the oldest of the group, seemed older, Rathe knew, because
he’d been on his own so long.
   “I agree.” He grinned, showing the gap at the side of his mouth
where a tooth had been knocked out. “Even with Nico and
everybody keeping an eye on us, they’ll have to stay back to keep
from upsetting these astrologers, and hells, it’d have to be harder to
steal just one from among a group.”
   “It’s been done,” Rathe said, but looked at Monteia, and nodded.
“I think he’s right, Chief.”
  “I agree.” Monteia reached under the worktable, pulled out the
station’s strongbox, and fished under her bodice for the key. She
unlocked the heavy chest, and took put a bag of coins. “What did
you say they charged, Nico?”
  “Half a demming, or so most of the lads who didn’t get taken
said,” Rathe answered, and Monteia grunted.
   “Better give you a few more than that,” she said, and counted out
three demmings for each of the runners. “If you don’t spend it, keep
it. And there’ll be a seilling apiece when we all get back.”
   A seilling was decent money, and Mathe saw several of the
runners exchange glances, suddenly sobered. If Monteia was willing
to pay that much, they were obviously thinking, then it must be
serious. Good, he thought, and said aloud, “One thing more. These
astrologers are also offering charms against the current troubles. If
he offers you one, take it, but give it to one of us as soon as you can,
all right? We can take it to the university.”
  Biatris and Asheri nodded.
  “All right,” Monteia said. “Stay together as much as you can
without looking suspicious—Biatris, you and Asheri stay tight,
that’ll make it easier to watch you. Everyone understand?” The
runners nodded. “Right, then. Let’s go to the fair.”
  It didn’t take long to collect the rest of the duty pointsmen and
women, and to abandon the semiuniform of jerkin and truncheon.
Rathe trailed behind the little knot of children as they passed the
edge of the fair precinct, aware of Houssaye strolling a little behind
him, parasol balanced on his shoulder. At the midafternoon, things
were a little less busy than usual; a number of the stalls had fewer
workers in evidence, and Rathe could see merchants snatching a
hurried meal in the back of others. At least it would be easier to
watch the kids than it would have been in the full crowds, he
thought, as long as the astrologers do their part.
   They made their way across the full width of the fairground
without result, though Laci stopped to spend some of his coins on
stick candy and a cup of thick, sweet Silklands tea. At the northern
edge, where the linen-sellers had their booths, the group of runners
paused, and Rathe stepped back into the shade of an awning,
pretending to examine the bolts of coarse cloth.
  “That’s good for shirts, sir,” the woman behind the counter said.
“Wears like iron, and only an aster a yard. You won’t get a better
shirt for two seillings.”
  Rathe nodded, not really listening. Out of the corner of his eye,
he could see the runners arguing about something, Biatris and
Asheri pointing back toward the center of the fair, Lennar pointing
toward the distant corrals. Rathe frowned—what were they
thinking of, to split the group?—and then he saw the way that Laci
was fidgeting. Even as he realized what was happening, Jacme
caught the younger boy by the hand and started off at speed toward
the corrals and the latrines beyond. Rathe swore under his breath,
and turned away from the stall, looking around for one of the other
pointsmen. Before he could do anything, however, he saw Salineis,
conspicuous in a broad-brimmed hat, take off after them. He
allowed himself a sigh of relief—at least someone would be
watching them, even if they weren’t in the most likely group—and
turned to follow the others.
  They had gotten a little ahead of him, were just turning into the
row of stalls that sold needles and fine thread. Asheri’s doing, Rathe
thought, and did his best not to hurry after them. She took her
time making her way along the rows of stalls, obviously drawn in
by the displays: silk and linen and even cotton thread in every
thickness and every color of the rainbow; packets of pins wrapped
in bright dyed paper; polishing glasses, dark and light; needles and
needle-cases and shears in every size from the length of a finger to
heavy iron things nearly as long as a woman’s forearm. Biatris
stayed close to her side, though from the glazed look on her face,
she would rather have been somewhere else, but the rest of the
runners had drawn ahead of them, and at last Fasquelle stopped,
turned back to stare at them.
  “Come on, will you?” Her clear voice floated above the noise of
the fair, audible along the length of the row.
   Biatris lifted a hand, and then touched Asheri’s shoulder. The
younger girl sighed, and moved reluctantly away from the array of
threads. Rathe grinned, sympathizing with both sides, and the
expression froze on his face as he saw a man in a black robe turn
into the row of stalls. He seemed ordinary enough, the shabby
scholar’s robe half open over a plain dark suit, his round face a little
pink from the heat, but Rathe felt his spine tingle. The man spoke
to the first group of runners, and Rathe saw Surgi shake his head.
The astrologer shrugged, smiling, and moved on. Asheri had seen
him, too, and as he drew abreast, she stepped into his path. She
said something—asking for a reading, Rathe knew, and didn’t know
if he was impressed or appalled by her bravery—and jerked her
head toward Biatris, who moved up to join her. The astrologer
looked from one to the other, nodding, and then motioned for them
to follow him. He led them back the way they’d come, and Rathe
looked away, pretended to be examining a length of embroidered
ribbon, as they passed him. He counted to twenty, then shook his
head at the stall-keeper, and trailed after the black-robed figure.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Houssaye’s parasol, and then
Monteia’s oxblood skirt and bodice suit. If the astrologer tried
anything, they would be ready.
   The astrologer paused then, and gestured for the girls to precede
him down an alley that ran between two of the larger stalls. Asheri
hesitated for a fraction of a second, but Biatris stepped firmly on,
and the younger girl followed, the astrologer in his black robe
trailing after them both. Rathe swore under his breath, and looked
around wildly. Monteia was already moving to put herself at the far
end of the alley, and Houssaye and Andry were in place as well. The
sight was steadying, and Rathe made himself walk casually past
the alley-mouth. He could do nothing more than glance in, not
without rousing suspicion, but in that instant he caught a glimpse
of the two girls standing fascinated, eyes on the orrery held by the
astrologer. He was adjusting one of the rings that gave the
planetary positions, and seemed to be explaining something at the
same time. And then Rathe was past, and made himself stop at the
nearest stall, trying to pretend to study the display of needles.
  “Andry’s gone round the other end with the chief,” Houssaye said,
softly, and leaned over the other man’s shoulder. His parasol was
neatly folded now, Rathe saw, ready for action.
  “Good,” Rathe answered. “Is there any way of getting closer?”
  Houssaye shook his head, his face reflecting the same frustration
Rathe was feeling. “Not without being seen. Gods—” He broke off
then, shaking his head, and Rathe laid a hand on his shoulder.
  “There’s no other way in or out,” he said, with more confidence
than he felt. “So we wait.”
  It seemed an interminable time before the girls reappeared,
walking solemnly on either side of the astrologer. Both looked
thoughtful, and Rathe found himself holding his breath. If the
astrologer has already placed some geas on them—but that was
supposed to be impossible, or at best extremely difficult without the
proper tools and carefully chosen stars, he reminded himself. The
astrologer said something to the girls, and then turned away,
heading toward the center of the fair.
  Rathe nudged Houssaye. “Follow him,” he said, and himself
moved up to join the runners. The rest of the runners hurried over,
too, and Rathe gathered them into a tight group.
  “Are you all right?” he said, to Asheri and Biatris, and both girls
nodded.
  “It wasn’t anything, really,” Biatris said, and Rathe held up his
hand.
  “We’ll talk when we get back to the station. Where’s Jacme and
Laci?”
  “Laci had to piss,” Fasquelle answered, and Salineis loomed over
her shoulder.
  “They’re with me, Nico. The chief says we should get back to the
station. She’ll meet us there.”
  Rathe nodded. “We’ll take a boat,” he said, and added silently,
and I’ll pay for it myself if the station won’t.
  It took a few minutes to find a boat that would take the entire
group upstream, but eventually they found a small barge and Rathe
herded everyone aboard. Despite the current, it didn’t take long to
reach the landing at the Rivermarket, and Rathe led them quickly
back through the streets to the station house. To his surprise,
Monteia was there ahead of them, sitting scowling at the main
desk. Her frown eased a little as she saw them, and she gestured
for the runners to find seats in the clutter of the main room.
  “Sal, shut the door. Nico, where’s Houssaye?”
 “I told him to follow the astrologer,” Rathe answered, and
Monteia nodded.
  “Good luck to him, then. All right, what happened?”
  Biatris and Asheri exchanged glances, and the older girl said,
“Not a whole lot, really. Asheri asked if he read stars, and what
he’d charge to read ours. And he said it’d be a demming for both of
us, and asked what our stars were. I told him mine, and he said
that, since I knew mine so well, he could give me a proper reading,
with his orrery. So we went between a couple of stalls where it was
quiet, and he did. He didn’t say much, though, not much more than
I could’ve gotten from a broadsheet.”
  “I told him mine, too,” Asheri said, “and he gave me a hard time
about them, kept on about was I sure that was right.” She made a
face. “I think he could tell I was southriver born, and wanted to
make sure I wasn’t lying. But I asked him if he thought I would
ever be able to join the Embroiderers’ Guild, and he did a reading
for that. He had a really fancy orrery, though.”
  “I thought it looked pretty battered,” Biatris objected, and Asheri
nodded.
  “It was, but it was—well, more complicated than a lot of ones I’ve
seen. It had a lot more rings to it.” She shrugged. “Anyway, then he
warned us to be very careful, that the trouble was almost over, but
that we couldn’t relax yet. And that was the end of it.”
  “Did he give you anything?” Rathe asked.
  “Oh, gods.” Biatris reached into the pocket under her skirt. “He
said it was a charm against the current troubles.” She produced a
disk of dark wax, marked with the same sort of symbols Rathe had
seen on the other charms. He took it from her, turning it over in his
hand, and looked at Asheri.
  “Did you get one, too?”
   She was nodding already, held out a second wax disk. “It’s funny,
I thought it looked a little different—” She broke off, eyes widening,
and Rathe held the two disks in the light from the window.
  “They are different,” Monteia said, and came to look over Rathe’s
shoulder.
  He nodded, turning the disks in the light. Asheri’s was a different
color, more green than black, though still very dark, and the
symbols embossed on its surface seemed to be arranged in a
different order. “I think Istre should see these right away,” he said,
and heard the shadow of fear in his own voice.
  Monteia nodded. “I agree.” She looked at the runners. “And I
think you should stay here, the lot of you, at least until we know
what’s happening.”
  Rathe pocketed the charms. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said,
and hurried out into the afternoon heat.
  b’Estorr was not in his rooms, but a grey-gowned student
volunteered that she thought the necromancer was at the library.
Rathe thanked her, and made his way back across the wide yard to
the massive building that housed the university’s library. It looked
as formidable as many fortresses, thick walls and narrow windows,
and the narrow lobby was cold even in the summer heat, the stones
hoarding the chill. Statues of Sofia and Donis and Oriane and the
Starsmith stood in orderly ranks above the barred doors that led to
the library proper, staring past the mere mortals who walked below
them. The proctor on duty, tall and painfully thin, shook her head
when Rathe asked to be admitted.
  “I’m sorry, we can’t let just anyone in—”
  “It’s an emergency,” Rathe said. And one partly of my making.
He killed that thought, and fixed the woman with a stare. “Can you
send for him?”
  She hesitated, then nodded, and reached under her table for a
bell. She rang it, and a few minutes later one of the heavy doors
creaked open, admitting a student as round as the proctor was thin.
  “Would you fetch Magist b’Estorr, please?” the proctor asked.
“This—”
  “Tell him Nicolas Rathe.”
  The proctor nodded. “Tell him Master Rathe is here, and that it’s
an emergency.”
  The student’s eyes widened, but she faded back through the door
without a murmur. Rathe fought the instinct to pace, made himself
stand still, counting the signs carved across the tops of the
doorways, until at last the central door flew open again.
  “Nico! What’s happened?” b’Estorr hurried toward him, his dark
grey gown flying loose from his shoulders.
  “I sent the runners to the fair,” Rathe said. “And Asheri came
back with a charm that’s different.”
  b’Estorr drew breath sharply. “Let me see.”
  Rathe held the disks out wordlessly, and the necromancer took
them from him, held them side by side in the dim light.
  “It’s active,” he said at last. Rathe flinched, and b’Estorr shook
his head. “No need to panic, not yet, but I’d like to take a closer look
at them. My place?”
   “Fine,” Rathe said, and retraced his path through the yard. If I’ve
put Asheri in danger, he thought, gods, what will I do? I
thought—you thought the danger would come from the astrologers,
he told himself, and you were wrong. Now you have to make it
right.
   In b’Estorr’s rooms, the necromancer flung the shutters wide,
letting the doubled afternoon sunlight into the room. He set the
disks on the table, side by side in the sunlight, and Rathe caught
his breath again. In the strong light, the difference in color was
very clear, Asheri’s more green than black, and the different
pattern of the symbols was starkly obvious. b’Estorr barely glanced
at them, however, but went to the case of books and pulled out a
battered volume. He flipped through it, glancing occasionally at the
disks, and finally set it aside, shaking his head.
  “I don’t recognize the markings, except generally, and they’re not
in Autixier. The closest thing—” He reached for the book again,
opened it to a drawing of a square charm. Rathe looked at it, and
shook his head.
  “I’m sorry, Istre…”
   The necromancer went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The
closest one listed is that, and that’s kind of, well, archaic. It’s meant
to bind one’s possessions—”
  “It’s to track her,” Rathe said with sudden conviction. “Gods,
Istre, I’ve practically handed her to them.”
  b’Estorr nodded slowly, still staring at the charms. “You could
be— I think you are right,” he said. “It could act as a marker, help
someone find her later.”
  And that would make sense, Rathe thought. The astrologers to
identify the children, someone else to steal them away, later, when
they thought they were safe, could be taken unawares. He shook
the fear away. “I took it from her within an hour of the
reading—she gave it to me. Can they track her without the
charm?”
   “I don’t know,” b’Estorr answered. “This is very powerful—more
powerful than I would have expected. She should change her
clothes, at the very least not wear them again until this is resolved.
It might be better to burn them.”
   “Sweet Tyrseis,” Rathe said. Asheri would be hard put to afford a
second set of clothes; he and Monteia between them might be able
to provide something, but it would be expensive. If Houssaye could
follow the astrologer, of course, track him back to his lair, that
might do something, but there was no guarantee that the
pointsman would succeed. Rathe shook his head. “Istre, I thought
the real danger would be from the astrologers themselves, not
something like this. How in all the hells can we protect her?”
  b’Estorr lifted the charm again, studying the markings. “That she
gave it to you, and you gave it to me—that should help. And then,
as I said, get rid of the clothes she was wearing. Burning would be
best, but I know what clothing costs.”
  Rathe nodded. “I’ll tell her that, certainly.”
  “And she should be very careful.” b’Estorr looked up, shaking his
head. “Which she and you know already, I know. I wish there were
more I could do, Nico.”
  “You’ve done a lot,” Rathe answered. He forced a smile. “Now we
know a little more of how they’re being stolen, and how they’re
being chosen—though, as Monteia says, the hows don’t get us
anywhere right now.”
  “Whoever’s doing this,” b’Estorr said, “must be very powerful.”
  “Magistically or politically?” Rathe asked.
  “Either.” b’Estorr gave him an apologetic look. “Not that you
didn’t know that, too, but this charm is a pretty piece of work—not
at all like the others—and it must cost money to field this many
astrologers.”
  Rathe nodded. “I just wish that narrowed the possibilities.”
   He took a low-flyer back to Point of Hopes, wincing at the fee but
desperately afraid that Asheri or the others might have left before
he could reach them with his warning. As he paid off the driver at
the main gate, he could see the knot of runners still gathered in the
stable doorway. The younger ones, Laci and Surgi and Lennar,
were playing at jacks, while Fasquelle jeered at them from the edge
of the trough. Asheri was there, too, setting stitches in a square of
linen. It was a practice piece, Rathe knew, against the day she
could afford a place in the embroiderers’, and he could taste the fear
again at the back of his mouth.
   “Asheri,” he said, and she looked up, automatically folding the
cloth over her work. “I need to talk to you.”
  “All right,” she said, sounding doubtful, and followed him into the
station.
  Monteia looked up as they arrived, and Rathe saw, with a sinking
sensation in the pit of his stomach, that Houssaye was with her.
  “No luck?” he asked, and the other pointsman shook his head.
  “He went back toward the caravans, but I lost him there. They
seem to have a gift for vanishing. I’m sorry, Nico.”
  Rathe drew breath, and Monteia said firmly, “You did the best
you could. What did you find out from the university, Nico?”
   “Bad news, I’m afraid,” Rathe answered. He looked at Asheri.
“Asheri, I’m sorry I ever got you into this. The charm he gave you,
it’s some kind of a marker. I think you’re in serious danger.”
  “A marker?” Monteia echoed, and Rathe looked back at her.
  “That’s what Istre said. Something to help someone find a child
they want to steal.”
  “Gods,” the chief point murmured, and Rathe saw her hand move
in a propitiating gesture. “What do we do?”
  “I gave you the marker,” Asheri said, her voice suddenly high and
thin. “I don’t have it anymore, surely that makes it all right.”
  “It helps,” Rathe answered. “But Istre said you should also
change your clothes. He said you ought to burn these, or at least
put them away, don’t wear them until we’ve caught these people.”
  “I can’t burn them,” Asheri said. “I don’t have anything else half
this good, not that fits me anymore.”
  Monteia said, “We may be able to do something about that, Ash,
since you’re losing the use of them on station business. But if
b’Estorr says you shouldn’t wear them, I’d do what he says.” She
looked at Rathe. “In the meantime, I’m sending to Fairs with what
we have. That’s enough to make Claes arrest these bastards, and if
we can catch one, maybe we can get more information out of them.”
   Rathe nodded, some of the fear easing. Monteia was right about
that, and Claes would act quickly enough, given this evidence. And
if the hedge-astrologers were dodging pointsmen, surely they’d be
too busy to steal another child. “I’ll walk you home, Asheri,” he said
aloud. “You can change there.”
  The girl made a face, but nodded. “All right. But I’m not burning
them. I made this shirt myself. And the cap.”
  “Then put them away,” Monteia said. “And I want to see you here
tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Agreed?”
  “Agreed,” Asheri said, and Rathe touched her shoulder, turning
her toward the door.
  “We should be able to stop them, now that we know what’s
happening,” he said, and hoped it was true.



                                 10
                                                               «^»
eslingen squatted beside the chest that held his weapons,
considering the pair of pistols Caiazzo had redeemed from the
Aretoneia. He distrusted midnight meetings, liked them even less
when the messenger had failed to appear twice already, and a pistol
might provide some measure of surprise, if there was trouble. He
glanced at the half-open window. On the other hand, it was a damp
night, and they were going by river, which increased the chance of
misfire; besides, he added, with an inward smile as he shut the
chest, a pistol shot inevitably attracted attention, and he’d had
entirely too much of that lately. Caiazzo probably wouldn’t thank
him, either, for inviting interference in his business. He stood, and
belted sword and dagger at his waist, adjusting the open seam of
the coat’s skirt so that it left the sword hilt free, and glanced in the
long mirror that hung beside the clothes press. The full skirts hid
most of the weapon, only the hilt visible at his hip, and it was dark
metal and leather, unobtrusive against the dark blue fabric.
  “Are you ready, Eslingen?”
  He turned, to see Denizard standing in the open door. She had
put aside her scholar’s gown for a black riding suit, shorter skirt,
and a longer, almost mannish coat that buttoned high on the
throat, hiding her linen. She carried a broad-brimmed hat as well,
also black, and a longish knife—probably right at the legal
limit—on one hip.
  She saw where he was looking and smiled, gestured to his own
blade. “I assume the bond’s paid on that?”
  “Caiazzo paid it,” Eslingen answered, and she nodded.
  “Be sure you bring the seal.”
  Eslingen touched his pocket, feeling the paper crackle under his
hand. “I have it, believe me.”
  “Well, with a pointsman for a friend, you should be all right. Or
you would be if it were another pointsman.”
  Eslingen tilted his head curiously. This was the first time anyone
had mentioned Rathe since the day he’d been hired. “Stickler, is
he?”
   “You mean you didn’t notice?” Denizard answered. “And
stiff-necked about it.” She glanced over his shoulder, checking the
light. “Come on.”
  Caiazzo was waiting in the great hall, talking, low-voiced, to his
steward. He nodded to the man as he saw the others approaching,
and the steward bowed and backed away. Caiazzo looked at them,
and nodded. “Good. I’m not expecting trouble, mind, but it’s always
well to be prepared.”
  “Any word?” Denizard asked, and the trader shook his head.
  “Not since last night.”
   Last night’s message had been a smudged slate, barely legible,
delivered by a brewer’s boy, that did nothing more than set a new
time and place for the rendezvous. There had been no explanation
of why the messenger had missed the previous meetings, or any
apology— which could just be the limits of the medium, Eslingen
thought, but in times like these, I don’t think I’d like to count on it.
He said, “Then maybe we should expect trouble.”
  Caiazzo shot him a glance. “I trust my people, Eslingen, don’t
forget it.”
  “It’s not him I’m worried about,” Eslingen answered, and the
trader grunted.
  “Your point. But there’ll be three of us, plus the boat’s crew. That
should be ample.”
  “You’re coming, Hanse?” Denizard asked, and the trader frowned
at her.
  “Yes. I’m getting a little tired of doing nothing, Aice.” His tone
brooked no argument. The magist sighed, and nodded. Caiazzo
smiled, his good humor restored. “Let’s be off, then.”
  Caiazzo’s boat was waiting at the public dock at the end of the
street, its crew, a steersman and a quartet of rowers, hunched over
a dice game, their backs turned to the other, unattached boatmen,
who ignored them just as studiously. The steersman looked up at
Caiazzo’s approach, and nudged his people. They sprang to their
places, dice forgotten, and Caiazzo stepped easily down into the
blunt-nosed craft. Eslingen followed more carefully—he was still
not fully happy with boats—and Denizard stepped in after him,
seating herself on the stern benches.
  “Point of Hearts,” Caiazzo said, to the steersman. “The public
landing just east of the Chain.”
  The steersman nodded, and gestured for the bowman to loose the
mooring rope. The barge lurched as the current caught it, and
Eslingen sat with more haste than dignity. It lurched again, then
steadied as the oarsmen found their stroke, and the soldier allowed
himself to relax. Caiazzo was watching him, and smiled, his teeth
showing very white in the winter-sun’s silvered light.
  “Not fond of water, Eslingen?”
   The soldier shrugged, not knowing what answer the other
wanted, but couldn’t help remembering the astrologer’s warning.
He’d been right about the change of employment; Eslingen could
only hope he’d be less right about travel by water. Caiazzo looked
away again, fixing his eyes on the shimmer of light where the
winter-sun was reflected from the current. Eslingen followed the
look but could see nothing out of the ordinary, just the sparkle of
silver on black water. The winter-sun itself was low in the sky,
would set in a little more than an hour, and the brilliant pinpoint
hung just above the roofs of the Hopes-point Bridge. And then they
were in the bridge’s shadow, the light cut off abruptly, and Eslingen
caught himself looking hard for the bridge pillars. He found them
quickly enough, the water foaming white around them, and the
steersman leaned on the tiller, guiding the boat into the relative
calm between them. Eslingen allowed himself a sigh, and Caiazzo
looked at Denizard.
  “I’m not convinced, Aice, that there’s going to be much profit in
this little jaunt. It may not be scientific, magist, but I’ve got a sick
bad feeling about it.”
  “I know,” Denizard said quietly. “So do I.”
   To Eslingen’s surprise, Caiazzo laughed again. “Oh, that’s
wonderful. I expected you to contradict me, Aice, or at least tell me
not to anticipate trouble. The last thing I needed was for a magist
to confirm my fears.”
  “Well, that’s all they are at the moment—the stars are chancy,
but not actively bad,” Denizard answered. “But I’d be lying if I said
I was comfortable. And night meetings are never my favorite.”
  “The midday ones can be just as dangerous,” Caiazzo murmured,
and lapsed into a pensive silence. Denizard sighed, and folded her
hands in the sleeves of her coat. Eslingen glanced from one to the
other, and wondered if they were also remembering the old woman
in her shop at the heart of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives. That
had been broad daylight, and he’d been glad to leave alive. He
jumped as water splashed over the gunwale, and then told himself
not to be foolish. The boatmen knew their business, and besides,
they were none of them born to drown.
   They were turning in toward the bank now, the boat rocking
hard as the oarsmen fought the current, and Eslingen braced
himself against the side of the boat, twisting to look toward the
shore. The houses of Point of Hearts stood tall against the dark sky,
lights showing here and there in open doorways and unshuttered
windows, and he thought he heard a snatch of music carried on the
sudden breeze. But then it was gone, and the boat was sliding up to
the low landing.
  “Wait here unless I call,” Caiazzo said to the steersman, and the
man touched his cap in answer. The trader nodded and levered
himself out of the boat without looking back. Eslingen made a face,
distrusting the other man’s mood, and hurried to follow.
  “Where to?” he asked, and Caiazzo turned as Denizard pulled
herself up onto the low wharf.
  “Little Chain Market,” Caiazzo said. “It’s not far.”
  “But very empty, this time of night,” Denizard said.
  “Don’t you think I know that?” Caiazzo snapped. “Why do you
think I brought the pair of you?”
  “Let’s hope we’re enough,” the magist answered, and Caiazzo
showed teeth in answer.
  “It’s what I pay you for.”
   Eslingen’s mouth tightened—he hated that sort of challenge—but
there was no point in protesting. Instead, he loosened his sword in
its scabbard, the click of the metal loud in the quiet, and fell into
step at Caiazzo’s right. The magist flanked him on the left, her eyes
wary.
   It wasn’t far to the Little Chain Market, as Caiazzo had
said—but the street curved sharply, cutting off their view of the
river. Eslingen made a face at that: they’d get no help from the
boat’s crew, unless they shouted, and that might be too late.
Caiazzo stopped at the edge of the open square, staring across the
empty cobbles. The market was closed, the stalls shuttered and
locked, shop wagons drawn neatly into corners; the winter-sun had
dropped below the line of the rooftops, and the shadows were deep
in the corners. Eslingen scanned the darkness warily, but nothing
moved among the closed stalls.
  “Now what?” he asked.
  “Now we wait,” Caiazzo said, glancing around. “And hope he
shows this time.”
   Eslingen grimaced again, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.
He could distinguish one patch of shadow from another now, could
make out the shapes of the trestles piled in the mouth of an alley,
but there was still nothing moving in the market. He heard
something then, a faint sound, like feet scrabbling against the loose
stones of the river streets. It could be a river rat, but he moved
between it and Caiazzo anyway, cocking his head to listen. Caiazzo
moved up beside him, and Eslingen glanced at him, wanting to
warn him back, but the trader lifted a hand, enjoining silence. Then
Eslingen heard it, too, a wordless sigh with a nasty, liquid note to
it. He swore under his breath, and Caiazzo snapped, “Quiet.”
  The shuffling came again, this time more clearly human
footsteps, dragging on the stones, and Caiazzo turned toward them.
“Who’s there?”
  “For the love of Tyrseis, sieur, help me.”
  Caiazzo’s eyes flickered to Denizard, who nodded.
  “It’s Malivai,” she said, and it was Caiazzo’s turn to swear.
  “Help me,” he said, and started toward the source of the sound.
Eslingen went after him, his hand on his sword hilt.
   Malivai—it had to be the messenger, a nondescript shape in a
battered riding coat—was leaning against the arch of a doorway,
one hand pressed tight against his ribs, the other braced against
the stones. Caiazzo took his weight easily, for all the two men were
of a height, and eased the man down onto the tongue of a wagon.
  “Gods, Malivai, what’s happened?” He was busy already,
loosening the messenger’s coat, one hand probing beneath the
heavy linen.
   “I’d gotten to Dhenin, almost to the city itself, I thought I was
clear, but then they found me again.” Malivai caught his breath as
the probing hand touched something, and Caiazzo drew his hand
away. Eslingen could see blood on the fingertips and made himself
look away, across the empty market. There was no sign of whoever
had attacked Malivai, but he doubted that would last much longer.
Almost without thinking, he drew his sword, the blade catching the
last faint light from the winter-sun.
  “That’s old,” Caiazzo said. “When?”
  “Three days ago.” Malivai winced again. “I told you, I’d made it to
Dhenin, thought I’d lost them, but then they found me again. I got
away, but one of them got off a pistol shot, that’s what you see
there, and they’ve been close on my trail ever since. That’s why I
couldn’t make the last meeting. I couldn’t get clear of them.”
  Caiazzo nodded. “But you lost them.”
  Malivai shook his head, dark braids falling across his face. “I had
lost them, I wouldn’t’ve come here else, but when I tried to pass the
Chain, they jumped me again. I got free, but that—” He touched his
side, flinching. “—opened again. But you have to know. De
Mailhac’s betrayed you.”
  “Has she, now,” Caiazzo said softly, but before he could say
anything more, Eslingen heard the sound of soft boots against
stone.
  “Sir,” he began, and Denizard broke in sharply.
  “People coming, Hanse.”
   Eslingen could hear the sound of swords now, and reached
left-handed for his knife. “And not to open up shop, either. They’re
carrying steel, and they don’t care who knows it.”
  “They probably also don’t give a damn about legal limits,”
Caiazzo said. He was smiling, a toothy, feral grin that made the
hackles rise on Eslingen’s neck. He had served with officers who’d
had that look before; they were the sort who got one killed, or
covered in glory. “I don’t see that we have a choice, do you?”
  “The boat,” Denizard said, and Caiazzo shook his head.
  “There isn’t time, not with Malivai.” He stooped, brought the
messenger bodily to his feet, taking most of the other man’s weight
on his own shoulders. He drew his own long knife with his free
hand, and edged Malivai toward the mouth of the street that led to
the public landing. “How many were there, Mal?”
   “Three, I think, maybe four.” Malivai’s voice was weaker than
before, and Eslingen risked a glance over his shoulder. The
messenger was leaning heavily on Caiazzo, who was bent sideways
by his weight. They’d never make it back to the boat before the
pursuers appeared, Eslingen knew, and stepped between them and
the footsteps that were getting steadily louder. Denizard moved to
join him, her own blade drawn, and Eslingen glanced sideways at
her, hoping she knew some magist’s tricks to even the odds.
  A figure stepped out of the mouth of the street that led west to
the Chain, and was quickly followed by two more. They all carried
drawn swords, but their faces were muffled by heavy scarves,
drawn close in spite of the lingering summer warmth. Eslingen
shook his head, studying them, and lifted his sword. It wasn’t bad
odds, even with a wounded man to protect, and the bravos were
obviously concerned with keeping their identities hidden—as well
they might, attacking honest people in the streets. It was nice, for
once, to have the law on his side, but why was there never a
pointsman around when he needed one? He killed the giddy
thought, born of the anticipation of battle, and lifted sword and
dagger.
   The first bravo rushed him, sword raised for a chopping blow.
Eslingen ducked under the attack, and drove his dagger into the
man’s stomach. There was leather under the linen coat, and the
blade slid sideways but caught on a lacing and tore into the man’s
side. In the same moment, Eslingen brought his sword across, hilt
first, and slammed it into the bravo’s face. The man dropped
without a word, and Eslingen spun to face the second man,
parrying awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see
Denizard and the third man exchanging thrusts, but his own
opponent feinted deftly left and struck right, and the tip of his blade
ripped Eslingen’s sleeve before the soldier could dodge away.
Eslingen parried the next attack with his sword, and, as the man
lunged again, trying to catch that blade, aimed his dagger for the
bravo’s throat. It was an awkward blow, but the bravo’s own
momentum drove him forward onto the blade, and Eslingen twisted
away, freeing himself and his blade, the bravo’s blood hot on his
hand. He turned toward Denizard, and saw her step into the second
man’s attack, lifting her knee into his groin. He staggered back,
blade swinging wildly, and Caiazzo shouted, “Ferran, to me!”
  That was enough for Denizard’s attacker, who dropped his blade
and ran. Eslingen crouched beside the dead man, wiping his hand
on the skirt of the dead man’s coat, and then searched quickly
through his pockets. He found a purse, and pocketed it, but there
was nothing else. He shook his head—he had been hoping to find
tablets, a slate, a paper, something—and turned to the other man,
but Denizard was there before him.
  “This one’s dead, too,” she said, and Caiazzo smiled, not
pleasantly.
  “Good. Anything on him?”
   Denizard shook her head. “Just his purse, and from the weight of
it, he wasn’t paid in advance.”
  “Or this one was the banker,” Eslingen said, and held out the
purse he’d taken. “There’s coin here.”
  “Interesting,” Caiazzo said. “Bring it, let’s see what we were
worth.” The boatmen appeared then, breathing hard, and Caiazzo
swung to face them. “Ferran, help me with Malivai.”
   Eslingen wiped sword and dagger on the dead man’s coat, and
resheathed it, his fingers still sticky with the other’s blood. Caiazzo,
still supporting Malivai, turned toward the boat, and Denizard fell
into step behind him.
  “How bad is it?” she asked, and the trader shook his head.
   “I’ve seen worse,” he said, and the steersman came to help him,
taking part of Malivai’s weight. The oarsmen followed, stolid, not
looking at the dead bodies still littering the cobbles, and Eslingen
trailed behind them back to the boat, wondering just what he’d
gotten himself into this time. Two men dead, and another
hurt—even Caiazzo would have a hard time buying his way out of
this one. And I, Eslingen thought, don’t have his kind of influence to
buy off my second dead man in as many weeks. He glanced at
Caiazzo, but the trader’s face was closed and angry, and he decided
to keep his questions for later. Together, Caiazzo and Ferran helped
Malivai down into the boat, settling him against the cushions, and
Caiazzo bent again over the injured man. Denizard stepped down
into the boat as the oarsmen prepared to cast off, and Eslingen
hesitated on the bank. For an instant, he was tempted to run, to
step back into the shadows and turn and run as far and as fast as
he could, until he was well out of sight and on the road north again.
Then the magist looked up at him, her face curious, and Eslingen
shook the thought away. It wouldn’t work, for one thing, he
thought; and, for another, I’ve given my word here. And, most of
all, I want to know what’s going on. He climbed into the boat and
seated himself beside Denizard, letting his hand trail in the cool
water, washing the blood away.
  The landing by Caiazzo’s house was mercifully empty, and the
boatmen vanished with the second sunset. Even so, Caiazzo and
Ferran kept Malivai more or less upright on the short walk to the
house— hiding an injured man from any prying neighbors’ eyes,
Eslingen knew—and the trader only seemed to relax again when
the doors closed behind him.
  “Help Malivai upstairs,” he said to Ferran, and the steersman
hesitated. “Aice will show you the way.”
  Denizard nodded and started up the stairs. Ferran followed,
almost carrying the messenger, who sagged visibly in his grip, and
the senior steward appeared in shirt and breeches to help them.
Caiazzo looked back at Eslingen. “Get yourself cleaned up, and join
us. I’ll want you there.”
   Eslingen nodded, for the first time really seeing the rip in his
sleeve. The shirt was ripped as well: both would be difficult to
mend, and expensive to replace. He sighed, and headed down the
hall to the servants’ stair.
  Candle and stand were waiting just inside his door, and he lit the
taper from the lamp that burned constantly at the end of the hall
before going back into his room. He shrugged out of his coat,
swearing at the length of the tear—it ran from the edge of the cuff
halfway up the shoulder on the outside of the arm, impossible to
disguise—and swore again when he saw his shirt. It, too, was badly
torn, and probably beyond saving. He crumpled it into a ball, and
only then realized that the bravo’s sword had touched him as well.
A long scratch ran along his forearm, showing a few drops of blood
already drying. He scowled at that, and fumbled in his clothes chest
for a clean rag. He had no desire to ruin a second shirt with
bloodstains.
  There was a knock at the door then, and he lifted his head.
“Come in.”
  One of the maidservants—Thouvenin, her name was, Anjevi
Thouvenin, Eslingen remembered, and mustered a tired grin—stood
in the half-open doorway, a steaming basin in her hand. “The
steward said you’d want to wash.”
   She’d brought a length of bandage, too, Eslingen saw, and he
took that gratefully, used it to clean the blood from the scratch.
With her help, he laid a strip of cloth over the bit that was still
bleeding and tied it in place, then eased himself into a clean shirt.
He used the rest of the water to wash his face and hands—the right
still felt sticky—and then shrugged himself into his second-best
coat. “Do you know where Caiazzo is?” he asked, and the woman
grinned.
  “The other end of the hall. Don’t worry, you’ll see the lights.”
  She was as good as her word. At the far end of the house, a door
stood open, spilling a wedge of candlelight across the floor. As
Eslingen approached, he could hear voices, and then the steward
came out, wiping his hands on an apron.
  “Oh, Eslingen, good. He wants you.”
  “I dare say,” Eslingen muttered, and stepped through the door.
The room smelled of boiling herbs, a scent he recognized from the
army physicians’ tents, and he wasn’t surprised to see a small pot
simmering on the lit stove. Malivai lay in the great bed, propped up
on pillows, a wide length of bandage wrapping his ribs. Above it,
the skin was bruised and sore-looking, and Eslingen winced in
sympathy. Caiazzo, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up at the
soldier’s approach, but went on talking.
  “—not as bad as we thought. Damn it, Mal, you’ve no right
scaring us like that. Eslingen here just joined my household, what’s
he going to think of me?”
  The man in the bed managed a smile, but he looked exhausted.
Caiazzo glanced back at Eslingen. “Nothing’s punctured, just a long
cut along the bone, and it looks clean enough. Of course, if they
were Ajanine, we don’t really need to worry about poison, that’s a
Chadroni trick.”
  “If they were Ajanine,” Eslingen said, “they wouldn’t have run.”
He sounded more sour than he’d meant, and Caiazzo fixed him with
a stare.
  “And I dare say you would know.”
  “The wine’s hot, Hanse,” Denizard said, from the stove, and
Caiazzo looked away.
  “Bring a cup, then, please.” He waited while the magist ladled a
cup full of the steaming liquid—it smelled of wine and sugar and
herbs and something vaguely bitter, probably one of the esoterics—
and then helped Malivai take a cautious sip. “Better?”
  “Some,” the messenger answered, but Eslingen thought his voice
sounded stronger.
  “All right, then.” Caiazzo glanced over his shoulder, beckoned to
the others. “What’s going on with de Mailhac?”
  Malivai took a deep breath and then flinched, his face tightening
in pain. Caiazzo fed him another sip of the wine, visibly curbing his
impatience.
  “Take your time.”
  Malivai nodded. “She—there’s a magist at Mailhac, but not of
your kind, Aicelin. He seems to have de Mailhac and her people
under his command.”
 Denizard looked startled at that. “There was no magist there
when I was.”
 “You’ve been there?” Eslingen asked, involuntarily. “This year, I
mean?”
  “At the end of Lepidas,” Denizard answered, and shook her head.
“And I didn’t see a magist there then.”
 “Well, there’s one there now,” Malivai said. “And de Mailhac does
what she’s told.”
  Caiazzo frowned. “Why? And how did he manage that?” The
messenger’s eyes slid to Eslingen, and the trader sighed.
“Eslingen— Philip Eslingen—is my knife, and he probably saved
your life tonight. You can speak freely.”
   “It’s the mine,” Malivai said. “He—all I could get was that he
promised to increase the takings from the mine, and she agreed to
it. And he’s been there ever since. And as best I can see, Hanse, it’s
him who calls the tune.”
  “And if he promised to increase the taking,” Caiazzo said, “why
haven’t I seen an ounce of it this summer?”
  Malivai shook his head. “He’s not letting it leave the estate.
They— he’s keeping it, but he’s not spending it, and I never saw
any of it, no one did. The mine’s guarded now, never like it used to
be. I’m sorry, Hanse.”
  “For what?” Caiazzo said. “Start from the beginning, Mal.”
  “Sorry,” Malivai said again. He took a cautious breath. “I got to
the estate on the thirteenth of Sedeion, didn’t go to the house, like
you told me, but went to the stables, they’re usually hiring there.
Only this year they’re not, the head hostler said, for all I could see
they were short-handed. When I asked him about that, he said
they’d spent too much on their time at court, and couldn’t afford
extra hands—”
  “Court?” Caiazzo said, and Denizard shook her head.
  “De Mailhac hasn’t been in Astreiant, I’d stake my life on that.”
  “The Spring Balance,” Malivai said. “The queen was on progress
then, de Mailhac joined the court there.” He took another slow
breath. Caiazzo reached for the wine, but the messenger waved it
away. “I’ll sleep if I have much more, I have to finish first. So I
asked if anyone else on the estate was hiring, said I wanted to be
near my leman in Anedelle, and that I’d been able to summer on
the estate before—I’ve kin there, they’ll speak for me. And I think
he would have hired me, but one of the stewards came out, and
when he heard who I was, told me to get off the Mailhac lands. So I
went down to Anedelle then, and asked what was going on at
Mailhac, and nobody seemed to know, except that there was a
magist there who had de Mailhac under his thumb. Nobody likes
him in the household—he’s had the maseigne selling off her goods
and he’s banned all clocks from the house, which is a grand
nuisance to all concerned.” He smiled then, the expression crooked
on his worn face. “Then a man tried to knife me while I slept, and
I’ve been one step ahead of them ever since.”
  “Banned clocks?” Denizard said. “Why?”
  Malivai made an abortive gesture that might have become a
shrug. “Some project of his, they think, but no one knows.”
  Denizard shook her head. “What sort of magist is he? Did you get
a name, or whose badge he wears?”
  “I never got a name—I don’t think any of them knew—but he
doesn’t wear a badge,” Malivai answered. “All I know is, in Anedelle
they say he has de Mailhac completely cowed—she dances to his
tune—and he seems to have control of the mine.”
  Caiazzo muttered something profane, fingers tightening on the
wine cup. With an effort, he put it aside before he crushed it, and
stood up. “All right, Mal, sleep. You should, given what I put in the
wine. Philip, Aice, come with me.”
   He led them to his workroom, where someone had already lit a
branch of candles. Almost absently, Denizard lit a second branch of
six, and Eslingen watched the shadows chase each other across the
face of the clock. It was a little past two, two hours past the second
sundown, and he could feel the weight of the hours on the back of
his neck.
  “We have to tell someone, Hanse,” Denizard said, and set the last
candle in its place.
  “Oh, really?” Caiazzo stopped pacing long enough to glare at her,
resumed his stride in an instant. “And whom do you propose we
tell? Tell what, for Bonfortune’s sake? Officially, I don’t own this
estate, Aice, it’s petty treason for a commoner.”
  Denizard leaned forward, planting both hands on the table.
“Gold, Hanse, is the queen’s metal, it and the royal house were born
under the same stars. And right now, with the star change
imminent, that link is going to be stronger than ever.”
  “I handle gold every day of my life—well, these last ten years,”
Caiazzo objected. “And I’m common as they come. That hasn’t made
any difference.”
  “That’s coin gold,” Denizard said. “It’s not pure gold, they add
other metals to it in the refining, precisely to keep it safe. But what
comes out of the mine is pure, and it can become aurichalcum if you
handle it right. That’s queen’s gold, Hanse, and they call it that for
a reason. The tie between them, the queen and her metal, it’s too
strong. And that’s too dangerous to just ignore.” She smiled then,
not without a certain sour humor. “And after the clock-night, I find
banning clocks a very unsettling thing, don’t you?”
  “You can’t think this magist had anything to do with that,”
Caiazzo said.
  “I don’t know how,” Denizard admitted, “but I do know this is
dangerous.”
   “And betraying ownership of an Ile’nord—hells, an Ajanine—
estate isn’t dangerous?” Caiazzo’s voice was less certain than his
words. He stopped at the far end of the room, scowling at the cold
stove. Eslingen stared at him, wondering what to do. Malivai’s
news was too strange, too important not to let Rathe know about it,
especially if Denizard was right about the gold, and there was a
link between it and the queen, and the clocks and the magist.
Caiazzo would not be happy— Caiazzo would be murderous, an
inner voice corrected, and reasonably enough so. You promised him
your loyalty—and I promised to tell Rathe if I ran into anything
unusual, too, he told himself. It may not have anything to do with
the kids, but it is important. It’s too strange not to be important.
He slanted another glance at Caiazzo, who still stood silent, staring
into the shadowed corner beyond the stove. It would be a shame to
lose his respect, Eslingen thought, not just for the revenge the
trader was certain to try to exact, but because he liked the man…
 Denizard’s voice broke through his reverie. “It’s become political,
Hanse. And that’s a game you don’t play.”
  Caiazzo dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stood there
for a long moment, unmoving, then lowered them and turned back
into the light. For an instant, he looked older than Eslingen would
have thought possible. “All right,” he said, softly. “All right.
Eslingen—in the morning, I want you to go to Rathe—since he got
you this job, maybe he’ll give you a break on this one. Go to Rathe,
tell him about this night’s business.”
  “All of it?” Eslingen asked, startled—this was the last thing he’d
expected from Caiazzo—and the trader nodded.
   “Well, as much as you have to, which, knowing Rathe, will be
most of it. It was clearly self-defense there in the square, and on
my orders, so neither you nor I need to worry about that, but
somebody’s bound to be asking questions about those bodies.”
Caiazzo nodded slowly, as much to himself as to the others. “Yes,
tell him what’s been happening—my people set upon in the streets,
my business interfered with. That should keep him busy. And
maybe, just maybe, it’ll help put a stop to whatever is going on with
de Mailhac.”
Rathe woke to the sound of knocking, gentle but persistent, and lay
for a moment in the cool dawn light trying to place its source. It
was someone at his door, he realized at last, and dragged himself
out of his bed, groping for shirt and breeches. The knocking was
still going on, a steady beat, not quite loud enough to wake the
neighbors, but insistent. Rathe shivered, still only half awake, and
reached for the knife that he had left hanging in its scabbard over
the back of the chair.
  “Who is it?” he called, and crossed to the door.
  “It’s Istre, Nico.”
   Rathe lifted the bar, and pulled open the heavy door. The magist
looked as dishevelled as Rathe could ever remember seeing him,
shadows heavy under his eyes, magist’s robe discarded for a coat
that didn’t quite seem to fit across the shoulders. He hadn’t shaved,
either, though the fair stubble was hardly noticeable at first glance,
and Rathe stepped back automatically. “What’s wrong?”
  “I’ve found it, Nico. I know what the children are being used for.”
  Rathe took a deep breath, feeling as though he’d been hit in the
gut. “What?” he said, and b’Estorr stepped past him, reaching into
his pocket to produced a small drawstring purse. He untied the
strings, and poured a small triangle out onto the tabletop, where it
lay gleaming in the early sunlight. Rathe stared at it for a moment.
“Istre…”
  b’Estorr nodded. “It’s gold, Nico. Actually, it’s coin aurichalcum.
An impure form of true aurichalcum, more pure than most ordinary
coins, but not nearly as pure as the real thing. Magists use it in
their work.”
  He picked up the little wedge and handed it across. Rathe took it
gingerly, turning it over in his fingers. The shortest end was
curved, and there were letters running along that curve, as well as
what looked like part of an embossed design in the center. He
looked up sharply. “This looks like part of a coin.”
  b’Estorr nodded again. “It is. That’s where most of us get it, from
great crowns.”
   “Gods, I’ve never seen one,” Rathe said, and looked at the wedge
of metal with even more respect. The great crown was the largest
of Chenedolle’s coins, each one worth a hundred pillars—more than
many people saw in their lifetime. “But what does this have to do
with the children?”
  b’Estorr dropped into the nearest chair. “Aurichalcum is gold,
common gold, that’s been mined in a particular process. Everyone
knows that much, but not many people outside the university know
how. The process itself is what makes it magistically active, and
that process requires people, special people. To turn raw gold into
aurichalcum, each step of the process must be performed by pure
beings who have the proper zodiacal relationship to their
task—which, in practice, means children or carefully trained and
watched celibates, each of whom is chosen for the job according to
her or his birth signs.”
  Rathe sank down on a stool opposite b’Estorr, set the piece of
aurichalcum back on the table. “Children,” he whispered. “Gods, but
why? Who would be doing such a thing?”
  b’Estorr shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. It’s crazy, it makes
no sense to me at all, but that’s what everything points to. It’s the
only thing these children could work together on. Someone has
stolen them to process aurichalcum.”
  Rathe looked from the wedge of gold, bright in the rising sun, to
b’Estorr. “If magists use it…”
   b’Estorr spread his hands. “I know, Nico, I know, and I’ve been
wracking my brains trying to think why, or who. Gods know, we’re
all limited by the sheer cost of coin aurichalcum, but that’s nothing
compared to the effort to process the stuff. It’s false economy. And
utterly mad.”
  “Stealing children’s pretty mad, Istre,” Rathe said, and the
necromancer made a face. “Whoever’s doing this is pretty crazy
anyway. If the motive is crazy, well, it kind of fits, doesn’t it?”
   “So all we have to do,” b’Estorr said dryly, “is find a gold mine. As
I recall, there are gold mines aplenty in the Silklands, and in the
Ile’nord, the western hills of Chenedolle, in southern Chadron, and
in the Payshault, all of which are within reasonable striking
distance of Astreiant.”
  Rathe shook his head. “No, it has to be someplace that has good
roads—they were buying draft horses, not pack animals.” If it was
them, of course, a little voice added, but he shoved the thought
away. It had to have been the astrologers who were buying the
horses, or their allies; they couldn’t afford for it not to be.
  b’Estorr nodded. “All right, that probably rules out the Silklands.
Anyone sensible would go by water. But the rest—how can you
choose?”
  “I know,” Rathe said. “Does this connect with the clocks, Istre?”
  “It could,” b’Estorr answered. “Aurichalcum—especially the purer
forms—well, it’s not just politically potent. I suppose it would be
possible to use it to turn the clocks, but why…”
   He let his voice trail off, and Rathe nodded in morose agreement.
There was a little silence, the only sound the rumble of an early
wagon on the street below. The air that came through the half-open
window was damp, and smelled of the distant river; Rathe cocked
his head, and thought he could hear the chime of the tower clock at
the head of the Hopes-point Bridge. “There haven’t been any new
disappearances in days,” he said at last. “Does this mean they have
all the kids they need?”
 b’Estorr shrugged, got restlessly to his feet, and then stopped, the
movement suspended, as though he’d simply needed to move and
was now at a loss for something to do. “They could have. From the
nativities I’ve seen, for the children who are missing, yes, I think
most of the process is covered. But I don’t know, Nico, I wish before
Aidones that I did.” He sighed heavily. “So what do we do now?”
  Rathe threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I’ll go to
Monteia—hells, I’ll go to the surintendant, and I’ll tell them this,
and we’ll all look at each other, and say, wonderful, what now?
Aside from anything else, we don’t have the right to pursue it, not
outside the city, so we’d have to work with the local nobles, but
since we don’t even know where the children are—” He broke off,
shaking his head, aware of the futility of his anger. b’Estorr had
given him more information than they had been able to gather over
the past few weeks, but it still wasn’t enough. “I feel like a bastard
asking this, after all you’ve done, but is there anything more you
can do? Anything more you can tell us?”
  b’Estorr crossed to the window, pushed the shutter open, and
leaned out into the morning air. “When was the last
disappearance?”
  Rathe shook his head. “I’m not sure—five days ago, I think. I can
check with the station. Does that matter?”
  b’Estorr turned back to face him. “I don’t know. And I hate
having to keep saying that. But it might help. I can do some more
research, see if anything shows itself—I’ll certainly consult my
colleagues. They’ll need to know about it for the clocks, anyway.”
 Rathe nodded. “I appreciate it. Look, will you come with me to
Monteia? You understand what’s happening here better than I do.”
  “Of course,” b’Estorr said, and scooped the wedge of gold back
into its bag.
  Neither man spoke as they made their way from Rat he’s
lodgings to the station at Point of Hopes. Rathe caught himself
walking faster and faster, as though hurrying might help, might
make up for how long it had taken them to figure out what was
going on. b’Estorr’s discovery was utterly vital, the first piece of
information that made sense of the child-thefts. If only it hadn’t
come too late. Surely not, he told himself, and made himself slow
his pace again. If nothing else, they could protect the children who
hadn’t been taken, first by arresting the hedge-astrologers and then
by concentrating their efforts on the vulnerable ones. Asheri was
one of those, but she had more sense than many a woman grown,
and they would be able to deploy the full resources of the station to
keep her safe. And surely, surely, knowing why the children had
been stolen would help them find the missing ones.
   The station courtyard was empty, none of the runners in sight
there or in the stables. Rathe caught his breath—he had expected
to find Asheri waiting, sitting in the early sun on the edge of the
dry trough where she could get the best of the light for her
sewing—and shoved open the main door. Jiemin, this morning’s
duty point, looked up, startled by the violence of his entrance.
  “Nico …?”
  “Where’s Asheri?” Rathe demanded, and Jiemin shook her head.
  “I haven’t seen her yet. It’s early, Nico, she probably slept in.”
  “But I told her to be here by now,” Monteia said, from the door of
her workroom. She shut it behind her, shaking her head, and
looked from Rathe to the necromancer. “What’s up, Nico?”
  Rathe ignored the question for a moment, crossed to look out the
back door. The garden was empty even of laundry, and he turned
back into the room, barely able to keep the fear at bay. “Istre
thinks he knows why the children are being taken. Asheri—”
  Monteia cut him off. “Why?”
  b’Estorr said, “They all have stars that make them useful—
appropriate—for processing aurichalcum.”
  Monteia frowned. “Queen’s gold?”
  b’Estorr nodded, his blue eyes grave. “And aurichalcum is
dangerously powerful, especially now with the starchange
approaching.”
  Monteia swore under her breath. “And Asheri?” she said, to
Rathe.
  “She said she knows her nativity to the minute,” he answered,
voice suddenly ragged, “but I don’t. I never asked, and she never
told me. Her sister might know.”
  “Go,” Monteia said. “Both of you—please,” she added tardily, to
b’Estorr. “See if she’s at home, find out what her stars are, and get
her here where we can take care of her.”
  Rathe nodded, and was out the door almost before she’d stopped
speaking, b’Estorr on his heels. Asheri lived on the southern edge of
Point of Hopes, in the warrens east of the junction of the Customs
Road and Fairs’ Road. He had been there before,, and led the way
through the labyrinth of narrow streets, barely able to keep from
running as he saw the peeling face of the clock that oversaw this
corner of the city. It had been reset, though, since the clock-night:
as they turned down the alley that led to a cluster of narrow
houses, it struck the half hour, and its tones were echoed from the
distant towers of Point of Dreams.
   Asheri’s house was no different from any of the half dozen that
circled the well-house at the center of the open space, a plain
building one room and a hallway wide, with a strip of muddy
garden running beside and in front of the stone sill. A tall woman,
unmistakably Asheri’s kin, the sister she had lived with since their
mother’s death, had strung a line between two poles, and was
hanging laundry, temporarily overshadowing a straggling patch of
vegetables. Among the clothes already pinned to the line was the
apron Asheri had worn the day before, and Rathe caught his breath
again.
  “She didn’t burn them,” he said, and heard b’Estorr swear.
  The woman looked up at their approach, her eyes narrowing, but
her hands never stopped moving on the wet cloth. Somewhere, in
one of the other houses, Rathe thought, a child was wailing; even as
he looked, he heard a voice exclaiming a rough endearment, and the
crying took on a new, muffled rhythm, as though someone had
picked up the child and was bouncing it.
  “Mijan, where’s Asheri?”
  “Missing her already?” Mijan answered, and smiled. “You knew
she was meant for better than running your errands. She’s gone.”
  “Gone where?” Rathe demanded, and heard b’Estorr swear again.
  Mijan set a much-mended skirt back in her basket, her
expression suddenly wary, folded her arms across her thin chest.
“To the embroiderers. Last evening at seven o’clock. You know
that’s what she wanted, more than anything, that’s why she
worked for your lot.”
  “She didn’t have the fee,” Rathe said bluntly, and Mijan shook
her head.
  “No more did she, but she won one of the lottery-places—you
know, they hold four places a year for those who don’t have the
means.”
  “They hold those at the Spring Balance,” Rathe said, through
gritted teeth, “and the Fall Balance. Never at Midsummer, Mijan,
you know that. And so did she.”
   Mijan was looking genuinely frightened now. “I know, I’m not
stupid. But the woman—she was respectable, Rathe, a
guildswoman to her fingertips—she said that one of the apprentices
they’d chosen this spring couldn’t continue in the place, was sick or
something, the family was sick, and Asheri was at the top of the
list, the next in line. She passed all the tests, you know, it was just
her number wasn’t quite high enough.”
  “Which house, Mijan, did you think to ask that? Which master?”
Rathe heard his voice rising, didn’t care. “You let her go, when
children are disappearing every day?”
  “That’s precisely why I let her go,” Mijan shouted back. “Do you
think I haven’t worried enough about her, running gods alone know
where through every quarter of the city, when children are being
stolen in broad daylight? She’s a thousand times safer with the
embroiderers than she ever was with your lot.”
  Rathe flinched, recognizing the truth of that, and b’Estorr put a
hand on his shoulder. “If she’s with the embroiderers, mistress.
Asheri knows her nativity, I know that. May we get a copy?”
  “Why?” Mijan looked from one man to the other. “Who in Demis’s
name are you? Nico I know, but you…”
  Rathe took a breath, controlled the anger bred of fear and guilt.
“His name’s Istre b’Estorr, Mijan, he’s with the university. A
necromancer. And, no, we don’t think any of them are dead, but
he’s been helping us, and we know why the children are being
taken. And I’m very much afraid Asheri’s one of them.”
  “She’s with the embroiderers,” Mijan whispered.
  Rathe shook his head. “I devoutly hope so, but—it’s a bad time for
coincidence. I need her nativity—please, Mijan. You know I
wanted—want—nothing more than for Asheri to find a place in the
guild. Let me make sure she has the chance.”
  “She’s there, I tell you,” Mijan repeated, but her eyes were wet
with sudden tears. “I did what you told us, we washed the clothes,
and locked them away, she was wearing my second-best skirt—and
furious she was, too, to think the masters would see her without
her having the chance to take it in. I should’ve known, we never
have luck.” She shook her head, wiped a hand across her face with
angry force. “Her chart’s inside—you’ll have to copy it, though, I
won’t let you take it away.”
   “Fine,” Rathe said, still struggling with his anger. It wasn’t so
much Mijan he was angry at—how could she, how could any
southriver housekeeper, pass up the chance to see a kinswoman
decently established?—or even Asheri, for taking a chance, but the
astrologers and their respectable-looking accomplice, for playing on
the one source of hope children like her had. And that must have
been how they lured the others away, he thought. The horoscopes,
the questions the children asked, would have given the astrologers
a very good idea of what they would have to offer to overcome the
children’s fears—give them a chance at their hearts’ desire, and
they were young enough to take the chance, even the cleverest,
most wary ones. Like Asheri, he added, and Mijan reappeared in
the doorway, a wooden tablet in her hand. She gave it to Rathe,
who handed it to b’Estorr, trying to ignore Mijan’s small noise of
protest. b’Estorr studied it for a moment, then reached into his
pocket for a flat-form orrery, adjusting the rings to the appropriate
positions. His mouth tightened then, and he handed the tablet back
to Mijan.
  “It fits,” he said. “It fits, Nico. She has the key stars, she’s perfect
for their operation.”
  “What?” Mijan cried, and Rathe took her by the shoulders, gently
now.
  “No one will hurt her, she’s too valuable. We know why they took
her, and some of where, and we will find her, I promise.” He took a
deep breath, hoping he could make that true. “Is there anyone who
can stay with you?”
   Mijan took a deep breath, swallowing her tears. “No. No need. I’ll
be fine. Just—find her, Rathe. They said, she’d won a place. It was
so much what she wanted, they seemed all right, how could I
think… ?” Her voice trailed off, and she shook herself hard. “I’ll be
all right,” she said again, as much to convince herself as anyone,
and looked back at Rathe. “And if she’s with the embroiderers all
this time, I will cut your heart out.”
  “If she is,” Rathe answered, “I’ll hand you the knife myself.”
  He turned away without waiting for an answer, knowing she
didn’t believe it any more than he did. b’Estorr fell into step beside
him, stretching his long legs to keep up.
  “What now?”
  “The embroiderer’s hall,” Rathe answered. “Just in case. But I
don’t think she’ll be there.”
  There was only a single master in evidence this early in the day,
and she greeted them with a certain puzzlement. Rathe explained
what they wanted, and even though he’d expected it, felt his heart
sink as she shook her head.
  “No, we haven’t taken in any new lottery-prentices. We do
redraw if someone drops out, but that hasn’t happened in years—”
She broke off as the two men turned away, Rathe calling his thanks
over his shoulder.
  “Back to Point of Hopes,” he said, and b’Estorr touched his arm.
  “The river’s faster from here,” he said. “University privilege.”
  They found a boatman more quickly than Rathe would have
thought possible, but even so, he fidgeted unhappily until the boat
drew up at the Rivermarket landing. Monteia was pacing the
length of the main room as they burst through the door, but she
stopped at once, seeing Rathe’s face.
  “Inside,” she ordered, and jerked her head toward the workroom.
Rathe started to follow, but b’Estorr caught his sleeve, handed him
the orrery. Rathe took it, careful not to disturb the settings, and
preceded the chief point into little room.
  “Bad?” she asked, and shut the door behind them.
  Rathe nodded. “They’ve taken her. They offered her a place in the
embroiderers, the one thing she wanted badly enough to take
chances for, and they’ve got her. And, Astree’s Web, it’s my fault.
She would never have done this if I hadn’t asked her—”He broke off
then, knowing how pointless this was, but Monteia shook her head
anyway.
  “You don’t know that, Nico. It’s the time of year to have your
stars read, and Asheri always was—is—a saving creature. Tell me
what happened.”
  Rathe took a deep breath, and set the orrery on the worktable.
Quickly, he ran through what Mijan had told him, finished with
b’Estorr’s analysis. “She’s important to the process, he says, so they
shouldn’t hurt her. But, gods, we have to find her.”
   Monteia nodded, her expression remote. “I’ll send to Fairs again,
tell him what’s happened today—I already told him to arrest any
astrologers he found, and why, but I haven’t heard anything yet.
This should make him move a little faster, though.” She shook her
head. “It’s times like these I wish Astreiant still had walls. I’ll send
people to ask at the gates and the inns along the main highway, see
if anyone saw her or someone taking a child with them, but I can’t
say I’ve a lot of hope for it.”
   They hadn’t found any of the other children this way, there was
little likelihood Asheri would be any different. Rathe swallowed his
anger, said, “There has to be something else we can do.”
  Monteia looked at him. “If you think of something, Nico, let me
know.”
  “I’m sorry.” Rathe shook his head. “She’s a good kid—and it’s my
doing, Chief. This one’s my responsibility.”
Eslingen took the river way from Customs Point to Point of Hopes,
the early sun warm on his back through the heavy fabric of his
second-best coat. The weight of it, and the stains on the dark green
linen, annoyed him unreasonably; if he was going to go to Rathe
with this particularly questionable story, he would have preferred
to look his best. Inside the station’s wide main room, the duty point
looked up at him, blankly at first, and then with recognition.
  “Is Rathe around?” Eslingen said, before the woman could say
something unfortunate, and she grinned.
  “He’s with the chief point now—Eslingen, isn’t it? You can wait if
you want, but it’s a busy morning.”
  “Already?” Eslingen murmured, but turned away from the table
before she had to answer. A fair-haired man in a dark red coat,
shirt open at the throat, was sitting on the bench that stretched
along one short wall, reading through a sheaf of broadsheets. Not
the sort of person I’d’ve expected to see here, Eslingen thought, not
a merchant but not a knife, either, and only then saw the anvil and
star of the Starsmith pinned to the fair man’s cuff. A poet or an
astrologer, the soldier decided, or maybe a magist out of his robes,
and he smiled. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said, and settled himself
on the bench beside the fair-haired man, keeping a scrupulous
distance between them.
  The man looked up, his face unsmiling but not unwelcoming, and
nodded. “Looking for Nico?”
  Eslingen nodded. “A friend of his, are you?”
  “I do some work for him from time to time.”
  Eslingen looked again at the badge on the man’s cuff. “An
astrologer?”
   The man shook his head. “A necromancer, actually,” he said, and
offered his hand. “Istre b’Estorr. I’m at the university.”
  For a wild moment, Eslingen wondered how Rathe could have
found out about the bodies already, and have had the foresight to
call in a necromancer for something that wasn’t even in his
jurisdiction. He had never liked the idea of necromancers, no soldier
did—no matter what the scholars said, he thought, some of those
deaths had to be untimely. b’Estorr tipped his head to one side, and
Eslingen shook himself, took the hand that was held out to him.
“My name’s Eslingen, Philip Eslingen. Late of Coindarel’s Dragons.”
  “Oh. And currently Hanselin Caiazzo’s knife,” b’Estorr said.
  Eslingen looked at him warily, wondering how in all hells he
could have known that, wondering, too, what ghosts he might be
carrying that the other could feel. b’Estorr smiled faintly, as though
he’d guessed the thought.
   “Nico mentioned you once, said he owed you a good turn. I’m glad
to meet you. It’s made a lot of people much easier to know that
Caiazzo has a capable knife to back him again.”
  “So I heard,” Eslingen said. “Are you working for Rathe now?”
  b’Estorr nodded, the smile vanishing. “I’m afraid so—”
   He broke off as the door to the workroom opened, and Rathe
burst out again. “Monteia’s sending to Fairs, we’ll see if Claes can’t
find one of these damn astrologers, make him tell us what’s going
on—” He broke off, seeing Eslingen. “Philip. Sorry, what are you
doing here?”
 Eslingen looked back at him. “I need to talk to you—Caiazzo sent
me—but if this is a bad time—what’s happened?”
  Rathe took an unsteady breath. “Asheri, one of our runners. She’s
disappeared—been stolen, like the others. And we know a large
chunk of how, and why, but still not who, or where they’re being
taken.”
  “Gods,” Eslingen said.
 “So unless it’s really important,” Rathe went on, “you’ll have to
wait.”
   Eslingen hesitated. “It is important,” he said at last, “but I think
I can wait, at least until you’ve gotten this settled.”
  Rathe gave him a fleeting smile of thanks, looked at b’Estorr. “Is
there any way we can narrow down the location of the mine?
Something in the kids’ stars, anything?”
  Eslingen froze, his eyes widening. A mine and the missing
children in the same breath, and a crazy magist in Mailhac… He
took a deep breath. “What’s this about a mine?” Rathe turned on
him, eyes angry, and Eslingen held up a hand. “What I was sent to
say, it may be more important that I thought. What mine, Rathe?”
  “The children who’ve been taken, they all have the right stars to
work the process that turns gold into aurichalcum,” the pointsman
answered, impatiently. “It’s the only thing we’ve found that binds
them together, but now we have to figure out where that gold mine
could be.”
  Eslingen swore. “Look, Rathe, last night Caiazzo met a man—”
He broke off, shaking his head, tried to reorder his thoughts.
“There’s an estate in the Ajanes, Mailhac, it’s called, the woman
who ostensibly owns the title actually owes Caiazzo a lot of money,
and she pays it out of the take of a gold mine that’s part of the
estate.”
  “Which explains where Caiazzo’s cash comes from. Rathe said,
but his eyes were wary. ”And I hear he’s had trouble with money
this season.”
   Eslingen nodded. “The gold hasn’t come in the way it should. And
from what the messenger said, it won’t be. There’s a magist living
on the estate, apparently he promised to increase the take, but that
was just to get her confidence. According to Mal—the messenger,
it’s him, the magist, who’s running everything, and keeping all the
gold on the estate. The rumor was, he may be making use of it
himself.”
   “Gods,” the necromancer murmured, and Rathe waved him to
silence.
   Eslingen went on, “Caiazzo’s man was attacked on his way
here— that’s what I was really sent here for, to tell you who’d left a
pair of bodies in the Little Chain Market, and to claim self-defense,
which it was. I was also supposed to tell you about the Ajanine
situation, make it clear that, whatever de Mailhac thinks she’s
doing, Caiazzo has nothing to do with it.” He shook his head. “But
this… this is worse than any of us imagined. I don’t want Caiazzo
hanged for a high treason he’s not committing. He’s been going mad
from the want of gold, it could be a disaster if he doesn’t get it, but
he doesn’t want queen’s gold, he wants spending gold.”
  “Caiazzo has a magist in his household, doesn’t he?” Rathe said.
“She must have suspected something when she heard the news.”
  “She did,” Eslingen answered, “she mentioned aurichalcum, but
she thought it was political. Something to do with the starchange
and maybe with the clocks—which, as I said, is why I’m here.”
  “She would have needed to know the children’s nativities to make
the connection,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe nodded.
  “Yeah, I can see that. But, gods, now we know—” He broke off as
the door to the workroom opened again, and Monteia stepped out,
waving a sheet of paper to dry the ink.
  “Know what?” she asked, and Rathe bared teeth in a feral grin.
  “Where the children are.”
  “Where?”
  “An estate called Mailhac, in the Ajanes.” Quickly, Rathe outlined
Eslingen’s information. “It fits, Chief, and too well to be a
coincidence. This has got to be where they are.”
   Monteia nodded thoughtfully. “A noble. That would explain how
she could afford all these hired hands, or how this magist could,
with a noble name to back him.” She looked at Eslingen. “I suppose
I believe you when you say Caiazzo’s not involved.”
  “If he were,” the soldier answered, “I wouldn’t be here.”
  “True enough,” Monteia said.
   “We have to send someone after them,” Rathe said, “and I want it
to be me. Gods, if we move fast enough, Asheri’s only been gone
since last evening, we might be able to overtake them.”
  Monteia shook her head. “I can’t send you, Nico, and it’s not
because I don’t agree with you. We don’t have the authority outside
Astreiant, you know that. That’s the queen’s business.”
  “If we can convince her, or her ministers or whoever, intendants
probably, to act in time,” Rathe said, bitterly.
  “Which is why I want you—and Master b’Estorr and Master
Eslingen, if he’s willing—to go to the surintendant,” Monteia went
on as though he hadn’t spoken, though Eslingen suspected from the
set of her lip that she was barely holding her own temper in check.
“Tell him what we’ve found, and see what he can do.”
  Rathe nodded, tightly. “Sorry, Chief.”
  Eslingen sighed. “Caiazzo is simply going to love this.”
  “Caiazzo,” Rathe said, “will appreciate not being hauled up on
treason charges. Come on.”
   They took a low-flyer, and Rathe paid without demur. As they
climbed out of the carriage outside the Tour, Eslingen glanced
uncertainly up at the thick stone walls. It looked more like a
fortress—more like the gatehouse it had once been, the strongest
point in the city walls—than a court of justice, and he couldn’t help
wondering just how much of the old ways still prevailed within
those walls, in spite of all the boasting. Caiazzo would not be
pleased, he was sure of that, and wished for an instant that there
had been time to contact the trader, ask what he wanted done. But
Rathe was right, time was short, especially if there was to be any
chance of overtaking this last victim. He took a deep breath, and
followed the others into the dimly lit building.
   Rathe spoke quietly to the first green-robed clerk he saw, and
within minutes, they were ushered into the surintendant’s room.
Eslingen glanced around once, quickly, impressed in spite of himself
by the delicately painted paneling, fruited vines climbing pale
willow trellises, and the obviously expensive furniture. Then the
man behind the desk cleared his throat, and Eslingen blinked,
startled. The surintendant wore plain black, unrelieved by any lace,
just the pale linen at collar and cuffs, and his thinning hair was cut
unfashionably short. He raised one sandy eyebrow in chill query,
and Eslingen found himself wondering whether the furniture or the
clothes represented the man’s real taste.
  “We know what’s happening to the children, sir,” Rathe said, and
Eslingen saw the older man blink.
  “Then you had better sit down, hadn’t you? Magist b’Estorr I
know, primarily by reputation, but this gentleman?”
  Eslingen met the cold stare calmly. “Philip Eslingen, lieutenant,
late of Coindarel’s Dragons, currently of the household of Hanselin
Caiazzo.”
   “Indeed?” Fourie looked at Rathe, the hint of a smile on his thin
lips.
   “Not what you think, sir,” Rathe answered, and no longer felt the
triumph he had expected. It was a hollow victory, with Asheri lost.
“When we determined that the one thing all the lads had in
common was that they knew their stars to better than the quarter
hour, I asked Istre to look at all of them together, to see if he could
find something in common there—why these children, with these
stars.”
  b’Estorr said, “What I found was that there was only one
magistical process for which these nativities, and children, would be
suitable. And that is the making of aurichalcum.”
  “Even Caiazzo isn’t that stupid, or ambitious that way,” Fourie
said. His eyes narrowed. “Those damned hedge-astrologers, and you
were right, Rathe, and I was wrong.” He looked at Eslingen then.
“Or was I?”
  Eslingen took a long breath, choosing his words carefully.
“Master Caiazzo has—interests—in an estate in the Ile’nord, in the
Ajanes, more properly. And there’s a gold mine on that estate.”
  “Which has been funding his sudden prosperity, I daresay,”
Fourie muttered. “Go on.”
  “The owner of the estate has taken in a magist,” Eslingen said,
“who seems to be keeping the gold for his own purposes, and is
willing to kill to keep them secret.” He gave an edited version of the
previous night’s events, stressing that Caiazzo had been waiting for
an overdue payment. “Master Caiazzo thought it was just de
Mailhac pushing to see how much she could get away with, she did
that last year, too, or at worst that she’d overspent herself and
didn’t have the money to send, never something like this. As soon
as he realized it involved politics, he sent me to the points.”
  “And that was the last piece we needed,” Rathe said. “The
children are at Mailhac, in the Ajanes.”
  Fourie leaned back in his chair, pressing his long fingers together
at the tips. “It’s never the easiest solution with you, is it, Rathe? An
estate in the Ajanes, which means it falls under the rule of four
quarters.” He shook his head. “It’ll take time to organize an
expedition, a few days at least—”
  “We don’t have that much time,” Rathe said. “Putting aside the
kids, we don’t know what he’s mining the aurichalcum for, we could
be standing on the edge of a disaster—”
   b’Estorr cut in, his own voice uncharacteristically urgent. “The
clocks—aurichalcum moves clocks, or it can, it has powers most of
us don’t even dream of, not in our nightmares. There’s no time to be
lost.”
  “There’s no time left,” Rathe said.
   Fourie lifted a hand, and Rathe subsided reluctantly. “I have no
authority outside Astreiant. No pointsman, adjunct point, or
surintendant himself has that authority outside the city. Much as
I’d like to, much as I desperately want to, I can’t send you or
anyone into the Ajanes. I don’t have the power.”
  It was an impasse, Eslingen thought, and a bad one. He looked at
Rathe, seeing the frustration barely held in check, saw the same
anger, better hidden, in the magist’s eyes. He said, slowly, certain
he would regret it later, “Denizard—Caiazzo’s household
magist—she said Hanse would have to send someone north to deal
with all of this. Admittedly, that was before we knew what was
going on—” And Caiazzo still doesn’t, he realized abruptly, would be
furious when he was told. “—but I can’t see that it’ll change things.
Someone will still have to deal with de Mailhac, and I don’t see why
that someone can’t also deal with the magist and the children.”
   “He has the resources,” Fourie said, with distaste. “And I’m sure
a little good will from the judiciary wouldn’t come amiss. Especially
given the questionable nature of his involvement in this entire
affair.”
  “The main thing is the children,” Eslingen answered, and prayed
he wasn’t committing himself too deeply for Caiazzo to back him
up. “Caiazzo has been made part of this without his knowledge and
against his will. I know he’ll want to put it right.”
   Fourie stared at him for a long moment, then reached for a sheet
of paper. He dipped his pen in the silver inkwell and began to write,
saying, “I’m not fond of relying on people like Caiazzo—or anyone
outside the judiciary or the nobility, Lieutenant, not your master in
particular. This should be a matter of the law. But, as you say, the
children have to be our main concern.” He looked at Rathe, his pen
never pausing. “Rathe, I want you to go with him. Mind you, this is
not an order, I cannot order you to do anything outside the city, but
you’re the best man I have.”
  “Of course I’ll go,” Rathe said, and Fourie nodded.
  “b’Estorr I can’t give any orders at all, but I imagine his talents
would come in very useful.”
 b’Estorr looked at Eslingen. “If you’ll have me, yes, I’ll come.” His
mouth tightened. “I’d like to see the end of this.”
  “You’d be welcome,” Eslingen answered, and meant it.
   “I wish I could send a troop of the royal guard with you,” Fourie
went on, and lifted the sheet of paper, waving it to dry the ink,
then reached for his seal and a stick of wax. “Unfortunately, there
isn’t time to arrange it. What I can do, have done, is send you with
a letter authorizing you to call on the royal auxiliaries in the area.”
He glanced at another sheet of paper, looked at Eslingen with
another of his thin smiles. “They’re commanded by your old colonel,
Lieutenant. It makes one wonder what Coindarel has done this
time.” He looked back at Rathe, held out the sheet of paper. “Use it
if you need to, Nico. I hope you don’t.”
  For an instant, Rathe could only stare at the letter. Whatever he
had expected—and he wasn’t at all sure what that had been;
Fourie’s temper was notoriously uncertain—this official carte
blanche had not been it. If anything, he’d expected more pleasure at
Caiazzo’s inadvertent involvement, had half expected the
surintendant to take the opportunity to try to trap the trader, to
score a point on him at last. And I’ve been unjust, Rathe thought,
abashed. The children have always been the main issue; Caiazzo
can wait for another day. “Thank you,” he said aloud, and took the
paper, folding it carefully, protecting the heavy seal.
  “Be off with you, then,” Fourie said. “And bring those children
home.”
  They took the river to Customs Point, a quick journey with the
current, and Eslingen led the way to Caiazzo’s house. The trader
had been waiting for him in his workroom, the steward said,
glancing warily at Eslingen’s companions, but at the soldier’s nod
brought them up the stairs to the gallery. Caiazzo rose as the door
opened, but checked when he saw Rathe and the magist.
  “Oh, come, surely this is a little elaborate for a simple case of
assault, and self-defense, at that.”
  “If it were just a simple case of assault,” Rathe snapped, “I
wouldn’t be here. But in fact, you’ve given me the last piece of a
very nasty puzzle.”
  The trader’s face went still. “What are you talking about?”
  Behind him, Denizard stirred, then was silent. Rathe said, “Your
gold mine, Hanse—yes, Eslingen told me about it, and a damn good
thing he did, too. You think it’s just greed that kept your bought
noble from sending you the coin you needed?”
  Caiazzo reseated himself behind his desk, fixed Eslingen with a
cold stare. “I had thought so, yes. It’s not that unreasonable a
thought, is it? But you’re going to tell me there’s more to it.”
 Denizard said, quietly, “We knew that, too, Hanse. There’s the
magist, and the clocks, to make things urgent.”
  “Which is why I sent to the points,” Caiazzo answered. “This isn’t
business I want to handle.”
  “Except you’re in it up to your neck already,” Rathe said, “and
you don’t even know what it is.” He looked at Denizard. “You must
have some suspicions about all this.”
  The woman shrugged. “A gold mine, and a magist interested in it,
keeping the take for himself? Coupled with clocks that strike when
they shouldn’t? It speaks of aurichalcum to me, which speaks of
politics, though how he’s making the stuff is beyond me. It’s too
much for one person to handle, even if you could find the people you
needed—” She stopped abruptly, the color draining from her face,
and Rathe nodded.
  “Couple it with the missing children, and you get a nasty
picture.”
  Caiazzo looked from the pointsman to his magist. “Is it possible?”
   Denizard shook her head. “It’s too many variables. Getting the
right nativities would be hard enough—hells, just making sure you
have total celibates handling the gold would be hard enough, I don’t
care how careful the guilds are, celibate means celibate.”
  “The nativities match the process,” b’Estorr said, and Denizard
looked at him.
  “I know you. I’ve heard you lecture. You’re sure?”
  b’Estorr nodded, and she winced.
  “Gods, then I suppose it is possible. But it’s crazy.”
  “I don’t know him,” Caiazzo said, and Denizard shook herself.
  “Sorry. His name’s Istre b’Estorr, he’s a necromancer. I’ll vouch
for him.”
   Caiazzo said something under his breath. Rathe leaned forward.
“It was the hedge-astrologers, the ones working the fair without
bond, that found the kids, and they were careful, did their work
well. Most of the kids are under the age where sex becomes a
serious curiosity, and every single one knew her or his nativity.
You’ve been playing a political game for the first time in your life,
Hanse, though it’s not the one Fourie thought it was, but I don’t
really care. All I care about is getting the children back safely. The
rest—doesn’t exist, as far as I’m concerned.”
  Eslingen cleared his throat. “I understood that you’d be sending
people to—rectify the situation, sir. I want to go. And so do they.”
He nodded toward Rathe and b’Estorr.
  “And why in the names of all the gods don’t they just send a royal
regiment?” Caiazzo demanded. “No, don’t tell me, too much time,
too much money, and better to let some poor trader handle it. Gods,
what a mess. Yes, Eslingen, I was planning to let you deal with this
magist, you and Denizard, but under the circumstances, any
assistance would be gratefully accepted.”
  “Doing it this way means you stand less chance of losing that
land,” Rathe snapped, and stopped, shaking his head. “Thanks,
Hanse. I won’t forget this.”
   “But everyone else will,” Caiazzo said with a dark smile. He
reached for a bell that stood on the edge of the table, rang it twice.
“You’ll need money and horses, I can get those from the caravan.
Take Grevin and Ytier, they’re good men in a fight, and you’ll want
men to help with the baggage. You can pass those two off as agents
of mine, Aice, no one in Mailhac should have contacts in Astreiant,
and Eslingen’s just new to the household.” He stood up as the
steward appeared in the doorway.
  “Sir?”
   “We have a journey to arrange,” Caiazzo said. “There’s a pillar in
it for you if everything’s ready by first sunset.”
To Rathe’s amazement, the steward had everything in order by the
time the neighborhood clock struck six. Caiazzo’s servants, a pair of
tall, greying men who had been soldiers and caravan guards in
their younger days, accepted the sudden assignment phlegmatically
enough—they were probably used to this sort of thing, Rathe
thought. He had sent to Point of Hopes, both to warn Monteia of his
departure and to send a runner for his clothes, and now that bundle
was tied with the rest on the frame of a rather ill-tempered pack
horse. There were two others, one of whom carried food and water,
as well as a spare, plus the six riding animals: nearly twice as many
horses as people, Rathe thought, and shook his head. He wasn’t
used to this sort of travel; he had spent most of his life in Astreiant,
except for a trip to Dhenin, and then he’d gone by river. He had
learned to ride as a boy from a neighbor who was an hostler at the
local tavern, but the roads to the Ile’nord and the fields outside the
city were two very different things. He sighed, looking at the
horses, as Eslingen came up beside him.
  “You do know how to ride, don’t you?”
  Rathe nodded. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t disgrace you. Rouvalles
isn’t going to like this, if all these came out of his train.”
  “You know him, too?” Eslingen asked, and the pointsman
shrugged.
  “I’ve met him.”
   Eslingen nodded. “I daresay he isn’t. But he’ll have more time to
find replacements than we have to find good mounts.” He slipped a
long-barreled pistol into a tube attached to his saddle, and looked
back at Rathe, absently patting the horse’s neck. “Does your friend
the necromancer know how to ride?”
  “You don’t like him?”
  Eslingen sighed. “I—most soldiers are a little wary of
necromancers, that’s all. It was a disappointment.”
  “Ah.” Rathe turned his head to hide a grin. “Well, don’t worry
about him either. He’s Chadroni, born and raised there. He rides.”
  The main door opened then, and Denizard and b’Estorr came
down the short stairs. Denizard was carrying a small chest under
her arm, which the taller of the servants, Grevin, Rathe thought,
took from her and added to one of the piles of baggage. b’Estorr had
sent to the university for his clothes as well, and carried a worn
pair of saddlebags and a long leather case that could only contain
swords. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, seeing them, and Rathe grinned
openly.
  “Oh,” he said, “didn’t you know? Istre’s a duellist when he has to
be.”
  “And how do you reconcile that, necromancer?” Eslingen asked.
   b’Estorr glanced at him. “If a fair duel is called, and you’re killed,
it’s generally assumed it was your time. One can, after all, reject a
duel.”
  “I see,” Eslingen said. “Any fighting isn’t likely to be polite, you
know.”
  b’Estorr smiled, not nicely. “Duels aren’t. At least, in Chadron
they’re not.” He turned and began strapping the case expertly to his
saddle.
  “No,” Eslingen said. “I would guess they’re not.”
   They took advantage of the winter-sun that night, and the next
three, the first night camping out by a field smelling sweetly of cut
hay and grains. The next night they found farm lodging with an old
soldier who now held a small patch of land to farm for himself. He
was Chenedolliste, but he welcomed Eslingen as a brother. It was,
Rathe reflected, only the ordinary folk of Chenedolle, those who had
never carried pike nor musket, who were suspicious and resentful
of the Leaguers who now served the queen. The soldiery saw only
colleagues who, at one time or another, might well be facing them
across a field, or might be at their back. It was all in circumstances,
as the stars suggested. When Rathe asked if he’d seen any unusual
travelers, someone riding hard, or wagons, the man shook his head
without curiosity. He had his farm and paid little attention to
anything beyond its edges; neither the children nor the clock-night
had reached him. A farm woman north of Bederres, however, had
heard the gossip, and said she’d seen a trio riding hard toward the
Gap highway, and one of them had a child at his saddlebow. It
wasn’t much, but Rathe clung to it, afraid even to acknowledge his
worst fear. If, somehow, they’d gotten it all wrong and the missing
children were somewhere else, then he’d only made things worse.
   They crossed into the Ile’nord on the morning of the fourth day,
the landscape unmistakable when they reached it. Dame school
classes taught every Astreiant school child that it was an
inhospitable place: certainly it was no place for people who lived by
farming and trade. The spine of the land broke through in a low,
barren line of hills that rose to the northwest, seeming to get no
closer no matter how far they rode. Those hills would grow, Rathe
knew, shouldering up to the northwest to become the hills and
mountains of Chadron. Somewhere among them was the gash that
was the Chadroni Gap, impassable in winter, unless you had
overwhelming incentive to get through it. The air here held more
than a hint of the coming autumn, a sharpness that blew down
from the foothills. Glad as they all were to be free of the city’s heat,
it made them all uncomfortably aware of time passing, and it was
all Rathe could do not to demand they move faster. But they were
already working the horses hard, didn’t dare do more. When
Eslingen signaled the next stop, drawing up under a line of trees
that looked too orderly to have grown there without
encouragement, he made himself relax, sitting slack in the saddle.
He was managing well enough, but his muscles were still sore. If
you keep on like this, he told himself firmly, you’ll be no good to
anyone once we get to Mailhac.
  Denizard drew up next to Eslingen, pushing her sweat-damp hair
back up under her cap. “You know these roads, maybe better than I
do. What’s the next town?”
  Eslingen rested his hands on the pommel of the saddle and looked
around him. “I’m not sure, it’s been a while since I’ve taken this
road north.”
  b’Estorr said, “Chaix, I think, it’s been a few years, but as I
recall, it’s three days good riding from Astreiant. There’s a good inn
there,” he added with a faint, almost wistful smile. Eslingen
nodded.
   “I know Chaix. We usually come at it from a different direction,
it’s a crossroads town, isn’t it?”
  “Complete with gallows,” b’Estorr confirmed.
  Eslingen rolled his eyes and moved away. “I’d like to give the
horses a better rest than we’ve been able to, so let’s say we stop at
Chaix tonight.”
   Rathe sighed. The soldier was right, he knew that, and besides,
he was stiffer than he’d realized from the days of riding and
sleeping rough. His lodgings were modest enough, he thought, but
at least he had a bed. “At least it’ll give us a chance to get what
news there might be about anyone else who’s traveling north,” he
said.
   It was just past first sunset when they reached Chaix, passing
under an arched gate with a clock set into the keystone. The town
had no walls, and the arch looked strange, almost forlorn, without
the supporting wall to either side. The winter-sun was still high,
casting pale silver shadows along the dusty street, and b’Estorr
shaded his eyes, squinting at the signs that hung from the buildings
lining the main road. “It’s the Two Flags here, isn’t it?” he asked,
and Eslingen grinned.
   “Always ones to hedge a bet, these folk. I like them.” He nodded
to a square of yellow light spilling from an open door. “Good beer,
good wine. It’s how you tell the border taverns. And last time I was
here, it was clean, reasonably comfortable.”
  “That’s how I remembered it,” b’Estorr agreed. Denizard edged
her horse restlessly away, scanning the buildings. The town seemed
quiet enough, no one unduly surprised by their presence, but still,
Rathe thought, they were enough of an oddity that the inhabitants
should have noticed any strangers.
  “All right, look,” he said. “Eslingen, why don’t you and I get
rooms and order dinner. There’s bound to be a temple of sorts
here—I think it’d be better—smarter—if Istre and Aicelin handled
any questions. My accent is a dead giveaway, and people don’t
answer questions for strangers they’re wary of. But you two have
the perfect standing to do so.”
  “The temple—such as it is—is down that cross street,” Denizard
said, rejoining them. She looked at b’Estorr. “Your altar or mine?”
  Rathe looked where she had pointed. It was a small, round stone
building, the design that usually signaled a pantheon or at least a
shared temple, and he thought he understood the magist’s attitude.
  b’Estorr exhaled heavily. “Either way. It’s a crossroads town, a
trading town, so the primary deity may be Bonfortune.”
  “But death is so universal, isn’t it?” Eslingen offered. But a smile
took the sting from the words.
  “And you’re Chadroni, Istre,” Denizard said. “Like Rathe, I’ve got
the Astreiant accent, they may not trust me.”
   “Whereas everyone looks down on Chadroni, so they’re more
likely to talk with me,” b’Estorr said with a sigh. “Right. Mine,
then. You’ll join me, though, I trust, Aice?”
   She tilted her head. “Wouldn’t miss it. We’ll see you both at the
tavern—Two Flags, right?” Eslingen pointed, and she peered at the
sign, brightly painted in gaudy colors, gilt touching the edges of the
banners and the carved ropes, and nodded. “Shouldn’t be hard to
find again.”
  The two moved off into the pewter twilight, and Rathe looked at
Eslingen. “After you. You’re the one who knows the town.”
   Eslingen grinned and dismounted, and Rathe trailed behind him
into the inn yard, the two servants following with the horses. Chaix
was a strange, narrow city, the buildings jammed close together,
stables built directly against the walls of the neighboring houses. It
was as though the whole city were modeled on the Court of the
Thirty-two Knives, with its narrow streets and its buildings
brushing up against one another, cutting off the sunlight and the
river breezes. He knew he was prejudiced, tried to see the city with
eyes other than an Astreianter’s, but it was hard. The aromas were
certainly different, heavier, richer, bordering on the exotic—at
least, the less mundane ones, the ones that weren’t common to
every city with a population living in close proximity to one
another. Eslingen, he noticed, was looking about him with a faint,
almost supercilious smile.
  “Nothing like your home?” Rathe asked, and regretted the words
as soon as they were spoken. He was tired, and worried, and at the
same time very much a stranger, almost as though the Ile’nord
were still some other kingdom. To his relief, however, the soldier
shook his head without taking offense.
  “Entirely too much like, actually. Esling is very like this. And
gods, do you know, I haven’t missed it a bit?” He shook his head, his
eyes momentarily distant.
  “Is that why you joined the armies?” Rathe asked, maneuvering
his way around a puddle of dubious origin. He caught the inn door
as Eslingen flung it open.
   “I imagine so. That, or remain in Esling with an uncertain future.
And it’s always been my determination to have an uncertain future
of my own making.” He grinned then, and moved forward to meet
the landlady.
  The Two Flags was as Eslingen had described it, neat, well
appointed, but not fancy. Rathe let Eslingen handle the negotiations
over the rate, uncomfortably aware of how out of his depth he was
outside Astreiant’s walls. He’d never been in the Ile’nord, and he
certainly had never had an occasion to stay at an inn before, was
accustomed only to patronizing the ground floor taverns, or
occasionally breaking up unlicensed prostitution above floors. He
found a corner table well away from the group of regulars, stolid
women in dark wool, and sat watching the animated discussion.
Finally, Eslingen joined him, carrying a pitcher and two mugs.
  “All set,” he said with a grin. “The others can get their own when
they get here.” He swung a long leg over the bench and sat down
opposite Rathe.
  Rathe eyed the pitcher. “Beer or wine?” he asked.
  “Well, I know I said they served a decent wine, but then, I
thought, what do I know about wine, really? I’m not Chenedolliste,
what I think is good you might think is horse piss. So, I thought I
had better stick with what I know is quality.”
  “Beer, then,” Rathe said, resignedly.
  “And damn fine beer, too. You’ll enjoy it.”
   And it was good, Rathe had to admit. It carried the musty aroma
of the hops that grew wild along the back fence of his garden, and
was, he had to admit, ideal after a long day’s riding. Eslingen
drained his mug in a couple of long swallows and poured another;
Rathe drank more carefully, too tired to risk a drunken night.
  “How much further, do you think?” he asked.
   Eslingen waved to a waiter, pointed to the board that displayed
the evening’s meal. “We’re in the Ile’nord now. From what Caiazzo
told us, my guess is that Mailhac is another day, day and a half
away. Aicelin would know better than I.” He seemed to guess the
real question, said, reassuringly, “We’ve made good time, Nico.”
  “Good enough?” Rathe asked.
  “If I knew that…” Eslingen shook his head.
   A swirl of activity outside the open door of the Two Flags caught
Rathe’s eye, a tumbling knot of small figures, and he recognized it
as a group of children. They were playing tag or some other rough
game, and he realized with a shock how long it had been since he
had seen such a sight in Astreiant. Only a few weeks, to be sure,
but they’d been long weeks without the sound of children’s
laughter. One of the children, a boy, maybe four, maybe five, came
running into the inn and buried his face in his mother’s skirt. Rathe
felt his heart tighten, and then the child’s voice came clear.
  “Janne hit me! You told her not to hit me, and she did.”
  A girl, a year or so older than the boy, appeared in the doorway,
face mutinous. The mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling, then
gestured to the girl. “Janne, what did I tell you about hitting your
brother?”
 “Little boys are fragile, and can get hurt more easily, but I didn’t
mean to! The little gargoyle ran into me.”
  “Well, both of you, be more careful in the future. Go on, and try
not to kill each other.”
  The girl made a face, but darted away again. The boy sniffed a
few minutes longer, was fed a slice of bread from his mother’s plate,
and headed out the door again. Rathe forced himself to relax, took
another swallow of the beer.
  “Lovely sight,” Eslingen said, and Rathe looked at him, surprised.
He had not figured Eslingen as someone with much tolerance for
children, let alone affection.
  “You don’t have any children, do you?” he asked, and Eslingen
shook his head, looking slightly appalled.
   “No. But when enough women have considered you, not as a
suitable mate, but as a suitable father for their children, you
develop a certain tolerance for them. You look at them, and think,
well, yeah, I could do better than that.” The fine lines at the corners
of Eslingen’s eyes tightened as he smiled in self-mockery. “It’s
probably just as well Devynck let me go. I think Adriana was
planning some dynasty building. And the gods know, I’ve nothing to
offer an heiress like herself in equal exchange for marriage, so it
would be just for the fun of it, and the future generations of the Old
Brown Dog.”
  Rathe nodded, but didn’t know what to say. No one, to his
knowledge, had ever viewed him in quite the light Eslingen was
describing. And he wasn’t even fully sure what he was feeling, faced
with Eslingen’s revelation. There was a small knot in him at the
thought of Eslingen and Adriana; for some reason, he hadn’t
thought Eslingen favored women. Not that he’d any reason to think
that, nor any reason for this small surge of what he strongly
suspected was an irrational envy.
  The light shifted then, and he looked up to see b’Estorr and
Denizard in the doorway, stepping carefully through the pile of
children now playing jacks on the stone outside the door. b’Estorr’s
expression was carefully neutral; Rathe had known him for a
number of years now, and knew he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear
the magists’ news.
  Eslingen got up, fetched another pitcher and two more mugs.
“You look like you need it,” he said, then topped up his own mug.
“And if you do, we’re going to. What is it?”
  Denizard dropped onto the bench beside Eslingen. “Nothing dire,
hells, nothing we didn’t expect, but it’s a little hard to hear it. Over
the past few weeks, the people here have heard what sounds like an
army on the move—and these people know what army movements
sound like. They were nervous, naturally enough, and went looking,
but they didn’t find much sign of them, just wagon tracks. But
armies don’t travel with so many wagons, so I understand.”
  “There’s only a couple of people who say they saw anything,”
b’Estorr said. “And what they saw, well, they said it was
eerie—wagon after wagon, maybe four or five at a time, heading
north but skirting the town. Aside from the noise the wagons made,
and the horses, it was quiet. No voices, no calling, no singing, no
orders… just the wagons at twilight, and silence.”
   Rathe shivered in spite of himself, and b’Estorr shook his head at
the image he had inadvertently conjured up. “Then, yesterday,
some people saw a group of men riding hard, didn’t stop here. One
of them had a child with him on the saddlebow. A girl, they
thought, from the hair.”
   “Asheri.” Rathe dropped his head in his hands, splaying his
fingers through his hair and tightening them, as though the pain
would make him think more clearly.
 “On the good side,” b’Estorr went on, “the word is the Coindarel’s
men are camped by Anedelle. That’s only two hours from Mailhac.”
   Rathe nodded, barely listening. It was a relief to know he was
right, that they were on the right road, but it didn’t take away the
greater fear. Or the nagging certainty that none of this would have
happened if he hadn’t sent Asheri to the fair. He looked at Eslingen.
“Is there any point in pressing on tonight?”
   Eslingen made a face. “Given that we know where we’re going,
that we don’t have to track these people, I would say yes, but the
horses are tired, we’re tired. If this rider suspects he’s being
followed, we might well ride into an attack.”
  Denizard nodded. “A lot of the people around here will be Mailhac
tenants or their kin.”
  “How far is it to Mailhac from here?” b’Estorr asked.
  “Just under a day,” the other magist answered.
  b’Estorr nodded, and reached for a pocket almanac. “I think we
have time,” he said, after a moment. “The moon isn’t at its most
favorable for the next few days, Asheri’s stars make her valuable
for several of the final steps, which is probably why they’re
hurrying, but they’re also in opposition to the current positions.”
  “And if we press on tonight, we’ll arrive there early tomorrow
morning,” Denizard said. “She’ll know we hurried. We don’t want to
make de Mailhac suspicious. Arriving in the afternoon is likely to
seem more normal to her.”
   “If anything does, these days,” Eslingen muttered. “I say we risk
it. We spend the night here, we get an early start, we’re rested, the
horses are rested, and we don’t arouse de Mailhac’s suspicions.”
   “And she’s going to be wary enough of us, anyway,” Rathe
agreed. “Right, then, we’ll spend the night.” The decision made, he
felt more helpless than ever, and he pushed himself away from the
table. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to turn in.”
  “Not a bad idea,” Eslingen started to rise, stopped by a hand on
his arm. He looked down at b’Estorr, who shook his head slightly,
and Eslingen grimaced in comprehension. “We’ll be up a little later.
I want to check on the horses.”
  Rathe, who had missed the exchange, just nodded and headed
back towards the stairs, grateful for Eslingen’s understanding,
anxious for a few moments to himself, to let the fears run wild and
then to put them away, firmly, and for all. Tomorrow they would be
at Mailhac. Then it was only a matter of time before everything
was resolved.



                                11
                                                              «^»
the next morning dawned rainy, and the air smelled more than ever
of the coming autumn. Rathe glared at drizzle beyond the tiny
windows as he shaved and dressed, but got his impatience under
control before he climbed down the creaking stairs to the main
room. They would still reach Mailhac by the end of the day, and
that was all that mattered. Eslingen was standing by one of the
windows in the common room, looking out at the grey, wet sky. He
shook his head, hearing the other’s approach, but didn’t turn.
  “We may not make as good time today,” he said mournfully.
“Seidos’s Horse, I hate wet travel.”
  “I suppose the weather had to break sometime,” Rathe answered,
more philosophically than he felt. He hoped the rain wasn’t an
omen, and dismissed the thought as being foolish beyond all
permission. He accepted a cup of thick, smoky-smelling tea from
the yawning waiter and joined Denizard at one of the square tables,
wrapping his fingers around the warmed pottery.
  “It couldn’t have waited another day?” When there was no
answer, Eslingen drew himself away from the window and sat back
down opposite Rathe. “It could be worse,” he said. “It could be
snow.”
   Rathe just looked at him. Eslingen raised his hands in defense.
“I’ve seen it, snow this time of year, and not that much further
north than we are now. Miserable marching it was, too.”
  “Sounds like the Chadroni Gap, and from the sound of it, you
were in one of the higher parts,” b’Estorr said, from the doorway.
He shook the rain from his cloak, hung it near the porcelain stove
in one corner of the common room.
  “Yes, well, that’s not so very far north of here, is it?”
  “There’s north, and north,” b’Estorr agreed with a shrug. He sat
down at the table, wrapping his hands around a cup, and glanced at
Rathe. “I couldn’t have asked for better weather. If it’s stormy at
Mailhac, and I think it will be, from what they told me at the
temple, there’s not going to be any work done in the mine today.”
  Rathe allowed himself a breath of relief and gave the
necromancer a nod of thanks. That was good news—it could only be
good news: whatever delayed the magist’s work gave them more
time to find the children, and to free them before they had outlived
their usefulness.
  “How so?” Eslingen asked.
  “The wind and rain carry too much corruption,” b’Estorr
answered, “and this magist has taken too much trouble this far to
spoil it all by carelessness. It may not be a pleasant ride today, but
that’s all to the good.”
  Denizard made a noise that might have been disparagement or
agreement. “Are we ready, then?”
   Rathe nodded, stood up, setting aside his half-finished cup of tea.
“I’d like to get there before nightfall. I want to see what this place
looks like on first impression.”
  Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “Spoken like a soldier.”
  Rathe looked at him, grinned. “I’m sure you meant it as a
compliment.”
   As Rathe had feared, the riding was worse than the past few days
had been. The dry dust of the roads had been turned overnight into
a thin mud, and the wind blew chill from the northeast, driving the
rain through the thin summer fabrics of their garments. When they
hit the first of the true foothills, the pack horses began to labor, and
they had to slow their pace to keep together on the narrow track.
Eslingen swore softly and steadily as the horses’ hooves slithered
and caught on the rock-strewn mud, and the horses seemed to take
confidence from the murmured words, dragging themselves and
their riders up the ever-steeper roads. He was the only one who
spoke; the others kept silent, faces tucked close to their chests, not
wanting to get a mouthful of the cold rain. The first sunset was
almost on them by the time they came opposite a massive boss of
stone where the track tilted down again, curving out of sight
around the side of the hill. Denizard pulled up beneath a stand of
wind-twisted trees and let the others draw abreast. She took a
breath and gestured.
  “That’s the Mailhac estate.”
  It was hard to see at first. Shadows already filled the narrow
intervening valley, and the land itself was rough, all rocks and
angles, the greyed green of the scrub fading into the brown grey of
the outcrops. The main house fit into its surroundings almost
uncannily well. It was an old place, the stone as grey as the land
around it, and obviously built for the Ajanine wars, with stocky
towers on each corner of a square central building. Some of the
upper windows had been enlarged, the old arrow-slits broken out
and filled with glass, but it still had the look of a fortress rather
than a home. Rathe shook his head, staring at it. “Gods,” he said
quietly. “What a rotten place for children.”
  Denizard nodded. “It looks much better when it’s not raining, I
promise you, but—yes.”
  “They’ll be expecting us,” b’Estorr said, wiping the rain from his
face, and Eslingen nodded.
  “There’s someone in the west tower, see? Now, I know this is
rough country, but there’s been peace in this corner of it for awhile.
I wonder what de Mailhac’s expecting.”
  “Us, probably,” Denizard said, and Rathe looked sharply at her.
  “What do you mean? If they were warned, the children could be
in serious danger, could be used as hostages—” He broke off as the
magist shook her head.
   “De Mailhac has to assume that Hanse will be sending someone
to find out what’s going on, that’s all I meant. And it’s in her
interest to convince us that there’s absolutely nothing wrong. That’s
what she did at the beginning of the summer, and I’m ashamed to
say, I believed her.” She beckoned to the nearest groom, who edged
his horse a few steps closer. “When we get there, I want you two to
stay with the horses—make whatever excuse you have to, but I
want to be sure some of us can get away if we have to.”
  “Coindarel’s camped at Anedelle?” Eslingen asked, and b’Estorr
nodded.
   “Near enough to make them nervous, anyway. They’re not fond
of soldiers in these parts.”
  Eslingen gave him a sour look. “We may be glad of them soon
enough.”
   Rathe sighed, impatient again, and looked back at the house. The
clouds seemed thinner now, though the rain seemed as heavy as
ever, and the stones of the manor seemed strangely paler in the
brighter light. “We’re wasting time,” he murmured, unable to stop
himself, and Denizard gave him a sympathetic glance.
  “Come on, then,” she said, and touched heels to her horse.
   By the time they reached the house, the rain had stopped. The
household had been well warned of their approach, and servants
appeared with torches to light them through the main gate. It had
held a portcullis once, and Rathe, glancing to his right, saw
Eslingen looking curiously at the remains of the machinery. They
emerged into a narrow courtyard, the horses’ hooves suddenly loud
on the wet stones, and more servants came running to catch their
bridles. Their own grooms slid down to join them, and took
unobtrusive control of the pack horses. A woman stood in the
doorway of the main house, the torchlight gleaming from the rich
silk of her skirts: the landame of Mailhac had come herself to greet
them.
   Denizard swung herself down from her horse, and the others
followed suit, trailed behind her toward the doorway. “Maseigne,”
she said, and de Mailhac nodded in answer.
   “Magist, it’s good to see you again. Welcome to my house. I trust
all is well?”
  You know it’s not, Rathe thought, hearing a faint, breathless note
in the woman’s voice. She was a pretty woman about his own age,
maybe a little older, with fine hands that she displayed to
advantage against the dark green of her skirts. Her hair was red,
unusually so, almost matching the torchlight, and her skin was
correspondingly pale, seemed to take luster from the rich silk of her
high collar. She was obviously one who liked her luxuries, Rathe
thought; no wonder she’d taken Caiazzo’s bargain.
  “Master Caiazzo is concerned about some matters,” Denizard
said, bluntly, and Rathe saw the landame’s smile falter. She
recovered almost at once, but he guessed the others had seen as
well.
  “But where are my manners?” Denizard went on. “Maseigne, let
me present Philip Eslingen, late lieutenant in the royal regiment,
and now part of the household. Istre b’Estorr, who handles the
northern trade for Master Caiazzo, and Nicolas Rathe,
caravan-master.”
  “Gentlemen.” De Mailhac inclined her head a calculated few
inches.
  “Lieutenant Eslingen speaks for Caiazzo as I do,” Denizard said.
“You’ll forgive my bringing so large a party, but one of Hanselin’s
messengers was attacked while returning from Mailhac, so we had,
we felt, reasonable fear of bandits in the hills.”
  “If that’s the case, I think you were quite wise,” de Mailhac said.
“We’ll certainly have no trouble housing your people, or your
animals. I’m extremely disturbed to hear about the messengers,
though. I hope they’re well.”
  “We have hopes,” Denizard said, deliberately vague.
  “I’m pleased to hear it. Come in, please. It’s a vile night, I’m sorry
you had to travel in such weather. And I know very well that
Mailhac doesn’t show to advantage in conditions like this. I hope
you told your companions it’s not normally this forbidding.”
  She kept up a constant stream of polite conversation as she led
them into the great hall. A generous fire was burning in the
massive fireplace, and Rathe moved closer to it, feeling the steam
beginning to rise from his wet clothes. They were all thoroughly
soaked, and de Mailhac gave orders for baths to be drawn. “I’ll let
you take the chill off—I’ve had my people lay fires in your rooms for
you, and I’ve had wine sent up. It can only help, on a night like this.
When you’re ready, Magist Denizard, I hope you will all join me for
dinner. We don’t often have guests; I’m looking forward to a very
pleasant evening.”
  “As are we, and thanks for your hospitality, maseigne. Hanselin
told me to apologize for coming on you without warning, but as I’m
sure you understand, the business of the gold has become urgent.
Most urgent,” Denizard amended with a smile that, as yet, had no
teeth in it, but instead the promise of steel.
  De Mailhac lifted her head slightly. “Of course. I do understand
that his—business—is somewhat dependent on this estate. But we
can discuss this at dinner, or after.”
  They had been given rooms suited to their status, Rathe saw,
with some amusement. Denizard’s was the largest, Eslingen’s
somewhat smaller, and he himself had been tucked into a much
smaller room with b’Estorr. There was barely room for the tub
between the hearth and the single large bed, and the necromancer
laughed softly.
  “I’d forgotten how they treat merchants here. It makes me
almost homesick.”
  Rathe grunted, stripping out of his still-damp clothes. Their
luggage, such as it was, was already waiting, and he reached for his
own bag. De Mailhac’s servants were regrettably efficient; he hoped
that her guard were less so, and then shook that thought away. “Do
you want the bath first, or shall I?”
  “Go ahead.”
    Once bathed and dressed, they made their way to Denizard’s
room. It was indeed much larger, and the paneling was carved and
painted with scenes from some local battle. A long mirror stood in
one corner—obviously a new addition to the house, Rathe thought,
and surveyed his reflection dubiously. He had brought his best coat,
but it still sat badly on him, and the plain wool was creased from
the days in the pack. Still, he thought, glancing at the others for
reassurance, no one looked much better—Denizard’s skirts were
crumpled beneath the concealing magist’s robe, and b’Estorr’s stock
had definitely seen better days. Then there was a soft knock at the
door and Eslingen came in, elegant in a dark blue coat that set off
his pale skin and jet hair to perfection. His linen looked at first
glance as though it had been freshly ironed, and the skirts of his
coat were arranged to hide the worst of the wrinkles. Rathe shook
his head, impressed in spite of himself. Eslingen was going to go
head to head with the nobility itself, and just might come out on
top. No one speaks a language so precisely as one who isn’t born to
it.
  “So,” Denizard said. She gave her reflection a final critical
glance, and adjusted her lace-edged cap. “Are we ready?”
  “We’d better be,” Rathe said. “How does she seem to you?”
   “Nervous,” Denizard said, with a small shake of her head. “Not
terribly, but there’s an undercurrent there. She’s not best pleased
to see us. That could just be because she knows Hanse is extremely
irked, but I don’t think so. She was a lot sharper last year—this
spring, for that matter. You saw how she tried to come the
aristocrat with that comment about his business?”
  Rathe nodded.
  “Normally she pulls that off a lot more convincingly. She’s
lacking a good deal of her usual ginger,” Denizard said grimly, “and
that makes me nervous.” She took a breath. “Shall we go down?”
  “Oh, let’s,” Eslingen murmured, bowing Denizard through the
door.
   A waiting servant led them from their rooms through the main
hall to a smaller room that had been converted for dining. A fire
burned in the hearth there, small but throwing enough heat to take
the worst of the damp from the air, and de Mailhac stood by the
hearth, the flames striking highlights from her skirt. She had
changed her dress, but the fabric was still the same flattering shade
of green, bodice and sleeves embroidered with scrolls of gold. The
long table was set for six, Rathe saw, and the light from a dozen
thick candles struck slivers of light from silver and glass. It was all
a great deal less barbaric than he had expected from an Ajanine
noble, he thought. Obviously, de Mailhac furnished her household
from Chenedolle proper.
  “Now I can bid you a proper welcome to Mailhac,” de Mailhac
said. “We may not be in Astreiant, but—I think—we set a table
that won’t disgrace us.” She took a breath, though her smile did not
dim. “There is another guest here at Mailhac whom you’ll meet
shortly, a magist like yourself, Aicelin—Yvonou Timenard. Perhaps
you know him? Though I doubt he’s of your college.”
  Denizard shook her head. “I’ve not traveled too far from
Astreiant, I’m afraid, except on Hanselin’s business. No, I don’t
know him, but I do look forward to meeting a colleague.”
 Rathe glanced at b’Estorr, but the necromancer’s face was blank.
Not a name he knew either, Rathe guessed, and looked back at de
Mailhac.
  The door opened then, and a man came in, a magist’s dark robe
hanging open over a respectable belly. He looked to be past his
middle years, his thinning hair almost white, but his round face
was unwrinkled, showed nothing but an almost childlike
embarrassment.
  “Maseigne, I understood you have other guests. Please do forgive
my appalling tardiness—I hope you’ve not held dinner on my
account.” He trundled over to de Mailhac, looking a little like a
child’s clockwork toy, and came to a stop, looking expectantly up at
her. She smiled faintly at him—she bettered his height by a good
hand’s breadth—and extended a hand to introduce him to the
others.
  “Yvonou, may I present Aicelin Denizard—also a magist, and an
important member of Master Caiazzo’s household. Aicelin, Yvonou
Timenard, who has been good enough to join my household.”
  “Delighted to meet you,” Timenard exclaimed, and clasped
Denizard’s hand with enthusiasm. Watching him, Rathe felt his
heart sink. They had come so far, risked so much on what was
really a chain of coincidence and guesses, and then to find this, that
de Mailhac’s mysterious magist was this child’s toy of a man… He
bit back his fears. Looks could easily deceive, he knew that well
enough, but even so it was hard to believe that Timenard was
capable of anything as complicated as the theft of the children.
  De Mailhac introduced the others then, and Timenard offered his
hand to Eslingen as well, pronouncing himself pleased to meet
another representative of their mutual acquaintance. He was
perfectly polite to the other two, but his greeting was less effusive,
marking their relative status to a nicety.
  “Well, this is pleasant, maseigne and I have been our only
company for the past several weeks, it’s always nice to have new
faces and fresh conversation—and from the capital, too, that’s an
unlooked for treat.”
   The door opened again, and de Mailhac nodded with what looked
like relief to the servant who stood there. “Dinner is ready,” she
said. “Please, be seated.”
  They took their places, de Mailhac at the head of the table,
Denizard at the foot, and a woman servant began to pour the wine.
Timenard was seated at de Mailhac’s right hand, Rathe saw, the
position corresponding to Eslingen’s, and took his own place
opposite the magist.
  “And how is the capital?” Timenard asked. “As exciting as
always? We’re so isolated here, we long for tales of the court, don’t
we, maseigne?”
  “It’s pleasant to have a change,” de Mailhac agreed. Her hand on
her wine glass was white-knuckled, Rathe observed. If she wasn’t
careful, she’d shatter the stem and that would draw attention,
certainly unwanted. Timenard’s eyes flicked sideways then, and
Rathe thought he saw the ghost of a frown cross his round features.
De Mailhac seemed to see it as well, and relaxed her grip on the
glass. She took a hasty swallow, and set it down again, laying her
hand flat on the table top. She wore no rings, Rathe saw, no jewelry
at all, and that seemed odd.
   “We’re hardly at court, any of us,” Denizard demurred, and Rathe
thought he caught a gleam in Timenard’s eye. Not triumph, he
thought, but more satisfaction, as though the older magist had
scored a point. No, of course none of them would have any dealings
with the court, they were all of common birth, no better than
merchant class, and rank seemed to matter here, to Timenard and
to de Mailhac. It would matter to de Mailhac, seeing as it was a
merchant-venturer who had gotten the better of her enough to
secure the rights to her estate and the gold produced on it. But
Timenard? There were astrologers at court, certainly, but aside
from that, magists were not in great number in the queen’s court.
Was he ambitious? Or was he ambitious on behalf of one of the
potential candidates, and grateful that none of their guests were
likely to know much about the tangles of the succession? Or was it
something else altogether?
  “No, of course not,” Timenard replied, sounding absurdly sad.
“Not working for a trader, as you all do. But surely there is at least
gossip you can share? Who’s in favor, who isn’t, who’s brought a
new color into favor?”
  Denizard and b’Estorr exchanged looks. “I’m afraid we’ve been
too busy this summer to pay much attention to anything beyond the
great gossip. Everyone talks of the starchange, of course.”
  “And the missing children,” Rathe said. He watched Timenard as
he spoke, and thought he saw a ghost of something, a shrewd
intelligence, maybe, flash in the pale eyes.
  “Missing children?” de Mailhac repeated, her voice flat. “We’ve
heard nothing of that.”
  “But we have, maseigne,” Timenard said. “You remember, the
man who came earlier this month, he mentioned something of the
sort.” He looked at Rathe, smiling. “Children of the common folk, he
said, who had disappeared, or possibly run away. I’m afraid we
didn’t pay much attention, under the circumstances.”
  “And why would you?” Rathe said softly, fighting to control his
anger. “The problem seems to be confined to Astreiant.”
  “Sad for the city, but yes,” Timenard agreed.
   Denizard shrugged, forced a smiled. “For anything else, I’m
afraid we’ve been working too hard to take much notice. I’m sorry
to be such an unentertaining guest, I feel as though I’m not earning
my keep.”
  “Nothing of the sort,” de Mailhac interposed quickly, before
Timenard could say anything. The old magist looked absurdly
disappointed, and his bottom lip, Rathe would have wagered,
trembled as though he were about to cry. What in the name of all
the gods are we dealing with here? he thought. Or did I get it all
wrong? Is this simply a commercial deal gone wrong, nothing to do
with the children? He pushed the thought down. The stories of the
wagons passing by Chaix, of the three riders with a child, moving
fast, the whole oddity of this evening—it all had to mean
something.
  De Mailhac turned to Denizard and Eslingen. “And how is
Hanselin? We never get to see him here, only when I travel to the
court at Astreiant.”
   “He’s well enough, maseigne, though, as I said, troubled by the
silence and, more importantly, the lack of any deliveries from
Mailhac,” Denizard said. Her voice was pleasant enough, but there
were teeth behind the words. “He is not a man to cross, maseigne, I
do beg you to believe that. And the two of you have an agreement,
an oath of honor between you, that he should regret deeply were it
to be broken.” The magist lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug.
  De Mailhac glanced almost involuntarily at Timenard, and the
round man leaned forward.
  “Oh, dear, yes, that is fully understood, and very distressing it
must be for Master Caiazzo to find his plans delayed. But…”
Timenard spread his hands. “He must understand, the mines here
at Mailhac are virtually played out. I have been doing everything in
my power to help maseigne eke out what we can, but it’s barely
enough to support the estate itself, let alone such grand merchant
plans as Caiazzo must have in train.”
  “Ah. And why not just tell Hanse that?” Denizard asked, still
pleasantly. “I’m sure—something—could be worked out.”
  “But the people he sent… we sent them back to him with just
that message, begging his patience and understanding. Are you
saying he never received word?” Timenard blinked at her in what
looked like genuine puzzlement.
  Denizard turned a crust of bread between her fingers. “No,” she
said, choosing her words carefully. “Not precisely. As I told the
maseigne when we arrived, only one messenger returned to
Astreiant, and he was attacked and nearly killed on the road
south.”
   De Mailhac and Timenard exchanged looks, and the magist laid
his hand briefly on the noble’s where it lay on the tablecloth. Rathe,
watching closely, couldn’t be sure if the magist meant to comfort or
to warn her.
  “But that’s—dreadful,” Timenard said. “What must he think of
us, of matters here? He must surely think maseigne is trying to
renege on—as you say—a pledge of honor, and that is not to be
borne.”
  “After last summer…” Denizard said, and let the words hang in
the air. “You can understand our concern.”
  Eslingen cleared his throat. “We understood that the mines did
well enough for you to have spent the Spring Balance at court,
maseigne. And that’s not a cheap proposition.”
   Timenard’s face flushed pink, his bright blue eyes wide and a
little angry, and de Mailhac’s eyes fell. The old magist frowned at
her, and looked at Eslingen.
  “I’m delighted Master Caiazzo’s people are so well informed, but
they don’t, perhaps, know everything.”
   De Mailhac stirred, seemed about to speak, and Timenard turned
to her, continuing earnestly, “Please, maseigne, you must let me
explain to them, it’s likely the only thing that will satisfy your
associate.”
  De Mailhac lifted a hand in permission—or was it acquiescence?
Rathe wondered—and Timenard gave her a half bow, turned to
speak to Denizard. “As I said, we fully understand the constraints
the lack of gold must place on Master Caiazzo, but, also as I said, it
has been completely unavoidable. Yes, maseigne visited the court at
the Spring Balance, but the reason will, I hope, appease you and
Master Caiazzo.”
 Denizard inclined her head. “I hope so, too, Magist Timenard. I
most sincerely hope so.”
  “Maseigne understands the obligation she is under to Caiazzo,
rest assured of that, and it was because of this obligation that she
attended the queen this spring past. There is, just to the east of this
land, an open parcel on which, it is likely, are further deposits,
enough to satisfy both Caiazzo and the requirements of managing
an estate such as Mailhac. Maseigne petitioned the queen to extend
Mailhac’s seigneurial rights to that parcel.”
 “I see.” Denizard sounded almost suspiciously demure. “And did
Her Majesty grant this petition?”
  “It’s still under advisement,” Timenard conceded, a trifle stiffly.
“We expect a decision by the Fall Balance.”
  “That’s rather late for the trading season, surely,” Eslingen
murmured in a tone of silken menace, and Rathe, despite himself,
hid a smile. This was a very different Eslingen from the one who
had been Devynck’s knife.
  “Entirely too late for bankers’ comfort,” b’Estorr agreed.
  “But there seems to be little or nothing either Maseigne de
Mailhac or Magist Timenard are capable of doing about it,”
Denizard said, and managed to make it a mild rebuke.
  De Mailhac spread her hands. “I wish there were something I
could do, Aicelin, truly. I know Hanselin to be an honorable man,
and I have appreciated his forbearing these few months. If there
were any way I could supply his needs—and my obligation—then
please believe I would.”
  Denizard smiled gravely. “I have to, maseigne, and will certainly
take your word to Caiazzo, though I’m sure you’ll be willing to show
me your plans in more detail—perhaps a visit to the mine, or to this
new land, would be in order.” This time, Rathe was sure he saw
fear flare in the landame’s eyes, but Denizard continued without
hesitation. “In any case, I know he’ll be relieved to hear of the
possibility of redress.”
  “The mine itself is always dangerous ground, no one goes there,”
de Mailhac began, and Timenard cut her off, his voice riding over
whatever else she would have said.
  “But the miners are competent, maseigne. I’m sure something
can be arranged.”
  De Mailhac’s smile looked forced, but she murmured something
that was obviously meant for’agreement. The rest of the dinner
passed in polite conversation, and when the foursome excused
themselves, pleading the day’s travel, the landame nodded and
managed to look only mildly relieved. Timenard rose with them, his
earlier good nature evidently restored by the rich red wine. He
summoned servants to light them to their rooms, and wished them
a cheerful good night from the bottom of the main staircase, but
Rathe could feel his eyes on them as they climbed toward their
rooms.
  Once the servant had left, the four gathered again in Denizard’s
room, and Rathe prodded moodily at the dying fire. Outside the
shuttered window, the wind was rising, soughing through the trees
above the manor house.
  “Someone’s lying, in a big way,” Denizard said after a moment,
and b’Estorr nodded. He crossed to the window and pulled the
shutters aside, staring out into the half light. The weather was
breaking, Rathe saw over the other man’s shoulder, the clouds were
shredding to reveal patches of sky and what was left of the
winter-sun’s light. It was another hour or two to the second sunset,
he thought, and realized with some surprise that he hadn’t seen a
clock in any of the rooms.
   “Obviously, but they said so much, and so little, where’s the exact
lie?” Eslingen asked. “I don’t believe the mines are played out, not
the way that table was set and provisioned, not with gold about the
only means of support for an estate like this—does this look like
good farmland to any of you?”
  “Well, one thing they’re lying about,” Rathe said, “is her stay at
court. Or the reason for it.” He got up, went to join b’Estorr at the
window. “Look, I served the Judge-Advocate Foucquet when I was a
boy, I’ve seen cases like this. There is no way either the law, or the
queen, for that matter, would permit a petty Ile’nord ladyling”—his
voice was savage—“to extend her rights to free land. And even if
the law permitted it, Her Majesty wouldn’t countenance it.” He
remembered standing behind Foucquet in the great hall of the
Tour, watching the queen with adolescent awe. She was a tall
woman anyway, and her anger at a southern noble who was
seeking much the same kind of extension de Mailhac said she
sought had only seemed to make her taller. Nobles, she said, could
learn to live within their means, certainly within their lands. She
would set no potential strife in motion by increasing holdings that
had been sufficient and more than sufficient for generations. Free
land was just that, and would remain so, for the use of people who
farmed or herded for themselves alone, or their families.
  Denizard nodded. “I agree. I doubt Her Majesty would extend de
Mailhac’s rights in any case, and certainly not over mining land,
but I don’t know how much it helps us.” She looked at b’Estorr. “I
don’t suppose you recognized this Timenard?”
  The necromancer shook his head. “I didn’t see a badge, either.”
  “What exactly does that mean?” Eslingen asked, and b’Estorr
looked at him.
   “It could mean any number of things. The main one is, we can’t
tell what his training is—or was, since if he’s making aurichalcum
on this scale he’s definitely stepped outside the bounds of any
legitimate school. And that means we can’t be sure what he’s
capable of.”
  “You know,” Denizard said, slowly, “I think he was already here
in the spring, when I was. He didn’t wear a magist’s robe then, and
I didn’t pay much attention to him—he certainly wasn’t being
introduced to the honored guests at that point. But I’m almost sure
I saw him.”
   Eslingen grimaced. “Well, one thing’s for certain, Malivai was
right. It’s him who calls the tune here now. It’s subtle, but when it
comes to it, he makes the decisions.”
  Rathe nodded. “And I think they were lying about not having
heard about the children. She was, certainly, I’m sure she knew
they were missing.”
  Denizard sighed. “I agree.”
  “I did wonder why you’d mentioned that,” Eslingen said.
  “I thought it would be more suspicious if we didn’t,” Rathe
answered. “Timenard’s agents must have warned him that the city
was upset, common folk like me would be bound to have it on their
minds, to the exclusion of more important matters.
  Denizard grinned. “He does think well of himself, doesn’t he? I
haven’t seen so many airs and graces since I was last at court
myself— and I’ll bet he’s lower born than any of us.”
  Eslingen said slowly, “He’s not what I was expecting, I must say.
Are—do you really think he’s behind all this?”
  Now that it was said, Rathe was suddenly angry, and knew that
the anger was masking his own uncertain fear. He swallowed hard,
trying to still his instinctive response, said, “He calls the tune here,
just like your messenger said. There’s no gold, though there’s
enough money for them to live remarkably well, and de Mailhac,
for one, didn’t want us to go to the mine. That’s enough—with
everything else, that’s enough for me.”
  “There’s more than that,” b’Estorr said, and turned away from
the window at last. “Did you notice—did anyone see or hear a clock
strike in this house since we’ve gotten here?”
  Eslingen blinked. “Now that you mention it,” he began, and in
the same moment, Rathe shook his head.
  “I was noticing that, actually. Why—P” He stopped then,
remembering the clocks in Astreiant striking the wrong hours, too
soon, too late, time and the world suddenly askew, at odds with
each other. “You think he was responsible for the clock-night.”
   b’Estorr sighed. “I don’t know if he did that. But aurichalcum is a
potent metal—it’s one of the few things in the world that’s strong
enough to affect a well-made clock. If he’s mining and manipulating
it in quantity, it would certainly throw off the household’s
timepieces. And I think it would ultimately be less suspicious to get
rid of the clocks than to try to explain why they were running
badly.”
  “There were clocks here last summer,” Denizard said. “Handsome
ones—an old one that had to be an heirloom, and a very nice
modern case-clock up in the gallery, at least from what I saw. They
weren’t here this spring. I thought she’d just sold them for the
money, but now…”
  “What in Dis’s name can he want with that much aurichalcum?”
  b’Estorr muttered, and no one answered.
  After a moment, Rathe said, “I suppose our next step is to go to
the mine, see if the kids are there.”
  “What we need to do,” b’Estorr said, and kicked the edge of the
hearth, “is to put paid to his plans, whatever they are. And the one
sure way to do that is to pollute the mine.”
  Rathe looked at him. “I may not want to know this, but how do
we do that?”
   b’Estorr took a breath. “Oh, it’s fairly easy. The mere presence of
adults—worldly wise, probably inappropriately born—in the mine
itself will taint the gold and spoil the whole process.” There was a
small silence, the fire hissing in the grate. Rathe stared at the
coals, trying to imagine getting into a mine without being seen.
  “What about the children?” he said aloud, and b’Estorr gave him
an unhappy glance.
  “If Timenard is mining aurichalcum, creating it in this kind of
quantity—he’s put his hands on a source of power that frightens
me. It’s the kind of power, at least in potential, that moves
mountains, and I mean that literally. You saw what it was like at
Wicked’s, and his power will only have increased from then. The
children are less important than stopping whatever it is he’s doing,
Nico. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
  Rathe shook his head, wanting to deny the other’s words, but
stopped by the note in the necromancer’s voice, by his own
memories. “We can’t just leave them,” he said, and Eslingen cleared
his throat.
   “We can’t make any real plans until we know what conditions are
like at the mine. We might be able to pollute it and get the children
free at the same time.”
  b’Estorr said quietly, “Of course, the only problem then is that
getting out of Mailhac, with or without eighty-five children, may be
rather difficult.”
  “Are magists always given to understatement?” Eslingen asked.
  Rathe shook his head. “Well, but something like this is what we
have the sur’s warrant for. We use it. We send for Coindarel’s
regiment.”
  “To, basically, attack an Ile’nord holding? Will he come?”
Denizard asked, and Eslingen smiled, spoke before Rathe could
reply.
  “I think I can send a message with the warrant that will bring
him. Coindarel has, I think, probably more quarterings than
maseigne here.”
  “If you can, Philip,” Rathe began, and Eslingen help up a hand.
  “I can.”
   “So we’re agreed, then,” Rathe said, and looked at b’Estorr. “If we
send for Coindarel now, we’ll have—what, three, maybe four hours
to do what we have to before he can get here with his troop. That
should give you time to do what you need to do with the mine, and
at the same time, give us a chance to get the kids into some
temporary shelter.”
  b’Estorr nodded. “I think it will work. Assuming Coindarel
comes.”
  “Oh, he will,” Eslingen said.
  Denizard handed him her writing kit, and Eslingen seated
himself by the fire, balancing the wooden case on his lap. He wrote
quickly, the pen scratching across the paper, and Rathe wondered
just what he could say that would guarantee the prince-marshal’s
arrival. Eslingen had served with Coindarel, the pointsman told
himself firmly. He would know what to say.
  “Finished,” Eslingen said at last, and folded the paper firmly,
adding a blob of wax to seal it.
  “I can send it with one of my people,” Denizard said, and Rathe
intercepted the note before she could take it.
  “I’d better take it. I’m the caravan-master, remember? Who else
would go check on the horses?”
  He made his way down the side stairs and out into the courtyard,
shadowed now as the winter-sun dropped toward the roof. The main
gate was still open, he saw, but a pair of sturdy-looking men in half
armor lounged against the inside arch of the gate. They looked lazy
enough at the moment, but their back-and-breasts were well
polished, swords and half-pikes ready for use, and Rathe nodded in
their direction, hoping they would assume he was simply checking
on the horses. No one challenged him, and he drew a sigh of relief
as he ducked into the stable door. He stood for a moment in the
sudden dark, the smell of hay and horses strong in his nose, and a
voice said softly, “Rathe?”
  He turned toward the speaker, and saw the taller of the two
grooms standing in the door of one of the stalls. “Grevin.”
  The man stepped back, beckoning. “Over here. But keep your
voice down, sir, the hostlers sleep in the hayloft.”
   Rathe nodded, and came to join them in the narrow space. They
had made themselves a bed in the hay, he saw, and felt a brief pang
of guilt that they wouldn’t get to use it. “We need to get a message
to Coindarel, at Anedelle, as quickly as possible. There are guards
on the gate, though—”
  “Not a problem,” the other groom said with a grin that showed
white in the darkness. “There’s something very strange going on
here, and the people don’t like it. There’s a back door that no one’s
ever bothered to show this magist of hers.”
  “Where?” Rathe demanded.
  “By the kitchen,” the groom answered. “It’s right there, they say,
but the magist doesn’t concern himself with the servants’ quarters.”
  And a good thing, too, Rathe thought. “Then the guards are his?”
he asked, and Ytier nodded.
  “That’s what they say. I can’t say I’m sorry to be leaving, all
things considered.”
  “We won’t be able to take the horses, though,” Grevin said.
  Ytier shrugged. “We can get mounts at any of the houses along
here, if we pay enough. I know these people.”
  Rathe reached into his pocket, came up with the letter and his
purse, and handed them both across. Ytier took them, weighing the
purse briefly in his palm, and nodded.
  That should be enough. Even if it isn’t, we can walk to Anedelle
in a couple of hours.”
  “Good enough,” Rathe said, and hoped it would be so. “Good
luck,” he added, and let himself back out into the courtyard.
Rathe crossed the courtyard again, acutely aware of the guards still
lounging by the gate, but suppressed the desire to wave to them.
Instead he went back into the hall and slipped quietly up the main
stairway. As he reached the top, he heard footsteps, then voices, de
Mailhac’s and then the magist’s, and dodged instinctively into the
first doorway he saw. Caravan-master or not, he had no real desire
to explain what he was doing out of his room at this hour, especially
after he’d claimed the same exhaustion as the others. He found
himself in a long room that smelled faintly of cold ash, and stood for
a moment, head tilted to one side, as his eyes adjusted to the
darkness. He could hear the footsteps, closer now, and then de
Mailhac’s voice, rising querulously as she approached the door.
  “—I don’t like this, not right now. They could spoil everything.”
  “I told you, and I’m telling you again, this means nothing.”
Timenard’s voice was sharper than it had been at dinner, held more
authority. It was also coming closer to the door, and Rathe glanced
around the room, looking for a hiding place. Tapestries covered the
wall to his left, and he put out his hand, testing the space between
them and the wall itself. Not much, but maybe enough to hide him,
he thought, and took a cautious step toward them, groping for the
edge of the heavy fabric. He found it, and in the same moment felt
the tapestry sway inward under his hand. There was a niche in the
wall, one of the guard posts one still found in the oldest houses, and
he slipped into it, letting the tapestry fall back into place over him.
  “It’s too late,” Timenard went on. “Our plans are too far
advanced—pull yourself together, maseigne, there’s nothing they
can do to stop us.”
  “I wish I were as confident as you,” de Mailhac said, her voice
suddenly louder. Rathe saw light through the gap between the
tapestry and the wall, the wavering pallor of a single candle, and
held his breath. The light dimmed, moving past him, and he heard
the distinct double click as a latch snapped open.
  “You should be,” Timenard said. “You can be.”
   “But what are we going to do about them?” de Mailhac
demanded, her voice fading again. Rathe tipped his head to one
side, not daring to shift the tapestries, but didn’t heard the latch
close again. De Mailhac’s voice came again, a little muffled, but still
too close for comfort. “They are dangerous, Timenard.”
  “I don’t deny it,” the magist answered. His voice sounded closer,
and Rathe grimaced, flattening his back against the stones of the
wall. From the sound of it, Timenard was still in the
room—standing in a doorway, maybe, Rathe thought, and that
meant he himself was stuck behind the tapestries for a while
longer. “And they will be dealt with, maseigne. Leave that to me.
But now—”
 “The list,” de Mailhac interrupted him, her voice sounding less
muffled, and Rathe heard the latch click closed again.
  “List?” Timenard echoed, sounding startled.
 “The list you wanted,” de Mailhac answered. “You did say you
wanted it?”
  “Oh, yes,” the magist said, and Rathe thought there was a
fractional hesitation in the round man’s voice, as though he’d
forgotten ever mentioning a list. And don’t I wish I could get a look
at it myself, Rathe thought, but didn’t move a muscle behind the
concealing weight of the fabric. He saw the light swell again,
caught a brief glimpse of the pinpoint of flame and the shadows of
the two, tall and small, and then their footsteps had passed him,
were receding down the long hall. Rathe allowed himself a deep
breath, but didn’t move immediately, listening for any sign of their
return. There was nothing but silence; he counted to a hundred and
then to a hundred again without hearing anything more.
  He lifted the tapestry aside, stepped back out into the narrow
room. It was as dark as before, and empty, but he hesitated,
looking for the second door, the one he had heard open and close.
There was no sign of it, just the main door, half open to the hall,
and the blank paneled walls. Carved paneled walls, he corrected
himself, and his interest sharpened. In Astreiant, carvings like that
could hide any number of doors and compartments, and in spite of
the situation, he couldn’t repress a grin, remembering one of
Mikael’s friends, drunk and earnest, explaining how he’d found
some rich merchant’s private strongroom behind a similar set of
carvings. His eyes were adjusted to the dark by now, and he could
make out the pattern, a vine heavy with fruit. Experimentally, he
ran his hand along the carved stem, counting clustered grapes, and
jammed his thumb painfully against an iron loop like a trigger. He
put his thumb in his mouth and used his other hand to work the
latch, wincing at the noise.
   The door opened onto what seemed to be a small workroom lit
only by the winter-sun’s light that seeped in through the gap in the
shutters. It was enough to show the worktable and chair and the
massive cases that held the estate’s account books. They were
locked, and he spared them only a single regretful glance,
concentrating instead on the handful of papers scattered across the
table top. He picked them up one by one, held them to the light to
decipher the stilted handwriting—de Mailhac’s? he wondered. The
notes were unsigned, were little more than drafts for the account
books or for a more complete letter, but enough of the names were
familiar to let him make sort of sense of the whole. There were only
a dozen names, or so it seemed, and he recognized four of them as
Astreiant printers, and one other—the one who had received the
largest amounts—as a woman who had a reputation as political
agent in the city. The last sheet was a broadsheet, much creased,
with a woodcut of the Starsmith hanging over a mountain and
contorted verses that argued for a northern candidate for the
succession. Rathe frowned at that—there were three northern
candidates, Marselion, Sensaire, and Belvis—and only then realized
that the first letters of each line spelled out Belvis’s name. He made
a face, and set the sheet back in its place. From the look of things,
de Mailhac was definitely supporting Belvis’s candidacy with money
and more; he wondered, closing the door gently again behind him, if
the palatine had any idea the lengths to which her supporters
would go.
  The hall seemed quiet now, the servants busy belowstairs, de
Mailhac and Timenard long gone, and he slipped back into the main
hallway. He made his way back to Denizard’s room without
encountering anyone, and tapped gently on the door. It opened at
once, and Eslingen looked out at him, frown easing to a sudden
grin.
   “You took your time,” he said, and Rathe stepped past him,
closing the door behind them both.
  “Problems?” Denizard asked, and the pointsman shook his head.
   “No. The message is sent and I’ve got us a way out of the hall.
But I had a chance to do a little snooping on my way back, and I
think I know some of what’s going on.” Quickly, he explained what
had happened, describing the papers he’d found. When he’d
finished, Eslingen lifted an eyebrow.
  “One could almost feel sorry for Maseigne de Belvis. Whether or
not she knows what’s going on, she’ll lose any chance at the throne
when this comes out.”
   b’Estorr shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. You don’t go to
all this trouble, manufacture aurichalcum illegally—Dis, steal
eighty-five children in order to manufacture aurichalcum—for
political gain. It would be like taking a caliver to a gnat.”
  “I saw the papers,” Rathe said. “And I know those names, the
printers, and I saw one of the sheets. That’s part of it, Istre.”
  “De Mailhac’s part, anyway,” Denizard said, and the others
looked at her. “De Mailhac is an Orsandi, they’re related to Belvis
by marriage, it would make sense for her to support that candidacy.
It’s a nasty thought, but suppose Timenard’s duped her, too?”
  “How do you mean?” Rathe said after a moment, not liking the
sound of it.
  “Suppose he has told her that whatever he’s doing is for Belvis, to
help Belvis, but that’s just a cover?” Denizard shook her head. “I
can’t think of anything else that would make sense. Istre’s right,
aurichalcum’s too potent to waste on mere politics, but I trust
Nico’s knowledge of Astreianter printers.” A fleeting grin crossed
her face. “I know to my cost it’s encyclopedic.”
   “But if aurichalcum is queen’s gold,” Eslingen said slowly, “if it’s
linked to the monarch, why wouldn’t you use it if you wanted to
influence the succession?”
  “It’s too powerful,” b’Estorr said again, and Denizard nodded.
  “There are better, less dangerous ways to affect even a royal
decision,” she said. “With fewer chances of it blowing up in your
face.”
  Eslingen nodded. “Which brings me to another thought, then,
Aice. Is there any chance of us convincing maseigne she’s been
duped, and getting her—and more to the point, her household and
presumably her guards—on our side?”
  “I doubt she’d listen,” Denizard said with regret. “She doesn’t
much like me—too common for her taste—and I don’t have any real
evidence. We don’t even know what Timenard is really doing.”
  “Besides,” Rathe said, “the guards are his.”
  “Lovely,” Eslingen said. “So we’re back to the original plan?”
  Rathe nodded. “So now we wait for second sundown.”
   The brilliant diamond of the winter-sun was already below the
edge of the trees, glinting through the gaps in the leaves. They
watched in silence as it sank further, vanishing at last behind the
shoulder of the hill. When it was well down, the four slipped down
the stairs. As the grooms had said, the back door was easy enough
to find, a small door at the end of a hall that led past the kitchen. It
looked as though it would lead to a storeroom, and Rathe braced
himself for disappointment as he tugged on the latch. It opened
smoothly, without creaking, and a breath of damp air came in with
it, bringing the smell of a midden. Rathe made a face, and stepped
out into a narrow paved courtyard that was obviously used to store
the kitchen’s leavings. The iron gate at its end was open, and there
were no guards in sight. He allowed himself a sigh of relief—for the
first time, it seemed the stars might be favorable—and they went
on out into the deepening night.
   The wind was still strong, tearing the clouds of the day apart to
let through bits of starlight. Rathe stopped, confused by the dark
and the sighing trees, and Denizard pushed past him, a dark
lantern ready in her hand.
  “This way,” she said, and the others followed.
  She led them cautiously around the manor house, following some
path that Rathe couldn’t see, and brought them out at last beside a
small stream. Now, at the height of the summer, it was more sound
than water, the stream itself perhaps a foot wide, clattering over
the rocks at the center of its bed, but Denizard’s lantern showed
higher banks where the spring floods had carved a deeper channel.
Beyond the far bank, a path led uphill following the course of the
stream, barely wide enough for a man and a pack pony to walk
abreast. It rose steeply, without much regard for travellers’ footing
on the rocky ground, and Rathe heard Eslingen swear under his
breath. Denizard heard him, too, and gave a grim smile.
  “It’s all uphill from here,” she said, and the soldier swore again.
  “How far?” Rathe asked, adjusting the sword he’d borrowed from
b’Estorr, and the woman shrugged.
  “According to the deed to the estate, a couple of miles, but it’s
always felt further to me. The road gets better about half a mile
up—this is the path they use to bring the gold down, they don’t
want it to seem easy to strangers.”
   Rathe sighed at that and glanced up, wishing that the trees didn’t
cut off so much of the starlight. The waning moon was no help at
all, had already set, and Denizard’s dark lantern did little more
than add to the darkness. Rathe looked away from it deliberately,
stretching his eyes as though that would help him find his night
sight more quickly somehow, and followed the others up the stony
path. As Denizard had promised, it got easier as they climbed
higher, widening until two horses could walk abreast, but even so it
took most of their concentration to keep from slipping on the rocky
track. It was well over an hour later when Eslingen, walking a
little ahead of the others, stopped and held out a hand.
 Denizard shuttered her lantern instantly. “What is it?” she
murmured, her voice barely a breath above a whisper, and Eslingen
waved her toward the woods.
  “Guardpost,” he murmured. “Only a couple of men, so it’s not the
real thing yet.”
   “Probably here to catch any of the children who try to make a
run for it,” Rathe whispered, and ducked behind b’Estorr into the
shadow of a bush. He could see movement now, darker shadows
among the trees, and then, as one turned, he saw the spark of a lit
slow match bobbing at chest height. He held his breath, seeing
that, fought the urge to duck, and the spark moved away again,
vanished as the guard turned back to his post.
  “Probably,” Eslingen agreed, “but we can’t afford a fight at this
stage. We’ll have to go around.”
  Denizard made a sound that might have been a sigh. “This way.”
   She led them up the slope to her left, climbing cautiously through
the trees and rock until they could pass the guards unseen and
unheard. The guards’ interest seemed to be focussed on the mine;
they stood facing uphill, turning only occasionally to glance back
down the road toward Mailhac. They had a brazier with them, and
a lantern, Rathe saw, and hoped it had ruined their night vision.
   Even after they had passed the guardpost, Denizard did not
return to the road but led them along the slope parallel to it, her
boots silent in the thick carpet of dead leaves and debris. It was
quiet enough, Rathe thought, following more cautiously, but the
same soft cover hid all but the largest rocks and was dangerously
slick in places, making the footing treacherous. He slipped once,
and swore silently, pain shooting up from a wrenched toe, but that
eased almost at once and he allowed himself a soft sigh of relief. All
they would need now was for someone to get hurt.
  Ahead, a light showed between the trees, a cool, diffuse light, and
Eslingen stopped, tilting his head to one side. “Mage-fire?” he
asked, his voice barely above a whisper, and b’Estorr nodded.
   “I would say so. They’ll have to work all hours to take advantage
of the proper stars, and there’s no better way to light this large a
space.”
   “This way,” Denizard said, and pointed to her left again. She led
them further up the slope where the trees and brush were thicker,
crouched at last behind a cluster of rocks and screening bushes.
Rathe copied her, then reached aside to part the branches, staring
down at the mine. It lay in a hollow, long since cleared, filled with
the cool, shadowless light of the mage-fire like sunlight through fog.
If anything, the area seemed surprisingly ordinary, the long run of
the sluice lying crooked across the yard, the stone storehouse with
its iron-bound door, the scattering of wooden shacks that must hold
tools—ordinary indeed, Rathe thought, except for the children. A
gang of twenty or more stood at the long table at the mouth of the
sluice, picking listlessly through the rubble that covered its surface.
Behind them, the mine entrance loomed, an empty hole framed
with heavy timbers. The mage-light didn’t penetrate its darkness,
and Rathe suppressed a shiver at the sight, made himself look more
carefully at the yard. There were more guards, of course, a trio—all
armed with calivers and swords, though no armor—keeping a close
eye on the laboring children, and at least five more scattered across
the yard, two by the storehouse, the other three on the hillside to
the right of the mine. He shook his head, watching the children
work, their movements slow and uncoordinated.
  “Why make them work at such an hour?” he asked.
  “Taking advantage of a favorable conjunction,” Denizard
answered, almost absently, and Rathe nodded. He had known the
answer, or could have guessed it, but he was glad to hear another
voice.
   b’Estorr reached for his pocket orrery, looked up to the sky to
find the clock-stars among the scudding clouds, then held the little
engine so that its rings were lit by the reflected glow of the
mage-fire. He twisted one of the inner rings, and frowned as the
metal refused to move. Denizard frowned, too, and b’Estorr pressed
harder. This time, the orrery turned easily, and he checked the
settings.
  “Trouble?” Denizard asked, and b’Estorr glanced at her.
  “It may just need oiling.”
   Denizard lifted an eyebrow at that, and b’Estorr sighed. “Or
there’s enough aurichalcum down there to affect it. But whatever it
is, that conjunction is ending—it has to be within a degree or two to
be effective. So the children should be let off any minute.”
  Eslingen nudged Rathe. “Look.” He pointed to one of the guards,
who had set down his caliver and was consulting a battered-looking
almanac. A moment later, the man put a whistle to his lips, the
shrill sound seeming to make the mage-fire shiver, and the children
stopped what they were doing. One, too slow, too tired, kept going,
pulling a chunk of rock from the table, and the closest guard cuffed
him, hard, then tossed the rock away. Together he and the others
began herding the children back toward the stone
storehouse—which had to be the stronghouse for the mine, Rathe
realized. What safer place to keep the children than in a place
meant to be locked and defended? And how in the name of all the
gods are we ever going to get them out of there? he thought. Or, for
that matter, how are we going to get into the mine?
  Eslingen seemed to have the same thought, and turned to look at
the magists. “You expect to get in there?”
  b’Estorr nodded. “We have to. It’s the only way to be sure.”
   Eslingen slid back down, to sit on the dirt with his back against a
rock, and Rathe saw the glint of white as he rolled his eyes. “The
madness of magists,” he muttered, and took a breath. “Right, then,
I’ll have to clear you a way, won’t I?” He started to get to his feet,
but Rathe put a hand on his arm.
  “What did you have in mind?”
  “Cause a distraction—draw off the guards and keep them busy
while the magists do their work.” Eslingen glanced around the
rocky ground. “There’s plenty of cover, and we’ve got four pistols
between us. We should be able to hold them.”
  Rathe shook his head. “If you want to do that, and I think it will
work, we have to free the kids first. Otherwise they can use them
against us.” He squinted through the trees toward the storehouse.
The children had vanished inside, and now the guards were taking
up their positions outside the door—only two of them, Rathe saw,
but that was enough. “A distraction would be nice for that, too.”
  “We could probably provide that,” Denizard said, and b’Estorr
showed teeth in an angry smile.
  “I’d like nothing better.”
  “Can the two of you handle the mine yourselves?” Rathe asked.
   “Oh, yes,” Denizard said. “Polluting the mine is really quite
simple—I’m sure that’s why the guards aren’t at the entrance
itself.”
 “It’s just getting away from it that might be difficult,” Eslingen
muttered. He shook his head. “This is getting complicated.”
  “I don’t think we have any alternative,” Rathe answered. He
looked at the magists. “All right. Give us time to get into position,
and then— make noise or something. Draw off the guards. We’ll
release the kids, and then return the favor.”
  “Freeing the children will probably be a good enough distraction
in itself,” Eslingen said, and grimaced at Rathe’s glare. “Well, it will
be. And they have every incentive not to hurt them, which is more
than I can say for us.”
  b’Estorr nodded. “As soon as we see the children leave, we’ll head
for the mine.”
  They were right, Rathe admitted, much as he hated the idea, and
nodded shortly. “All right,” he said again. “Let’s go.”
  They made their way along the side of the hill, careful to stay
well back in the shadow of the trees. The glow of the mage-fire was
both a help and a hindrance, enough to light their way but
deceptive in the lack of shadows. It seemed to take forever to reach
the slope overlooking the stronghouse, and almost as long again to
work their way cautiously down to the edge of the clearing. Rathe
was sweating freely, certain that they had taken took long and that
the magists would act before they were ready, but made himself
stay behind Eslingen, matching the soldier’s pace. At last, they
reached the edge of the trees and stood peering out at the building.
   “Two guards on the door,” Eslingen said, his voice a mere breath
of sound. “But the others have a clear view, damn it.”
  Rathe nodded, the weight of the pistol awkward in his belt. At
least it was a flintlock, not the matchlocks the guards were
carrying, but he wished he had more than one. He jumped as a
crack like breaking wood sounded from the other side of the yard,
and then realized that the magists were finally moving. The sound
was repeated closer in, and the guards started toward it, leaping
the stream and heading up the slope.
  “There he goes,” Eslingen said softly, and Rathe saw one of the
two guards from the stronghouse move to join the others.
  “I suppose it was too much to hope they’d both go,” he muttered,
and saw Eslingen smile.
  “Be grateful for small favors,” he said, and darted forward, pistol
raised. He dropped the remaining guard with a single blow and
dragged the unconscious figure out of sight while Rathe surveyed
the building. There was only a single lock on the door, but it was a
heavy one, and he didn’t dare risk the noise trying to shoot it off.
He took a step back, peering up into the darkness. There were, of
course, no windows—why should there be, in a building designed to
keep gold safe?—and he swore softly. Eslingen stepped up beside
him, leveling the musket he’d taken from the guard, but Rathe
pushed the barrel aside.
  “I don’t see that we have any choice,” Eslingen said.
  Rathe shook his head. “Oh, yes, we do. Keep an eye out, would
you?” The soldier turned obediently to face the yard, shouldering
the musket. Rathe pulled a small knife from his sleeve and set to
work on the mechanics of the lock. It was not, he saw with
considerable relief, a mage lock, and why should it be? Trouble was
the last thing Timenard was expecting, his plan had been almost
perfect. Not, Rathe thought, propitiatingly, that he had grown
careless, or that Rathe thought him a fool. But the lock was a fairly
straightforward affair for one born and bred in Astreiant’s
southriver. He felt the mechanism give, gave a small grunt of
satisfaction, and wrenched the lock from the door. Eslingen gave
him a slightly incredulous look.
   “Did you learn that before or after you became a pointsman?” he
asked. Rathe just bared his teeth at him, and plunged into the
darkness. With a small sigh, Eslingen followed, striking a flint and
lighting one of the lamps along the wall. There were three barred
doors off the little entrance way, two to the right, a single one to
the left, each with a grilled opening in the center. Rathe tapped
quietly at one of the right-hand doors. There was no response from
behind it, but there was a small scurry of noise from behind its
neighbor. Then a face appeared in the small, barred window:
Asheri. Rathe let his eyes flicker closed for an instant, then moved
to investigate the lock.
  She looked surprised when she saw Rathe, and then relieved. “I
thought it would have to be you, Nico.”
   “I’m glad you had faith in me, Asheri love. Are the boys in the
other room?” Rathe asked. This lock was more complex, better built
than the one on the main door, and he could feel the knife point
slipping on its works without making contact.
  “Yes.” She stuck her hand out the window, pointed to the door
across the corridor. “Though why they think they have to separate
us, I don’t know.”
  “I wouldn’t imagine the situation is conducive to misbehavior,”
Rathe agreed. “Ash, keep the other girls quiet for me while I try to
get this door opened. Then get them out and away from here as
quickly as you can.”
  “Would this help?” Eslingen said, from behind him, and held out a
ring of keys. “It was hanging by the door.”
   Rathe took them gratefully, found the right key on the second
try, and swung the door wide. The room was full of children, all
girls, all in the crumpled clothes they’d worn when they’d been
taken. Someone—Rathe doubted it was Timenard—had given them
straw and blankets, but the improvised beds just made the room
look more pathetic. They were all standing now, the largest group
huddled together as though they were cold. A tall girl with dark
brown hair and wearing a green dress stood near Asheri—she had
to be Herisse Robion, Rathe thought, and was almost surprised to
realized he had never seen her before.
   “It’s all right,” he said aloud, and hoped he sounded soothing. “I’m
from Point of Hopes, we’ve come to get you out of here. The doors
are open and the guards are busy elsewhere. I want you to head
back down the mountain—follow the stream, not the path, it’ll take
you to the road—as fast as you can.”
  Robion nodded, grabbed the nearest girl, and shoved her toward
the door. “Come on, let’s go.”
   The urgency in her voice seemed to reach even the most
frightened, and they began to file out the door, slowly at first, then
faster. Eslingen shook his head, looked at Rathe. “I’ll cover them
from the main door,” he said, and turned away, the matchlock still
at the ready.
  Asheri said, “I’ll stay with you, Nico.”
  Rathe shook his head, trying the next key in the lock. “No, get
moving, we’re not done yet.” The lock snapped free at last, and he
pulled open the door.
   This room looked much like the other except that it was filled
with boys watching warily, poised to run or attack. Asheri said, “It’s
all right, he’s from Point of Hopes.”
   “Nicolas Rathe, adjunct point.” It seemed foolish to introduce
himself there in the darkened strongroom, but he hoped it would
make them listen. “We’ve got the doors open. Head down the
mountain as fast as you can—follow the stream, the girls are ahead
of you.”
   “They’ve got guns,” a voice said, and there was the sound of a
slap.
  “Stupid. You want to stay here?”
  “We’ve drawn off the guards,” Rathe said, and hoped it would still
be true. “Now, get moving. Asheri, go with them.”
  The boys began to move, Asheri with them, and Rathe made his
way back to the doorway. He drew his pistol as the boys began to
dart across the yard, heading for the downhill path and the stream,
and joined Eslingen by the door.
  “No sign of the guards?” he asked, and Eslingen shook his head.
  “Are you thinking this might have been the easy part?”
  Rathe nodded, grim-faced. “I wonder how Istre and Denizard are
doing.”
  “I haven’t heard them in a while, so I guess they’re at the mine.”
Eslingen drew back as the last boy shoved past them. “Maybe they
need our help. I’m pretty impure. Do you suppose the less innocent
a person is, the quicker the mine could be polluted?”
  “Only one way to find out,” Rathe answered, and in the same
instant, heard a shout from the hillside.
  “Damn kids, get them!”
   Rathe swore, heard himself echoed by Eslingen. He could see the
first of the guards scrambling down out of the trees clutching his
musket, and lifted his own pistol, saw Eslingen level the musket
he’d taken from the guard.
  “Mine, I think,” Eslingen said, and fired. The sound echoed in the
greying darkness, bouncing off the rocky hills, and pulling the
guards up short as though by a rope. They were out of range, and
knew it, but the leader waved his arms, drawing his men back
toward the yard.
  “This is not a good spot for a pitched battle, Nico,” Eslingen said,
and set the now-empty musket neatly in the corner of the door.
  “Even I can see that, but what choice did we have?” Rathe
demanded.
  “None, but now we have to think of something else.”
  “I’m open to suggestions,” Rathe said.
   “I’m glad to hear it.” Eslingen said, and drew his pistol
right-handed. “If we can make it to the mine itself, that’ll give us
some cover, and some time, right?”
  “Right.”
  “Go.” Eslingen said, drawing his sword, and he charged for the
mine entrance. Rathe pounded after him, practically treading on his
heels, knife in one hand, pistol in the other. He heard the snap of
shots, and then the angry shout of the leader reminding his people
they were out of range. Then they’d reached the entrance and
plunged into the darkness. Rathe collapsed against the nearest
wall, catching his breath, and peered out into the yard.
   Outside, the guards stopped abruptly, unwilling to go in after
them. And not unreasonably, Rathe thought, when all they have to
do is wait for reinforcements. The mage-light seemed to stop a few
yards in front of the entrance, casting almost no light into the mine
itself. Rathe blinked, dazzled by the contrast, and wondered if there
were magistical reasons to keep the mage-fire out of the mine itself.
Everything felt ordinary enough, from the mud under his feet to
the solid rock at his back, and he shrugged the thought away,
looking at Eslingen. “Now what?” he asked, and hoped that, from
all his soldiering, the other man might have some cache of ideas for
handling what could rapidly become a siege situation. Before he
could answer, however, both men caught sight of a light behind
them, and Eslingen whirled, leveling his pistol by reflex.
  “Easy,” Rathe said, recognizing the footsteps. Denizard’s dark
lantern clicked open, throwing a fan of light across the rocky floor.
  Denizard and b’Estorr stood behind the wedge of light. In the
shadows, it was hard to see their expressions, but Rathe thought
they looked sober, and the air teemed with the chill currents of
b’Estorr’s ghosts. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise and
said, “Were you able to do anything?”
  Denizard half nodded, half shrugged. “Oh, polluting the workings
was no problem. But if Timenard has taken as much gold as I think
he has, and if all that gold has been processed into aurichalcum…”
She shook her head. “b’Estorr’s right, it’s too much just to be
politics, but what in all hells would require that much gold?”
  “Istre?” Rathe turned to the other magist.
   “I don’t know. I don’t even want to hazard a guess. But whatever
it is, Nico, whatever he’s using it for or making with it, it will give
him incredible power.”
  “This is all very interesting,” Eslingen began from his place by
the entrance, and stopped abruptly. They could all hear it now, a
sudden confusion of voices and the sound of horses’ hooves first on
stones and the hard-packed ground of the yard, and then echoing on
the bridge over the stream. Rathe swore again, and moved up to
stand across the entrance from the soldier, peering cautiously out
into the yard. The mage-light had changed, strengthened, was
enough to throw shadows now, and Timenard, an oddly
foreshortened figure on a magnificent sorrel horse, had reined in at
the center of the yard, seemingly oblivious to the way the horse
sidled and danced beneath him. It was truly a gorgeous creature,
enough to draw Rathe’s eye even under these circumstances, and he
heard Eslingen give a soft whistle of admiration. The mage-light
seemed to gleam from its pale coat and the brighter strands of its
mane and tail, turning them to gold. Behind him, a child cried out,
and then another, and half a dozen guards appeared at the head of
the path, dragging four of the children. They fought back
hysterically, shrieking at the tops of their lungs, but the guards
dragged them inexorably over the bridge.
  “Shut up,” Timenard said, almost conversationally, and they were
instantly silent. He had not looked back, but Rathe could feel the
focus of his attention change, center on the mine and the dark
entrance. He was sure Timenard couldn’t see them, no one looking
out from the waxing mage-light could see into that darkness, but
the magist’s eyes were fixed on the spot where he and Eslingen
stood.
  “And is this how you repay maseigne’s hospitality?” Timenard
went on. “We have very strict notions of correct behavior for guests
here in the Ile’nord, you know. I strongly suggest you come out of
there right now. Or these children will die for your rudeness.” His
tone had not changed in the slightest, as though he considered bad
manners worthy of a capital punishment. Rathe scowled, torn
between anger and a sudden deep fear, and he saw Eslingen stir.
  “Oh, right,” the soldier muttered, his eyes roving over the magist
and the guards. “And how’s he going to do that? I don’t see any
weapons on him, and his people have their hands full with the
kids…”
  His voice trailed off, less confident than the words, and b’Estorr
took a step forward. “He can do it,” he said. “Dis Aidones, can’t you
feel it? He can certainly do it.”
  Denizard nodded, wordless, her face pale. The lantern trembled
in her hand; she looked down at it, frowning, and braced her free
hand against the rock of the wall.
   Rathe could feel it himself now, a shifting in the air like the
presence of b’Estorr’s ghosts, or the tingle of an oncoming
storm—and most of all like the clock-night, the unnatural, uncanny
wrongness of it. He could feel the ghosts shy back from it, a cold
current nipping his ankles before retreating toward the mine, and
tasted dust and heat and something strangely metallic, like
lightning gathering. The mage-light was stronger than ever,
clustering into motes of light that swarmed like insects around
Timenard and his horse, and Rathe was abruptly certain that the
magist could do exactly what he’d threatened. He stepped fully into
the entrance where the reflection of the light could reach him, and
lifted a hand. “Timenard! Killing the children won’t do you any good
at this point. And you need them—”
   Timenard made a dismissive gesture and the motes of light
seemed to follow, a streak of pale gold in the thick air. “There are
others, others more easily obtained than these. My work is too close
to completion to be so easily thwarted, and I don’t intend to argue
with you. Come out now, all of you, or these children die. It’s a
simple equation.”
   He crooked his fingers, and the motes of light swerved and
clustered, gathering around his hand. Rathe could hear a faint
drone, a humming just at the edge of audibility, like the echo of a
swarm of bees. “And what happens to us?” he called, struggling to
find the words that might delay the magist, stave off whatever
powers he called for even a moment longer. “Our deaths for
theirs—I don’t know—”
  He broke off at the sound of hoofbeats from the Mailhac road.
The guards swung, startled, and the biggest of the children
wrenched himself half away before the man holding him could grab
him again. Rathe swore under his breath, seeing that, and Eslingen
cocked his pistol.
  “It could be Coindarel,” he began, and in the same instant de
Mailhac and a good dozen of her household swept into the clearing.
She was hardly dressed for riding, a battered traveling cloak
thrown on over the silk dress she had worn to dinner, the
embroidered skirt hiked awkwardly up so that she could ride
astride, showing practical boots over delicate fancywork stockings.
  “What in all hells have you brought down on us, magist?” she
shouted. “There’s a royal regiment on the Mailhac road, and the
woods are full of your damned children.”
  Timenard ignored her, his eyes still fixed on the mine entrance,
but Rathe heard the humming fade, felt the unnatural pressure
ease a little. De Mailhac lifted her face to the skies, her hair
tumbling unbound over her shoulders. “You stupid, ambitious
bastard, you’ve finished us. We’ve lost, and all we have left is barely
enough time to get away from here and over the Chadroni border.”
   Timenard sighed then, and swung in his saddle to face her, his
voice still bizarrely calm. “Why should we flee? Why on earth
should we flee? This royal regiment will arrive too late, maseigne, a
week ago they would have been too late. My work is too far
advanced now, they cannot keep me from its completion. Now. I’ll
need your men to help me rid the mine of these intruders.” He
turned back to the entrance, raised his voice again. “I’m reluctant
to shed your blood in the mine itself, but I will do it. And I will kill
these children.”
  De Mailhac swung herself down from her horse, skirts flying, and
started across the yard toward Timenard. She carried a sword,
Rathe saw, incongruous over the bright green silk, and there was a
small pistol jammed into her sash. Clearly she intended to fight,
and Rathe wondered if there was any way they could make use of
that.
  “We’ve lost our chance to influence the queen’s choice, can’t you
see that?” she demanded. “We’re discovered, and we’ve no hope of
further gain—of any gain at all. Unless we flee, and now, we’ll take
Belvis down with us.”
  Timenard ignored her, lifted his hand, fingers crooked, and the
air thickened again, the light coalescing into a swarm. Rathe swore
under his breath, glanced wildly at the magists behind him.
  “Isn’t there something you can do?”
   Denizard shook her head, and b’Estorr said, “I’m a necromancer,
I don’t even know what he’s calling—”
  “Timenard!” de Mailhac demanded. “We have to protect Belvis.”
  “Belvis is expendable,” Timenard said, impatiently, as though to
an importunate child. “Leave me alone, woman.”
   With an inarticulate cry of anger, de Mailhac drew her sword.
Timenard flung his hand back, not even bothering to turn, and the
swarming light shot from his fingers, struck the landame with a
soundless snap. Her arm hung in the air, her whole figure tensed,
frozen in mid-motion. Only her eyes still moved, burning with fury
and fear. Not dead, then, Rathe thought, trying to make sense of
what he’d seen, not a mortal blow after all, though who knows
what it would have done to the kids—
   Timenard sighed then, the motion of his shoulders obvious
beneath his heavy robe, and swung himself down from his horse. As
his feet touched the ground, the horse shimmered as though the air
around it was warped by a furnace’s heat. The strands of its mane
and tail seemed to fuse, become a solid sheet, and then its neck
curled down and its hind legs buckled. For a confused instant,
Rathe thought it was reaching for nonexistent grass or trying to sit,
but its head curled further, its neck bending impossibly until its
nose was tucked under its belly. The strong outlines of its muscles
were blurring, too, fading, its forelegs curling under, and its color
ran like water, shifting from sorrel to true gold and then to
something beyond gold, an unearthly, shadow-less luster. The last
ghost of the horse-shape fused and vanished, and in its place stood a
set of nested spheres, impaled on a yard-long axis. Rathe shook his
head, trying to deny what stood before him. He had seen the great
orrery at the university, both as a boy and at the ceremony that
had confirmed the true time, and he recognized the form of the
thing. But where the university’s orrery had been brass, solid and
secure in its mechanical connections, this was delicate as filigree,
the shapes of the rings and the planets outlined with a peculiar
iridescence. It had to be made of aurichalcum—of pure
aurichalcum, he corrected himself. Even the coin aurichalcum
b’Estorr had shown him had lacked that unearthly color.
  “Sweet Sofia,” Denizard murmured, and made a warding gesture.
b’Estorr took a step forward, towards the entrance, towards the
orrery, then stopped, shaking his head. Denizard closed a hand
around his arm, her fingers white-knuckled, but the necromancer
didn’t seem to feel her grip.
   Rathe looked at them. “What is it? An orrery like that—what can
it do?”
  “Entirely too much,” Denizard said, grimly.
  b’Estorr nodded. “Something that size, with that much
aurichalcum—made purely of aurichalcum…” He took a breath.
“Instead of drawing its influence from the stars, it could,
conceivably, reverse the process. Affect the stars themselves.”
  “It can’t do that,” Eslingen said, but the protest was automatic.
“That’s impossible.”
  “Not anymore,” Denizard answered.
  “I think we’ve seen it,” b’Estorr said.
  “The clocks?” Rathe asked, and the necromancer nodded.
  “To forge something like that, something that powerful—we’re
lucky all it did was throw off all the clocks in Astreiant.”
  Timenard stooped, lifted the orrery in his gloved hands. It was
huge, the largest sphere as large as his torso, but he carried it
easily. The iridescence played briefly over his fingers, and faded.
“You, in the mine. I hold here the power to reorder the world, to
compel the stars themselves to change and to change the world
with them, to bring down the powers that are now and set up new
powers in their place. You yourselves are commoners all—surely
you can see this can only be to your good. Who has been blamed for
the disappearances of these children? Leaguers and commoners.
Unfair, but the way of the world. I give you a new chance, a new
choice. Come out of there and join me. I can give you a better world
than the one you live in.”
  The words were like a spell, an almost palpable temptation.
Rathe shook himself, made himself look past the magist toward the
mine road and de Mailhac’s people huddled in confusion. Coindarel
was on his way, but even if he arrived in time, what could he do
against the power of the orrery? The mage-light was fading again,
replaced by the dimmer light of dawn, and against it the orrery
glowed even brighter than before. Pure aurichalcum, Rathe
thought, the words running through his mind like a tune he could
not forget. Unpolluted by anything else, the purest form of gold.
  “Come now,” Timenard called again, “come out and join me.”
  Rathe could feel the words tugging at him, a subtle pressure
against his knees, as though he stood in an invisible stream.
Eslingen took a step forward, then shook himself, scowling, and
took two steps back, deeper into the shadows.
 “You see what I can offer you,” Timenard crooned. “What I can
make you. A better, more just world.”
   Rathe shook his head, took a step sideways and stumbled, almost
tripped by the invisible current. “More just?” he called, hoping to
create some delay until he, any of them, could think of something
that might stop the magist. “Whose justice? Yours? And what about
the law?”
  “The law was set up by nobles to keep commoners like yourself in
their places. Don’t be a fool.”
  “I won’t,” Rathe said, but in spite of himself the current drew him
forward. “I won’t see a world that sets one man up over all others.”
  “You will have no choice,” Timenard answered, and touched the
orrery’s outermost sphere. The air rang, as though with the
aftereffects of music, though there had been no sound. Rathe took
another step, and was suddenly aware of the pistol in his hand. It
was loaded, and the ball was lead, he thought, lead which was the
antithesis of gold to begin with, and which had been sitting in
contact with the impure compound of gunpowder. He lifted it,
bracing himself against the invisible current of Timenard’s will, and
took careful aim, not at the magist but at the orrery itself. He held
his breath, and pulled the trigger. The priming powder caught, and
then, half a heartbeat later, the pistol fired, the sound shockingly
loud, shockingly profane, in the close air. The orrery seemed to sob
aloud, a weirdly soundless groan that shook the ground under their
feet. Rathe stumbled forward, going to his knees in the muddy
ground. Behind him Eslingen cursed and leveled his own pistol,
bracing himself against the nearest timber.
  “Timenard—”
  Behind him, b’Estorr cried, “No, don’t, the gold’s unstable.”
   Eslingen hesitated, and in the same moment they saw de Mailhac
shake herself, as though the noise, the attack on the orrery, had
freed her from her trance. She lunged blindly forward, continuing
the move she had begun minutes before. Timenard tried to turn
away, his eyes suddenly wide, mouth opening in the beginning of a
horrified shout. Her sword pierced the orrery’s spheres, dissolving
as it thrust, and the orrery screamed again, a wail of tortured
metal. And then de Mailhac’s bare hand touched the axis. Timenard
cried out then, his voice lost in the sudden yelling, and fire flashed
beneath de Mailhac’s hand. Light surged with it, so that for a
moment the two stood locked, their shadows and the orrery’s black
at the heart of a ball of fire hotter than any furnace. The smoke
came then, crashing back over the ball of light like an ocean wave,
and then it, too, was gone. Where it had been, where Timenard and
de Mailhac had been, there was nothing except pale ash and a
handful of dull, twisted wires.
  There was a moment of utter silence, even the children too
stunned to cry out. Rathe’s ears were ringing, and he could see the
same shock on Eslingen’s face, pale beneath the dark hair. The
mage-light was fading fast now, overtaken by the paler light of
dawn, and Rathe shook himself hard.
   “Give me your pistol,” he said to Eslingen, but it was b’Estorr
who handed him a weapon. Rathe cocked it quickly and stepped out
into the yard, leveling the pistol at the nearest guard. Eslingen
moved up to join him, his own pistol drawn, and the magists
followed.
  “Stand away from the children,” Rathe ordered, and was glad to
hear that his own voice was relatively calm. De Mailhac’s people
were still in shock, he saw, some already looking behind them
toward the road; the guard leader glanced at them, and then at the
spot where Timenard had stood. Rathe could see the indecision on
his face, and pointed the pistol directly at him.
  “Stand away,” he said again. “Put down your arms, all of you, or
I will fire.”
  Before the man could respond, hoofbeats sounded again on the
track from Mailhac. Rathe heard Eslingen laugh softly, and one of
de Mailhac’s servants tugged injudiciously at her horse’s reins,
making the animal snort and sidle. Almost in the same instant, the
first of Coindarel’s regiment swept into view, the prince-marshal
himself narrowly in the lead. Timenard’s guard leader looked over
his shoulder, his expression unchanging, but slowly lowered his
musket. His men copied him, stepping away from the children they
had been holding. Coindarel gestured to his men, who fanned out,
surrounding both the mine guards and de Mailhac’s party, and a
white-haired sergeant swung down off his horse, holding out his
hands to the children. There was another small figure at
Coindarel’s saddle-bow, Rathe saw, and an instant later realized it
was Asheri. He allowed himself a long breath of relief, and
Coindarel edged his horse up to the mine, half bowing in the saddle.
   “My Philip, I never expected to see you under these
circumstances,” he said.
  He had to be curious about the explosion, Rathe thought, but
wasn’t about to ask any commoner directly. He stilled a laugh,
recognizing the hysteria in it.
  “Nor are these circumstances I ever expected to see,” Eslingen
answered, and carefully uncocked his pistol before jamming it into
his belt. “You made good time, sir.”
  “How could I resist your appeal?” Coindarel asked. He was as
handsome as a prince-marshal should be, Rathe thought, if
somewhat older. He realized that the other was looking at him
then, and shook himself back to reality.
 “You’re the pointsman, I assume?” Coindarel went on. “Which
makes you—unofficially, to be sure—responsible for these brats.”
   Rathe nodded, too relieved to be offended. They were going to be
all right, he thought, the children were found, and they were going
to come safe home at last.
   “These can’t be all of them, surely?” Coindarel stood in his
stirrups, turning to survey the half dozen or so in the mine yard. A
few more children were creeping out from among the trees. Rathe
saw, and braced himself to the task of finding the rest. At least
Asheri was safe, he thought, and was instantly ashamed.
  “No. We—I sent the rest into the forest, down towards Mailhac.
They’ve probably scattered, I told them to follow the stream, but
we’re going to have to find them, get them back to Astreiant…”
  “You don’t have to do anything, pointsman,” Coindarel said.
“That’s what we’re here for.” He looked around the yard again, and
touched heels to his horse, sending it dancing sideways toward the
pile of ash where the magist had stood. “But we seem to be missing
someone, by all accounts. Where’s Maseigne de Mailhac—or her pet
magist, for that matter?”
  Before Rathe could answer. Coindarel’s horse shied, bounced
sideways on bunched feet, away from the ashes. Coindarel swore,
one arm instantly steadying Asheri, and brought the animal back
under control with an effort. Rathe pointed to the pile of ash, the
wires that had been the orrery just visible beneath it. “That’s
what’s left of them,” he said, and Coindarel lifted his head, eyes
wide, looking suddenly like one of his own horses.
  “I’m not at all sure I really want to know,” he said at last. “At
least, not yet. Not until we’ve found the children, maybe not until
we’re back in Astreiant.”
 Rathe shook his head. “No, Prince-marshal,” he said. “You don’t
want to know.”
   Coindarel lifted an eyebrow, but visibly thought better of it. He
wheeled his horse again and trotted back toward the rest of his
troop, just coming into sight at the head of the path. There were
more children with them, a good dozen, and Rathe allowed himself
a long sigh. Coindarel’s men would find them, the children would
come to them, and everything would be all right. The sun was
rising at last, a breeze rising with it, and the ashes stirred,
releasing an odd, acrid smell, hot metal and something more. Rathe
winced then, thinking of untimely deaths, and turned to b’Estorr.
  “I know this was just. But I also know what Timenard was.” He
looked back at the pile of ash, the dull wires half buried in it. “And I
don’t want anyone troubled by his ghost.”
  “I can do that,” b’Estorr answered, and Rathe nodded.
  “Then, please. Do it.” It was his right, as a pointsman and a
servant of the judiciary, to ask that, or it would be if they had been
in Astreiant and Timenard had died on the gallows. Rathe shook
the doubt away. He had told the truth: Timenard’s death had been
deserved, and de Mailhac’s with it; if nothing else, treason was a
capital crime, and madness like Timenard’s was worse than
treason. He nodded again, and b’Estorr nodded back.
  “You’re right,” he said, and reached into the pocket of his coat,
bringing out his own orrery. The metal was tarnished, as though it,
too, had been through the fire, and he blinked, startled.
  “Mine, too,” Denizard said, and held up a smaller, double-ringed
disk. “Gods, if that—device—of his was powerful enough to do that
just in its destruction…”
   “Then Nico’s right, and the ghost ought to be laid, for good and
for all,” Eslingen said.
   “I agree,” b’Estorr said, absently, adjusting the rings of his
orrery. They moved smoothly now, Rathe saw, and shivered,
remembering their earlier stubbornness. The necromancer checked
the settings a final time, then unfastened his swordbelt, and used
the scabbarded blade to draw a circle around the remains of the
fire.
  “Let me help,” Denizard said, and b’Estorr nodded.
  “If you’d set the wards?”
  Denizard nodded back, and crouched to begin sketching symbols
along the outside of the circle. b’Estorr reached past her, drew more
symbols inside the circle, murmuring to himself in a language
Rathe didn’t recognize. He drew two more sets of symbols,
consulting his orrery each time, and then looked down at Denizard.
  “Ready?”
   “Done,” Denizard answered, and drew a final symbol in the dirt
outside the circle. Rathe felt something give, as though the air itself
had collapsed, leaving a space that was somehow outside proper
time and space, and b’Estorr reached calmly into the center of the
circle, inscribed a final symbol in the air above the pile of ash.
There was a flash of light, gone almost before Rathe was sure he’d
seen it, and the feeling of dislocation was gone with it.
  “Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe
nodded.
   b’Estorr slipped his orrery back into his pocket and held out a
hand to help Denizard to her feet. “That’s bound them, not that
there was likely to be much left to trouble anyone. Power like that
is called soul-destroying for a reason.”
 “Thanks,” Rathe said, and wished he could think of something
more.
   “Mind you,” b’Estorr went on, “if they want to use the mine
again—whoever de Mailhac’s heirs are, they’re unlikely to turn
down gold—I’d suggest putting up something a little more solid to
mark the spot, otherwise it’ll drive the horses crazy.” He seemed to
realize he was babbling, and stopped abruptly, shaking his head.
Rathe touched his arm in sympathy, and looked back across the
yard to where Coindarel and his men were still gathering the
children. There were two more of them on the hill above, he
realized, a boy and a girl, and he lifted his hand to wave them
down. They saw the gesture, and started toward the others, and a
third stepped from behind a tree, picking her way carefully over the
stones after them. That must be close to half of them, Rathe
thought, and all of them safe and sound, frightened, certainly, but
unhurt. That was a better result than he had thought possible even
a week ago, and he felt unexpected tears welling in his eyes. He
blinked hard, impatient with himself, and Eslingen laid a hand on
his shoulder.
  “Seidos’s Horse, we did it.” He looked more closely then, and the
cheerful voice softened. “You can take them home now, Nico.”
  Rathe smiled. “Well, Coindarel can,” he said. “They’re going
home, that’s the main thing.” And that, he thought, was more than
enough for any man.



                           Epilogue
                                                               «^
it was a slow journey back to Astreiant, despite the wagons
Coindarel commandeered from every farmstead he passed, but the
news ran fast ahead of them. By the time they topped the last long
hill that led down to the city, the steep slate roofs rising like a stone
forest from the paler stones of the houses, the royal residence
sitting on its artificial hill to the north as though it floated above
the ordinary world, they could see the crowds gathering along the
Horsegate Road. The first parents had already reached them,
reclaiming their children with shouts and tears of joy. Coindarel
slowed his troop to a walk and gave up all pretense at discipline by
the time they’d reached the outlying houses. Rathe, riding with the
first wagon, was buffeted by the crowds, women and men thrusting
flowers toward him and shouting inaudible thanks, clutching at
boots and stirrup leathers as though they couldn’t otherwise be sure
it was all real. They grabbed at the wagons, too, and a couple of
Coindarel’s sergeants moved cautiously to block them so that the
horses could keep moving.
  Rathe heard a shriek from the nearest wagon, turned sharply, his
fear turning to relief as he saw Herisse Robion, her green suit sadly
battered now, leaning over the wagon’s side to wave to someone in
the crowd. Rathe turned to look, and saw the butcher Mailet, and
with him Trijntje Ollre, tears streaming down her face.
  “Trijntje!” Herisse cried again, and Rathe touched heels to his
horse, edging it through the crowd.
  “Need help?” he asked, and the girl turned to him.
 “Oh, let me down, make them stop, please, it’s Trijntje, and
Master Mailet, and everybody—”
   Rathe glanced at the wagoner, who shook his head. “I’m sorry,
sir, if I stop for her, I’ll have to stop for all of them, and we’ll never
get them home.”
  He was right, Rathe knew, but the expression on Herisse’s face
was too much for him. The wagon wasn’t moving very fast, barely
at a walk, and he brought his horse alongside, matching the pace
easily.
  “Here,” he said, and held out his arm. She scrambled over the
wagon’s side, skirt hiked awkwardly, and he caught her around the
waist, dragging her half across his saddle-bow. She clung to him,
and he swung the horse in the same moment, depositing her
gracelessly but unbruised at Mailet’s feet. The big man grabbed her
by the shoulders, pulling her into a rough embrace, and then
Trijntje called her name, and the two girls hung sobbing and
laughing in each other’s arms. Mailet shook his head, his own
expression fond, and looked up at Rathe.
  “I’m in your debt, Adjunct Point.”
  Rathe shook his head. “It’s my job, Master Mailet—”
  “And I’m still in your debt,” Mailet answered, the choler already
returning to his face, chin and lower lip jutting dangerously. “I
insist.”
  Rathe laughed then, suddenly, and for the first time in weeks,
genuinely happy. “Have it your way, master,” he said, and nudged
his horse forward.
  At his side, Eslingen laughed, too. “You can’t seem to get on with
that one, Nico.”
  Rathe grinned. “I’d like to see his stars,” he began, and saw a
hand wave from the crowd. Devynck stood there, Adriana at her
side, and he looked back to see Eslingen’s smile widen to delight.
  “Adriana, Sergeant,” he called, and swung down off his horse,
looping the rein over his wrist.
  “You’ll miss the celebration at the Pantheon,” Rathe said, and the
other man looked up at him.
  “Oh, that’s for Coindarel, you know that. Besides, I’ve been
wanting to see them again.” He started toward the two women
without waiting for an answer, tugging the horse along with him.
  Rathe shook his head—Eslingen was right, of course, the
prince-marshal would take the credit, or, more precisely, would be
given most of the credit, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too
deeply.
  “Nico?” It was Asheri’s voice, from the second wagon, and Rathe
turned, brought his horse alongside her.
  “Yes? I haven’t seen Mijan yet, if that’s what you wanted.”
  “And you won’t, either,” Asheri answered. “She’d never come to
something like this, she’s too sure the worst will have happened.”
   She sounded impatient, if anything, but Rathe remembered the
tears in Mijan’s eyes, the bitter answer to all her own and her
sister’s dreams. We never have any luck , she had said, I should have
known . As if she’d guessed the thought, Asheri’s face seemed to
crumple.
  “Take me home, Nico, please?”
  Rathe nodded. “I’ll take you home,” he said, and held out his hand
so she could scramble across.
   Once they were free of the crowd, the streets were almost empty.
It didn’t take long to reach the Hopes-point Bridge. Asheri shifted
against his back, muttered something, muffled by the cloth of his
coat.
  “What’s that?”
  “I don’t think it’s fair,” Asheri said, and Rathe frowned.
  “What’s not, love?” He could hear bells chiming, and could smell a
sudden sweet drift of incense from a household shrine.
  “The prince-marshal getting all the credit. He sweeps in at the
last minute, like a hero out of some really improbable romance, he
doesn’t even do any of the work, not like you did, Nico, and the
others—and the whole city thinks he’s the hero.”
  “Well, but he is,” Rathe said, striving for a light tone. “By
definition. Prince-marshals are always the heroes.”
  “I think,” she said seriously, “we need some new stories, then.”
  Rathe shook his head. “Probably, but don’t fret about it on my
account, Ash. People know. They know it was the four of us, and
that’s fine. We’re none of us heroes, nor would want to be. Except
maybe Philip,” he added, and was glad to surprise a gurgle of
laughter from her.
  “He does come the gentleman, doesn’t he?” She sobered again.
“But it’s still not fair.”
  “I meant what I told Mailet,” Rathe said, and realized that he
did. “It’s my job.”
  “Then you don’t get paid enough,” Asheri muttered.
  They turned off Clock Street at last, and threaded their way
through the narrow streets to the cul-de-sac where Mijan’s house
stood. The square around the well-house was empty, not even the
sound of a child drifting from the surrounding houses, but Mijan
herself was working in the little garden outside her front door, her
back stubbornly to the road from the city. Another woman—a
neighbor? Rathe wondered—was standing with her, hands twisted
in her mended apron. She looked up sharply at the sound of
hoofbeats, though Mijan did not move, and then reached down to
touch the other woman’s shoulder. Mijan hunched her back, and
didn’t move. Rathe reined his horse to a stop—and he would have to
return it to Caiazzo soon, he thought, or pay for stabling—and
Asheri slid down from the saddle.
  “Mijan?”
  Mijan turned at the sound of her voice, scowling, and pushed
herself up from the dry dirt. “How could you—?” she began, and
Asheri’s voice rose in what sounded like a habitual response.
  “Don’t scold , Mijan, I’m fine!”
   Mijan shook her head, but Rathe could see the tears on her
cheeks. She opened her arms then, and Asheri stepped into their
shelter, into Mijan’s fierce embrace, burying her head against her
sister’s chest. Mijan rested her chin on the girl’s head. “Oh, Asheri,”
she said, and looked at Rathe. “I—thank you, Rathe. I thought
sure—” She broke off again, and the other woman took a step
forward.
  “I said she’d be with the others,” she said. She had an easy,
comfortable voice, and an easy smile. “And I said you should have
supper waiting.”
  Mijan loosened her hold on the girl, her mouth pulling down into
her ready scowl. “I wasn’t going to spend good coin on something
that might not happen.”
  “Then it’s a good thing I did,” the other woman said. “Come
along, Mijan, you’re in no shape to cook—you shouldn’t have to
cook, either one of you, not after all this, and I’ve got supper on the
stove, a whole chicken.” She looked at Rathe, including him in her
smile. “You should join us, Master Rathe—you’ll not get better,
though I say it who shouldn’t.”
  Rathe returned her smile, but shook his head. “I have to report to
Point of Hopes,” he said, and backed the horse away.
  “I’ll be in tomorrow for work,” Asheri called after him, and he
saw Mijan’s mouth tighten in an old disapproval. She said nothing,
however, and Rathe lifted his hand in answer, kicking the horse
into a slow trot.
  The streets were getting more crowded as he made his way back
toward Point of Hopes with people coming back from the Horsegate
Road who hadn’t bothered to go on to the Pantheon. A fair number
carried pitchers of wine and beer, but they were happy drunks, and
Rathe couldn’t quite bring himself to care. At Point of Hopes itself,
the portcullis was open, and the courtyard was crowded, pointsmen
and women for once mingling amicably with people from the
surrounding houses. Someone had brought a hogshead into the
yard, and the air smelled of spilled beer. Houssaye saw him first,
and came to catch the horse’s bridle.
  “Nico! You’re back, and well.” His eyes darted to the gate, and
back again. “Asheri?”
  “With her sister,” Rathe answered, and swung down off the horse
at last. “I brought her there myself.”
  “Thank Astree and all the gods,” Houssaye said. “I’ll take care of
the beast.”
  “Thanks,” Rathe answered. He could see Monteia standing in the
station’s doorway, a mug of beer in her hand, and lifted his own
hand in greeting.
   She waved back, and beckoned him over. “Welcome back, Nico—
a job well done, by all accounts.”
  Rathe blinked, startled, and Eslingen looked over the chief point’s
shoulder. “Aagte asked me to see the beer delivered—that’s her gift,
sort of an apology for thinking ill of the chief point here, I think.”
  And probably a way to get you away from Adriana, Rathe
thought. He said, “So you’ve been telling the chief all about it,
then?”
  “Well, b’Estorr has, more like,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe
realized that the necromancer was standing just inside the station,
a large pitcher in his hand. “I’m still not fully sure what happened.”
  Rathe grinned. “What about the astrologers?” he said to Monteia.
“Did you finally get them?”
  “Most of them, anyway,” Monteia answered, and looked around
the yard. “Come inside, it’s quieter there.”
  It was darker, too, and Rathe settled himself on the edge of the
duty desk with a sigh of relief. It was good to be back—good to be
home, he amended, and couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
  “Between us, Claes and I and Manufactory made points on six of
the astrologers,” Monteia went on. “There were a couple more, but
they seem to have gotten away, more’s the pity. The thing is, they
say they were hired to find the children by a woman called
Domalein.”
  “Savine Domalein?” Rathe asked, and Monteia nodded.
  “Known to us, certainly.”
  “Not to me,” Eslingen said.
  Rathe grinned. “She’s a tout—a political tout, from the Ile’nord
originally, runs three or four printers that we’ve had our eyes on.
Her name was in de Mailhac’s papers.”
  “Domalein told them she wanted the kids for runners,” Monteia
went on, “wanted kids whose stars would predispose them to
supporting Belvis. Or at least that’s their story, It was Domalein
and a couple of her bravos who actually took the kids. Whether the
astrologers believed it or not I’m not convinced, but she paid them
well enough to make it worth their while to say they did.”
  b’Estorr shrugged, set his pitcher aside. “It would be hard to
prove they didn’t know, but they had to suspect something. The
stars—there weren’t enough patterns in the horoscopes to make
that work, if you ask me.”
 “And I’d take it kindly if you’d tell that to the surintendant,”
Monteia answered. “He can tell you who to talk to in the judiciary.”
  “Looking for a conviction, Chief Point?” the necromancer asked
  “Oh, yes,” Monteia answered, and Rathe cut in hastily.
  “What happened to Domalein?”
   Monteia made a face. “Gone. Probably got out as soon as she
heard we were looking for the astrologers, but at least we got to go
through her house pretty thoroughly. She left in a hurry, didn’t
even stop to burn her papers, and we found plenty of letters from
your Maseigne de Mailhac. She was paying for the whole thing,
from the printers to the astrologers, and paying handsomely, too.”
  “Except that Timenard had something else in mind,” Rathe said
suddenly sobered again. He was himself something of a Leveller by
heritage and temperament, and Timenard had tried to draw on
that, paint a vision of a world without queen or seigneury. An
attractive thought, for a southriver rat, except that it would have
been Timenard and only Timenard who ruled in their place.
  b’Estorr touched him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s a matter of
balance, Nico. You can’t compel the stars, not in the long run, no
matter how much aurichalcum you have. He could have made
things very difficult for a while, very painful, but in the long run,
the natural order reasserts itself. We were its agents this time.”
  “Personally,” Eslingen said, “I’d be happier without that sort of
favor.”
   Rathe smiled again, made himself relax. He heard the tower
clock strike, and then, a heartbeat later, the case-clock on the wall
echoed it, beating out the hour. The true sun was sinking toward
the horizon, the winter-sun still high in the sky, and he allowed
himself a long sigh, tasting the familiar summer smells. He was
home, the children were home and safe, and that was the end of it.
He looked around, and Eslingen put a cool mug in his hand.
  “Drink up,” he said, and Rathe laughed, and let himself be led
away to join the celebration.
                           —«»—«»—«»—
         [scanned anonymously in a galaxy far far away]
         [A 3S Release— v1, html]
         [May 22, 2006]