Point of Hopes

“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 weresome 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 tьat 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 tьink 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 Citй. 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 longdistance 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 Seabull’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 longdistance 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 pointswoman–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 daybook, 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.