Point of Hopes

“They’re watching me, damn them,” Devynck said, fiercely, and gestured for Eslingen to close the door of her counting room behind him. “They’re watching me, and I know it, and there’s damn all I can do about it.”

“Kick them out,” Eslingen said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Devynck snapped. “They’re just waiting for me to try it. No, I can’t be rid of them unless I close completely, not without provoking the trouble I want to prevent.”

“So maybe you should close,” Eslingen said. He held up his hand to forestall Devynck’s angry curse. “You haven’t been doing much business the last few nights, it might be safer–smarter–to close for a few days and see if it doesn’t blow over.”

Devynck shook her head. “I will see them in hell and me with them before I let them bully me.”

And that, Eslingen thought, is that. He lifted both hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said, and went back out into the main room. The journeymen–five of them, this time, and a different group– were still there, and he smiled brightly at them as he settled himself at his usual table. He reached for the stack of broadsheets, but couldn’t seem to concentrate on the printed letters. He could hear snatches of the young men’s conversations, animadversions against Leaguers and soldiers and child‑thieves, suspected he was meant to hear, and met their glares with the same blank smile. They finished their first pitcher, and, after a muttered consultation and much searching of pockets, the youngest of the group got up and went to the bar with the empty jug. Hulet refilled it, narrow‑eyed and sullen; the journeyman–he was little more than a boy, really–glared back, but had the sense to say nothing. As he returned to the table, a voice rose above the rest.

“–points searched the place, didn’t find them.”

Eslingen’s attention sharpened at that, though he didn’t move. Was someone going to make the commonsense argument at last? he wondered, and sighed almost inaudibly as a big man, fair as a Leaguer, shook his blond head.

“They were well fee’d not to find them, that’s all. They’re in it as deep as anyone–and that’s what comes of giving ordinary folk that kind of power.”

The oldest of the group leaned forward and said something, and the voices quieted again. Eslingen let himself relax, picked up another broadsheet at random, but it was no more successful than any of the others. He made himself read through it, however, all fifteen lines of obscure verse–the poet‑astrologer was obviously a Demean in her sentiments–but couldn’t tell whether the oblique intention was to blame foreigners or the city’s regents. Not that it mattered, anyway, he added silently, and set the sheet aside. What mattered was what the butchers on the Knives Road believed, and they’d made that all too clear already.

The main door opened then, letting in a wedge of the doubled afternoon sunlight, and Rathe made his way into the bar. He was barely recognizable as a pointsman, his jerkin scarred and worn, the truncheon almost out of sight under its skirts, and one of the journeyman started to smile at him before he recognized what he was. The smile vanished then, and he turned his back ostentatiously. Rathe’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing directly, and came across the room to lean on Eslingen’s table.

“I’ll want to talk with you after I’m done with Devynck,” he said, and Eslingen nodded, wondering what was going on. “There’s been a nasty bit of damage here, and to real property,” the pointsman went on, lifting his voice to carry to the young men at the other table. “That’ll be an expensive point, when we catch who did it.”

Eslingen hid a smile at that, but said nothing. The pointsman’s mouth twitched in an answering almost‑smile, and he turned away to disappear behind the bar. Eslingen leaned back in his chair again, watching the journeymen at their table, and wasn’t surprised to see them leaning heads together. Their hands were moving, too, suppressed, choppy gestures, and then the oldest‑looking stood up, shaking his head. He said something, but kept his voice low enough that Eslingen only caught two words, “hotheads” and then “Huviet.” Another young man stood with the other, and then a third; the oldest looked down at the others, his head tilted to one side in obvious inquiry. They looked away, and the first three turned and pushed their way out of the main door. A quarrel over tactics? Eslingen wondered. Damaging property seemed to be a cardinal evil in Astreiant.

The kitchen door opened again, and Rathe came out. His gaze swept over the now‑diminished table, and Eslingen almost would have sworn he smiled, but then the pointsman pointed toward the garden door. Eslingen sighed, and followed the other man out into the summer air. The garden was empty, the stools stacked on top of the tables, and he squinted toward the gate that led out into Point of Dreams, wondering if it was still locked and barred. He couldn’t see for certain, not at this distance, but would have been surprised to find it open: Devynck was not one to take unnecessary chances. Rathe leaned his hip against the nearest table, as easy and comfortable as if he were drinking in his own neighborhood, and Eslingen gave him a sour look.

Rathe met it blandly. “I take it you haven’t had any trouble with that lot in there?”

“Not yet,” Eslingen answered, and knew he sounded bitter.

Rathe nodded. “I told Aagte she should close for a day or two, let this blow over.”

“Do you really think this would go away in a day or two?” Eslingen demanded.

“No, not really. But they might find someone more likely to blame.”

“They might,” Eslingen said. “Anyway, when I suggested it, she said no.”

Rathe nodded again. “She told me no, too.” He sighed. “So how are they behaving themselves, these junior butchers?”

Eslingen made a face. “Well enough, at least today. Though I still think Aagte’s right, it was them who broke our windows. But today, they’re just sitting here. They pay for their beer politely enough, and they keep their voices down, haven’t given me an excuse to be rid of them–or the pointswoman who was here earlier.”

“That was Amerel Ghiraldy,” Rathe said. “She’s good.”

Eslingen grunted. “Aagte thinks they’re watching us, and I agree. I don’t know whether they think you didn’t find the missing children yesterday because you were bribed or because we were clever, or just because the lads weren’t here, but they–the journeymen, anyway– are convinced that we’re involved in all this, and they’re going to keep an eye on us until they find something to blame us for. And if you hadn’t given Huviet that much credence, searching our place, we might not be in this state.”

For a minute, he thought he’d gone too far, and then the corners of Rathe’s mouth turned up in a sour smile. “Monteia searched the place because she thought it’d make a difference. For you, not against you, I might add. Huviet is not universally loved, it seemed a good bet to call her bluff.” The smile widened. “But I’ll grant you it hasn’t worked the way she planned.”

“No.” Eslingen leaned against another table, looked across the kitchen garden with its patches of herbs and vegetables. He smelled basil suddenly, and saw a gargoyle run a paw across the fragrant leaves. It reached beyond them, then, into the vegetables, and he stooped quickly, found a pebble, and slung it in the creature’s direction. It lifted instantly, scolding, and he looked back at Rathe. “Instead of solving the problem of them thinking Leaguers are stealing their apprentices, they’re now thinking the points are conspiring with us.”

Rathe swore under his breath. “You’re sure–no, sorry, that was stupid.”

“It’s what I’ve overheard,” Eslingen answered.

Rathe muttered something else. The gargoyle circled the garden plot again, spiraling lower, heedless of the scarecrow, and he glanced down at the dirt beneath his feet. He found a heavier stone, and flung it with a violence that was startling. The gargoyle sheered away, barely able to dodge, and Rathe looked abashed. “Sorry. I should’ve expected it, I suppose.”

“It seems to me–” Eslingen chose his words with care. “It seems to me that you might have done, yes. Given what I’ve paid in fees, and what I know Aagte and all the others here pay in fees–” He stopped at the look on Rathe’s face, spread his hands in instant apology.

Rathe took a deep breath. “We don’t all take fees for everything,” he said, his voice ragged with temper, “and not for something like this. Gods, put the worst face on it, it’d be bad for business, making everyone hate us like this. Rather puts paid to our chance of getting more fees, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think,” Eslingen said, and let the ambiguity stand. “I don’t believe it, no. But it’s how people are thinking now.”

Rathe sighed again, visibly making himself relax. “No, I know it.” He shrugged, managed a sudden, almost genuine grin. “People are getting used to us, to the points, but it’s a slow process because it’s not precisely what most people call a natural situation. People like me–a southriver rat, I know what they say, and half of them are serious– enforcing the laws on people like them, property owners, burghers, even guildmasters? It’s not quite comfortable.”

And from the sound of it, Eslingen thought, that’s the part you like best about being a pointsman. He knew better than to say it aloud, however, after his previous gaffe, contented himself with saying, “So they’re quick to think the worst.”

Rathe nodded, the brief lightness going out of his face. “As I said, I should’ve expected it.”

Eslingen hesitated, a new thought rising in his mind. If the points were under suspicion, what better way to defuse that than to find a scapegoat, and what better scapegoat would they find, at least in Point of Hopes, than Devynck and the people at the Old Brown Dog. He opened his mouth to voice that fear, took another look at Rathe, and closed it again. Neither Rathe nor Monteia would be party to that; all he would have to worry about was the journeymen’s anger. “Is there any chance of a pointsman keeping watch here tonight? I daresay Aagte could find the extra fees, if it came to that.”

Rathe’s mouth twisted again. “She already asked. I said I’d try, but we’re stretched pretty thin, with the fair beginning tomorrow and the nightwatch already overworked. They’ll come by regularly, I’ll see to that, but I can’t promise to post anyone. I’ll speak to the masters, too, see if that helps at all.”

Eslingen sighed, but nodded. “I appreciate it, Rathe. As I’m sure Aagte does.”

Rathe smiled wryly. “Oh, I still don’t take fees, Eslingen, not even at times like these. As I said, I want to enjoy my points.” He pushed himself away from the table, stretching slightly, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. In that instant, Eslingen was aware of dark shadows under the other man’s eyes, lines that had not seemed as deeply carved bracketing his mouth. Obviously, he cared deeply about this business. And then Rathe shook himself, and the moment vanished. He lifted a hand in abstracted farewell, and went back through the inn. Eslingen followed, more slowly, hoping that the pointsman’s plan would work.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully enough, and as the first sundown approached, Eslingen began to hope that maybe the trouble would defuse itself. The knot of journeymen remained, but as the afternoon turned to evening and the sunlight faded to the silvery light of the winter‑sun, they, too, seemed to mellow, seemed more relaxed at their table. A pointsman’s clapper sounded from the street, the slow, steady beat of the wooden knot that marked the nightwatch, and he listened carefully as it moved close and then retreated. Rathe was keeping his promise there, at any rate. Jasanten appeared on his crutch, and no one said anything, or made his way more difficult than need be. Seeing that, Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief, and addressed his dinner–another of Devynck’s stews, vegetables, and meat in a broth thickened with beer and bread–with something like a normal appetite. The brewer didn’t make an appearance, but her son and a pair of his lemen, big, broad‑shouldered men like himself came in for a quick pint. They kept a scrupulous distance between themselves and the journeymen, but the one exchange of words was polite enough. Eslingen drew a slow breath as they moved apart again, and saw Adriana’s eyes on them as she brought him another pitcher of small beer.

“So far, so good,” he said softly, and immediately wished he hadn’t spoken. There was no point in tempting the gods.

She made a face, and Eslingen knew she was thinking the same thing. She set the pitcher in front of him, and then displayed her hands, fingers crossed in propitiation. “Only two more hours to second sunset. Sweet Tyrseis, I’ll be glad when we close.”

Eslingen nodded, and she turned away to answer a call from the kitchen. He poured himself another cup, but didn’t bother to taste it, his attention instead on the others in the empty room. The brewer’s son and his friends finished their drinks and the plate of bread and cheese and left, still quiet; the journeymen remained, were joined by another man who looked a little older than the rest. He, too, wore a butcher’s badge at his collar, and even from a distance Eslingen could tell that it was made of silver, not the pewter the others wore. Someone of real rank within the guild, then, he thought, and wondered if it were a good or a bad sign. The group of journeymen seemed more relaxed, at any rate; he could see more smiles among them, and once heard laughter, but he wasn’t sorry to hear the nightwatch’s clapper in the street outside.

The light was fading steadily, paling toward true night. He went out to the garden privy, glad of the cooler air–the inn held the day’s heat in its walls and floor, a benefit in winter, but uncomfortable at the height of the year–and on his way back looked west to see the diamond point of the winter‑sun almost down between the housetops, poised between two chimney pots. Even this low, it was still too bright to look at directly, and he blinked, and went back into the main room, a point of green haze dancing in the center of his vision.

Loret emerged from the kitchen in almost the same moment, began closing the shutters on the garden wall. He had to stretch to fasten the upper bolts, and in the same moment, one of the journeymen called, “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Last call,” Adriana said, from behind the bar. “It’s almost closing, so if you want another round, this is your chance.”

Eslingen moved closer to the bar, keeping an eye on the group at the table. They were the only customers, except for Jasanten, drowsing at his corner table, and there were only four of them; not bad odds, Eslingen thought, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. The journeymen exchanged glances, and then the oldest one, the one with the silver badge, stood, stretching.

“Not for us, I think. Come on, let’s pay and be gone.”

The others copied him, reaching into purses and pockets to come up with a handful of copper coins. There was only the last pitcher to pay for; they counted out the coins, and the leader, shrugging, added a last demming to bring it up to the mark. Eslingen heard Adriana release a held breath, and nodded to Loret, who came to take the coins, touching his forehead in perfunctory salute. The journeymen ignored him, as they’d been ignoring him all night, and turned in a body for the door. Eslingen pulled himself away from the bar and followed, intending to bar the door as soon as they’d gone.

Before he could reach it, however, there was a shout from outside. He stepped hastily into the doorway, blocking it completely, and looked back over his shoulder for Loret. “Go to Point of Hopes, now.”

The waiter’s eyes widened, and he darted out the garden door.

“Trouble?” Adriana called, and banged on the kitchen door, a deliberate, prearranged pattern.

Eslingen nodded, not taking his eyes from the street. A new group was moving toward him from the Knives Road, a dozen people, maybe more. The leaders, at least, carried torches, and behind them their followers’ shapes blended, in the new dark, into a single mass. The torchlight glinted from more badges at hat and coat, and Eslingen realized with a sinking feeling that at least some of these were masters, not mere journeymen. The group who had been drinking in the Old Brown Dog had stopped in the dooryard, and Eslingen could have sworn he saw confusion in the leader’s face.

“You, soldier!”

The voice was unfamiliar, sounded older than the run of journeymen, and Eslingen couldn’t suppress a grimace. If the masters were leading, this time, it would be a hell of a lot harder to get them to back down.

“Stand aside,” the voice went on, and Eslingen shook his head.

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed.”

“What in all hells do they want?” Devynck demanded, but softly.

Eslingen didn’t dare look back at her, but he could feel her presence at his elbow. “I don’t know yet,” he answered, and kept his voice equally low, “but I sent Loret to Point of Hopes.”

“Good man.” Devynck pressed something into the palm of his hand, and with a shock Eslingen recognized the butt of his own pistol. He took it, keeping it hidden behind the skirts of his coat, looked out into the street.

“Stand aside, soldier,” the voice came again, and Devynck swore under her breath.

“That’s Nigaud, I thought he was a friend.”

“We know you’ve got the children here,” a lighter voice chimed in, “and we’re not going away until we’ve found them.”

“Huviet,” Eslingen said, and didn’t bother to hide his disgust. He lifted his voice to carry to the group’s leader. “His mother made the same complaint yesterday, brought the pointsmen here and searched, and found nothing. I don’t see why we’re still suspected. There are no children here.”

“Then stand aside and let us see for ourselves,” Nigaud answered.

“Over my dead body,” Devynck muttered. “Adriana. Fetch my sword, and Philip’s.”

Eslingen didn’t move, though he heard the rustle of cloth as Adriana did as she was told. “We’ve been searched already, by those with the right to do it. If I let you in, when you find nothing, what’ll you do, break the rest of our windows?”

“If you don’t have anything to hide, why don’t you let us in?” Paas Huviet shouted, and there was a little murmur of agreement from the crowd.

“I won’t let you in because you don’t have a right to be here,” Eslingen called, “and you don’t offer me any promises that you won’t loot the place while you’re here. Gods, man, there were people from your guild drinking here all day, ask them if they saw any sign of the children.”

There was a little pause, and the leader of the last group stepped into the circle of torchlight. “I didn’t see anything, I admit. But they could be somewhere else in the building.”

“See?” Huviet shouted.

“They’re going to come in,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and heard Devynck’s grunt of agreement.

“Loret’s gone for the points, see if we can at least get them to agree to that.”

Eslingen nodded. “Masters,” he called, “we understand your concerns for the children–we’re worried, too, we all know someone who’s lost a child.” That was an exaggeration, but he hoped it would pass in the dark and the excitement. “But I’ve a responsibility to this house and to Mistress Devynck. Send someone to the points, Point of Hopes or Point of Dreams, it doesn’t matter, but send to them. Let one of them come with you, keep everything on the right side of the law, and I’ll gladly let you pass.”

There was a murmur at that, half approving, half uncertain, and Paas’s voice rose over the general noise. “They fee’d the points not to find them, why should we trust them?”

“Be quiet,” Nigaud snapped.

At his side, Eslingen felt Adriana’s sudden presence, glanced down to see her holding his sword at the ready. Behind her, Jasanten perched on a table, Devynck’s caliver and another pistol in his lap, busy loading them with powder and ball. Hulet stood in the garden door, half‑pike in hand.

“Even if the points are fee’d in this,” Nigaud went on, “which I’m not convinced of, Paas, for all your talk, they still can’t stop us from searching where we please. I’m prepared to send for a pointsman, soldier–unless you’ve already done so?”

“Go ahead,” Eslingen answered, and Nigaud nodded to one of the younger journeymen.

“Go on, then, go to Point of Hopes.”

Eslingen held his breath, not moving from the inn’s doorway. The longer they could postpone this, the more time the butchers had to think about what they were doing and about what they might do. The masters, at least, were property owners; the more time they had to think about the precedent they were setting, the better for Devynck. The more time they waited, without hostilities, without provocation, the more time there was for the blood to cool, and it was a rare man who, untrained, could order an attack in cold blood. The group’s leaders, Nigaud and another man in a full‑skirted coat, a master’s badge in his hat, were talking again, their voices too low to be heard more than a few feet away. After a moment, the leader of the last group of journeymen moved to join them, and Eslingen saw him spread his hands in an expressive shrug.

Then he heard the sound of the nightwatch’s wooden clapper again, faster now, as though its holder was running, coming from the western end of the Knives Road. About half the gathered journeymen turned to look, and one of the torchbearers turned with them, lifting her torch to send its light further down the dark street. A pointsman appeared at the end of the street, his lantern swinging with the beat of the clapper; the young journeyman trailed breathlessly at his heels.

“What’s all this, then?” the pointsman asked, and put his free hand on his truncheon. Eslingen swore under his breath, and heard Devynck curse.

“What do that stars have against me, that it should be Ranazy?” she muttered. “We’re in trouble now, Philip.”

“This is an illegal gathering,” the pointsman went on, lifting his voice to carry over the angry murmur that answered his first words. “I’ll have to tell you to disperse, or face the point.”

“Like hell we will,” someone shouted, and Nigaud waved his arms for silence.

“Pointsman, we have cause to think that the missing children–our missing children, anyway–are being held at the Old Brown Dog. I, and Master Estienes, and Master Follet, are all willing to swear the complaint, and anything else you like, but we won’t leave here until that place has been searched from top to bottom.”

Ranazy stopped in the middle of the street, seemed for the first time to become aware of the crowd’s temper. “Master–Nigaud, isn’t it?”

Nigaud nodded. Obviously, Eslingen thought, the man was well known, a man of real importance in Point of Hopes–and not the person we want standing against us.

“Master, this house was searched yesterday, and we found nothing. The children aren’t here.” Ranazy spread his hands, the lantern and the clapper jangling.

“Ranazy!” The shout came from the end of the street. Rathe’s voice, Eslingen realized, with real relief, and in the same instant saw a tight knot of pointsmen, maybe ten in all, turn the corner. They, too, carried lanterns, and in their light Eslingen could see the dull gleam of armor under the leather jerkins. They carried calivers as well, new‑fashioned flintlocks, as well as half‑pikes and halberds: Rathe and his people had come prepared for serious trouble.

“I searched it myself,” Ranazy went on, and Paas Huviet’s voice rose above the angry murmuring.

“You see? I told you they were fee’d to let them go. Search the inn ourselves, we won’t get the kids back any other way.”

“Hold it,” Rathe shouted again, but his voice was drowned in the roar of agreement.

“Break in the door,” another voice shouted. “Save the children.”

The journeymen surged toward the inn’s door. Eslingen took a deep breath, and brought the pistol out from behind his coat. “Stop there,” he called, and leveled the barrel at the knot of young men. At this distance he could hardly miss hitting one of them, but he doubted they were cool enough to realize it. Adriana pressed the hilt of his sword into his left hand, and he took it, already bracing himself for the rush that would follow the first shot.

“We’re willing to let the points in,” he tried again, and Paas’s voice rose in answer.

“Because you paid them. Get him!”

“I’ll fire,” Eslingen warned, and promised Areton an incense cake if the lock did not misfire. The pointsmen were hurrying toward him, half‑pikes held across their bodies, but the bulk of the journeymen were between them and the inn, and showed no sign of giving way.

“Cowards!” Paas shouted. “Get the Leaguer bastard!” He lunged for the door, drawing his knife, and there were half a dozen men behind him. Eslingen swore again, and pulled the trigger. The lock fired, the flash and bang of the powder momentarily blinding everyone, and then he’d slung the pistol behind him onto the inn’s floor and drew his sword right‑handed. Paas staggered back, clutching his chest–the shot was mortal, Eslingen knew instantly, and didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry–and collapsed in the arms of the journeymen behind him.

“Hold it!” Rathe shouted again, and he and his troop shoved their way through the crowd that seemed abruptly chastened by the violence. “Nigaud, get your boys in hand, or I’ll call points on the lot of you.”

“He shot Paas,” one of the journeymen called, and his voice broke painfully.

“I saw it,” Rathe answered, “and I saw Paas charge the door, too.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s the nearest physician, Clock Street?” He seemed to get an answer from one of the pointsmen, and nodded. “Fetch her, quick, then, see what can be done for the boy. Now, Nigaud, what in Astree’s name is going on here?”

“They’re hiding the children,” Nigaud said, and Eslingen let himself relax at last. Somehow, exactly how he didn’t know, Rathe had gotten control of the situation again. Astreiant’s common folk might not like giving one of their own authority, but in a crisis, it seemed it was better than nothing.

Rathe said, “The chief point herself searched this house yesterday, and nothing was found. You’ve seen something that makes you think they’re here now? I know you had people watching this house, I saw them here this afternoon.”

Nigaud’s gaze faltered, but he rallied quickly enough. “The chief point may have been here, but none of us were, and the rest of the points were people like him.” He pointed to Ranazy. “We know how much his fees are, we all pay them. The Leaguer has money enough to buy his silence.”

Eslingen jumped as Devynck touched his shoulder.

“Let me out,” she said, and he stepped sideways to let her edge past him. “Rathe! I’m willing to let the masters search my house this time, if only you’ll supervise them, and I told them that all along.”

Rathe nodded, looked at Nigaud. “That’s more than you have a right to, Master Nigaud, but I’m willing to go with you, and the other masters here.”

Nigaud nodded back, but the well‑dressed master–Follet, Eslingen thought–said, “And what about Paas? He was a hothead, but he was my journeyman.”

The physician had arrived from Clock Street, an apprentice, barefoot and tousled, lugging her case of instruments. She knelt beside the injured man, her movements brisk and certain, but she looked up at that, and shook her head. “I’ve done what I can. It’s in Demis’s hands now.”

In translation, Eslingen thought, he’s a dead man. Why in Areton’s name didn’t I aim for something less mortal? The damned astrologer got it all wrong. He shook the thought away–he’d had no choice, if he’d missed Paas he would almost certainly have hit one of the others in as deadly a spot–and looked at Rathe, wondering what would happen now. Rathe looked back at him, his face expressionless in the uncertain light of the lanterns and the dying torches.

“It’s manslaughter at the least, though there’s an argument for self‑defense. Eslingen, I’m calling a point on you. Hand over your weapons and go quietly.”

Eslingen drew breath to protest, but swallowed the words unspoken. The situation was still delicate, even he could see that much, and surely Rathe was right when he hinted that he could claim self‑defense. “Very well,” he said shortly, and extended his sword, hilt first, toward the pointsman.

Rathe took it, unsurprised by the weight and balance, rested its point cautiously on the top of his boot. “And the pistol?”

Eslingen jerked his head toward the inn door. “Inside, on the floor somewhere.”

“Adriana!” Rathe called, and a moment later the woman appeared warily in the doorway, “Bring me Eslingen’s pistol, please.”

For an instant, Eslingen thought she was going to refuse, but she only tossed her head, and vanished back into the shadows. She reappeared a moment later carrying the pistol, and crossed the dooryard without looking at the butchers. Rathe took the gun, slipping it into his belt beside his truncheon; Adriana turned on her heel, and went to join her mother. The pointsman looked back at Eslingen, who braced himself to hear the sentence.

“Benech and Savine will take you to Point of Sighs.” He lifted his voice to carry to the crowd. “The cells there are more secure than at Point of Hopes.” Eslingen thought he saw a fugitive smile cross Rathe’s face. “And a bit more comfortable than a stall, which is what ours are. Do you give me your word you’ll go quietly, lieutenant?”

Eslingen hesitated, wondering if he shouldn’t run–he could take the two pointsmen, of that he felt certain, and he had killed the journeyman, not to mention being a Leaguer in the wrong place at the wrong time–but then put the thought away. He hadn’t stolen the children, and neither had Devynck; and if he ran, he would only put her further in the wrong. “You have my word on it,” he said, stiffly, and Rathe nodded.

“Right, then. See that he gets there safely.”

“Thank you for that,” Eslingen said, not entirely sarcastically, and turned to face the two pointsmen. “Lead on.”

6

« ^ »

it took the better part of the next two hours to lead Nigaud and a handful of his journeymen through the Old Brown Dog. Rathe was careful to stand aside and let them do most of the work, intervening only when Devynck’s stores seemed threatened, and at the end of it Nigaud faced him with visible embarrassment.

“There’s no one here,” he said, at last, and Rathe barely stopped himself from nodding.

“No,” he said, instead, and kept his tone and face impassive. “Will you say as much to your people, Master Nigaud, you and Master Follet?”

“We will,” Nigaud said shortly, and Follet cleared his throat.

“And how much of a difference does this make in terms of a point?”

Rathe cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

Follet took a deep breath. “People of mine are liable for riot, I can see that, just as that knife of Devynck’s is liable for manslaughter. So where do we stand with that, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe studied him for a long moment, torn between anger and a grudging respect for the man. Follet’s journeymen–and Nigaud’s and probably a few others’–could indeed be taken up for provoking trouble and assault, especially after they’d all been warned the day before; at least he was acknowledging it, even if he was also angling for a fee. “Given the circumstances, Master Follet–I’ve been working on the business of Mailet’s missing apprentice myself, along with a dozen others, I know how frantic we all are. Given the circumstances, I’m prepared to overlook the formal point on your journeymen. Paas Huviet’s hurt, maybe dying, that’s enough for me. However, we will require two things from you, masters. First, I want you to post a bond for good behavior for the ringleaders among the journeymen–you know who they are as well as I do, and I’ll give you the names in the morning.” He held up his hand to forestall the automatic protest. “This is a bond, not a fee, you’ll get it back when they make their appearance at the fall assizes as long as there’s no more trouble from them. I don’t want fees from you, or from anyone right now. I want to be free to chase these child‑thieves where or whoever they are. Is that clear?”

He could hear himself on the verge of anger, was not surprised to see Follet’s matching frown, but Nigaud lifted both hands in surrender. “The guild will pay the bonds, Adjunct Point.”

Follet nodded. “You said two things?”

“That’s right.” Rathe did his best to moderate his tone. “Devynck’s knife, Eslingen–I don’t expect you to press the point. It was self‑defense and defense of property, and that’s where it will stand.”

Nigaud looked at Follet. “He was your journeyman.”

Follet made a face, as though he’d bitten into something sour. “And he was at fault, I admit it. All right. I won’t press the point.”

“Good.” Rathe sighed, suddenly aware of how late it was, and in the same moment heard the tower clock strike three. “Then let’s get your people home.”

He made it back to his own lodgings in time to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but dragged himself out of bed as the local clock sounded eight. Someone from the Butchers’ Guild would be coming to pay the journeymen’s bond, and he wanted to be there personally to oversee the process. Still, he was later than usual as he entered the gate at Point of Hopes, and glanced around to see if the guild’s representative had somehow gotten there ahead of him. There was no sign of him or her, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“We’re sent for,” Monteia said.

Rathe paused in the station doorway, coat already halfway off his shoulders. He looked at her, seeing the unexpected tidiness of her clothes–her best skirt, unmistakably, and probably her best bodice beneath the polished leather of her jerkin–and the truncheon slung neatly at her waist. “The sur?” he asked, and Monteia gave a grim smile.

“The city.“ She nodded to the table where the duty recorder sat, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t all ears. A half sheet of good paper lay among the clutter of slates and reused broadsheets, the city seal at its foot visible from across the room.

Rathe’s eyebrows rose at that, and he shrugged himself back into his coat, crossed to the table to pick up the summons. It was from the Council of Regents, all right, signed by the grande bourgeoise herself, and her seal lay just above the more massive slab of wax that was the city’s.

“The sur will be there, of course,” Monteia went on, “but it’s for us–me, primarily. Madame Gausaron dislikes disorder.”

Rathe nodded absently, skimming through the neat lines of secretarial hand. “All right,” he said, “but I don’t know what she thinks we should have done.”

“Nor I.” Monteia studied him thoughtfully. “Houssaye! I won’t have you, Nico, appearing before the regents like that. It won’t help us any if you look hungry.”

“Chief Point–”

“Ma’am?” That was Houssaye, the station’s junior pointsman, coming in from the garden belting his trousers. He finished that and reached for the buttons of his coat, but Monteia shook her head at him.

“Don’t bother. You’re loaning that to Nico–we’ve business with the regents.”

Houssaye blinked, but slipped obediently out of the coat. “Yes, Chief.”

“I have clothes of my own,” Rathe said.

“And no time to fetch them,” Monteia answered. “This is important, Nico.”

Rathe started to bridle, but she was right, of course, it mattered how one looked, prosperous but sober, particularly when one was dealing with the women of the Council of Regents, but he had dressed for the work he expected, not for a council visit. Not that his best clothes were anything out of the ordinary–he was hard on clothes, and knew it, had learned to buy good plain materials that stood the wear–but it stung to be dressed like a child in someone else’s best. Still, Houssaye was his size and build and coloring; as he pulled the light wool over his shoulders, he had to admit that it wasn’t too far from something he might have bought himself. He fastened the waist buttons–loose; Houssaye had an inch or three on him there–and hastily rewound the stock that fastened the neck of his shirt. “We’ve got people from the Butchers’ Guild coming to post bond, and I wanted to be there,” he muttered, a last protest, and reached for his jerkin and the truncheon that hung beneath it.

“Oh, you can still have that one,” Monteia answered, and looked at Houssaye. “You’re in charge until Salineis gets in or we get back–I told her she could sleep in, after last night. The release order is in my office, get a fair copy made and send it off to Point of Sighs as soon as you can. Use the station seal. When the guildmasters show up, tell them they’ll have to wait–and you can tell them why.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“What’s going to happen to Eslingen?” Rathe said. “It wasn’t exactly fair, calling the point on him, no matter how necessary it was.” He still felt obscurely guilty for calling a point on the Leaguer, couldn’t quite work up much indignation for Paas Huviet, even if he had been shot. His eye fell on the daybook, and the most recent entry: Paas Huviet had died close to first sunrise, according to the physician who’d tended him. He considered it, but even the death didn’t make much difference. Huviet had been a troublemaker, Eslingen had been doing his job, and that, he hoped, would be an end to it.

“It’s technically manslaughter,” Monteia said, and jammed her hat onto her piled hair. Rathe looked at her, and she sighed. “But I’ve ordered his release, you heard me do it, and I won’t be pressing charges unless and until someone’s stupid enough to force me to it. Does that meet with your approval, Adjunct Point?”

Rathe nodded. “He did the best he could–better than I’d’ve expected, frankly, it was a nasty situation. And it wasn’t him who started it.”

“I know,” Monteia said. “And you know why you had to do it. Now, come on.” She swept through the door without waiting for an answer.

Rathe followed, aware of the unfamiliar weight of the coat’s skirts around his legs. They hampered his knife hand, got in the way of his reach either for purse or tablets, but he had to admit that the beer brown wool looked good against his skin, and against the decent linen of his shirts. It might be nice to have a coat like this, for best–he put the thought firmly aside. The coat might look well enough now, but after a month of his wearing, it would be as shapeless as any other he owned. Monteia had a nice eye for clothes on a man–but then, she had a son just reaching apprenticeship, and the vanities that went with it.

They crossed the Hopes‑point Bridge, squinting in the morning light that glinted from the river. The sun was still low in the sky, the shadows long, the winter‑sun not yet risen, and there was dew on the grass as they crossed the gardens of the Maternite. It would be hot later, Rathe thought, and made a face at the irrelevance of the concern.

The only heat he needed to worry about would come from the council.

The regents met at All‑Guilds at the heart of the Mercandry. The massive building dominated the little square, four stories high, new halls built against the walls of the original until the walls rose like stairsteps to the point of the roof. The old‑style carvings above the arch of the main entrance showed Heira presiding over a banquet of the various craft deities. Rathe recognized Didonae and Hesion and a few of the deities invoked by the lesser guilds, but there were a good half dozen he couldn’t place at once. Which wasn’t that surprising, he added silently: each craft was its own mystery, and had its own rites and special patrons. No one could know them all, not even the university specialists. Only Bonfortune was missing: the god of the longdistance traders had no place in this gathering of Merchants Resident.

One of the four doors was open, and Monteia led the way into the sudden shadow. Inside, the hall was startlingly cool, the heavy stones still holding a faint chill from the winter’s cold. The people hurrying past–young women, mostly, the long blue robes of guild affiliation thrown casually over brighter skirts and bodices, clutching ledgers and tablets–barely seemed to notice their existence, or no more than was necessary to avoid running into them. Rathe made a face, but knew enough to keep his mouth shut, and followed Monteia to the foot of the main staircase. There was a guard there, a greying man in council livery and polished back‑and‑breast, half‑pike in hand: more symbolic than anything, Rathe thought, but it wasn’t a symbol he much liked.

“Chief Point Monteia, Point of Hopes,” Monteia said. “And Adjunct Point Rathe.”

The soldier nodded gravely. “Down the hall to your left, Chief Point. Madame Gausaron is waiting.”

Monteia nodded back, and turned away. Sunlight striped the stones of the hall, falling through windows cut into the wall above the roof of the building’s latest addition, and Rathe was grateful for its intermittent warmth. Another young woman in the blue guilds’‑coat was waiting by a carved door; as they got closer, he could see the council’s badge, a stylized version of Heira’s Banquet, embroidered above her left breast. She bowed her head slightly at their approach, and said, “Chief Point. Monteia?”

“Yes.” Only the twitch of Monteia’s lips betrayed any emotion at all. “And Adjunct Point Rathe. For the grande bourgeoise.”

The woman nodded again, and swung the door open for them. “Chief Point Monteia and Adjunct Point Rathe.”

The room was very bright, startlingly so after the shadows of the entrance and the intermittent sunlight of the hallway. Two of the four walls were fretted stone, a pattern of flowers filled in with orbs of colored glass, so that they looked out into the garden behind All‑Guilds through another garden made of light and shade. Rathe blinked, dazzled, and brought himself to attention at Monteia’s side. He had never been this far into All‑Guilds–never been this close to any of the guild mistresses who controlled the city’s day‑to‑day government–but he refused to show his ignorance.

“So. What the devil is going on southriver, Surintendant, that your people can’t keep control of a tavern fight?” The speaker was a tall woman in the expensive respectable black of a merchant whose family had kept shop on the Mercandry for a hundred years. There was fine lace at her collar and cuffs, and on her cap, forming a incongruously delicate frame for her long, heavy‑fleshed face. She looked, Rathe thought, with sudden, inward delight, rather like Monteia would, if the chief point were fattened for a season or three.

“Madame, the situation is hardly normal,” the surintendant began, and Gausaron waved a hand that glinted with gold leaf.

“No, Surintendant, it’s all too normal. The points do nothing–for what reason I don’t know, and make no judgment, yet–until the situation is past bearing. And then a man, an honest journeyman‑butcher, is shot dead in the street.”

“This is not a question of fees–” Monteia began, and the surintendant cut in hastily.

“Madame, the people who attacked the tavern were and are concerned for their missing children, but they were still outside the law.”

“We’re all concerned about the missing children.” The voice came from the shadows behind the grande bourgeoise’s desk, a cool, pleasant voice that somehow suggested a smile. The speaker–she had been sitting in the shadows all the while, Rathe realized–rose slowly and came around the edge of the desk, skirts rustling with the unmistakable sound of silk. The metropolitan of Astreiant, the queen’s half‑niece and one of the stronger candidates for the throne, leaned back against the desk, and smiled benevolently over the gathering. “And I know some of the actions the points have already taken, thanks to you, Surintendant. But I’d like to hear from you, Chief Point, what happened last night. And from the beginning, if you please.”

“Your Grace.” Monteia took a deep breath, and launched into an account of the trouble, beginning with the Old Brown Dog and its history, through the complaints that Devynck was hiding the missing children and her own search of the premises, to the violence of the night before. Her voice was remote, almost stilted, faltering only slightly when she came to Paas’s death. Rathe, who had heard her speak a hundred times before, watched Astreiant instead. She looked no older than himself, tall and strongly built, with the body of someone who faced active sports and the table with equal pleasure. She wore her hair loose, the thick tarnished‑brass curls caught back under a brimless cap. The style flattered her handsome features–lucky for her that’s the latest fashion, Rathe thought, and only then thought to wonder if she’d started it.

“And you’re certain this Devynck has nothing to do with these missing children,” Astreiant said, and Rathe recalled himself to the business at hand.

“Absolutely certain, Your Grace,” Monteia answered.

The grande bourgeoise made a soft noise through her teeth, and Astreiant darted an amused glance in her direction. “I think what Madame is too polite to say is that you’ve taken Devynck’s fees.”

“I have,” Monteia answered. “And I’ve taken fees from every other shopkeeper and guildmistress and tavernkeeper in Point of Hopes, too. It’d be more to the point, Madame, Your Grace, to say I’m Aagte Devynck’s friend, because I am, and I make no secret of it. But it’s because I know her, because I’m her friend and I know what she will and won’t sell, that I can tell you she would never be involved in something like this. I’m as sure of that as I’m sure of my own stars.”

Astreiant nodded gravely. “Will the rest of Point of Hopes believe it, though? I’m as concerned as Madame Gausaron with keeping the peace southriver.”

Monteia looked away, looked toward the surintendant as though for reassurance, then back at Astreiant. “Your Grace, I think so. It’s morning, they’re chastened by what they did.” She darted a glance at the grande bourgeoise. “As Madame said, there was a death to no purpose. I think it’s sobered them all down.”

“Yes, the journeyman‑butcher,” Astreiant said. She looked at Gausaron. “I must say, Madame, I think he got what he deserved. Threatening a woman’s property–the knife, what’s‑his‑name, seems to have been within his right.”

“What’s being done with the knife?” Gausaron asked.

“Madame, he was taken to the cells at Point of Sighs,” Monteia answered.

“He’ll be released today,” Rathe said, and heard the challenge in his voice too late. “The point’s bound to be disallowed–it was self‑defense, not just defense of property.”

Astreiant fixed her gaze on him for the first time. Her eyes were very pale, a color between blue and grey, and tilted slightly downward at the outer corners. “It seems a reasonable interpretation,” she said, after a moment, and Rathe wondered what she had been going to say. She looked at Gausaron. “Madame, it’s a dangerous time, and you’re right to be concerned, but I have to say, I think the chief point handled this as well as anyone could have.”

The grand bourgeoise nodded, rather grudgingly. “Though there’d be less to worry about if they’d find out who’s stealing our children.”

“Madame, we are trying,” the surintendant said, through clenched teeth.

“And I would appreciate your keeping me informed of your progress,” Astreiant said, and pushed herself away from Gausaron’s desk. “And in the meantime, I know we’ve taken enough of your time.”

It was unmistakably a dismissal. Rathe bowed, not as reluctantly as sometimes, and followed the other pointsmen from the room. As the door closed behind them, the surintendant touched his shoulder.

“That was well handled, Monteia. I want to borrow Rathe, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m glad Astreiant was there,” Monteia said, and only then seemed to hear the rest of the surintendant’s words. “I’ll need him back, sir, and soon.”

“Only for a moment,” the surintendant answered, and Monteia shook her head, lips tightening.

“Very well, sir. Rathe, I’ll want to talk to you when you get back.” She turned, skirts swirling, walked away down the hall, her low heels ringing on the stones.

“Yes, Chief,” Rathe said, to her departing back, and wondered what was going to happen now. He knew Monteia distrusted Fourie– he shared the feeling himself at times–and found himself, not for the first time, reviewing the list of his most recent behavior.

Fourie’s thin lips were twisted into an ironic smile, as though he’d read the thought. “I may have just made more trouble for you, Rathe. Sorry.”

And if you are, that’s the first time, Rathe thought, but couldn’t muster real resentment. This was the way the surintendant worked; he could accept it or not, but live with it he had to. “What was it you wanted, sir?”

Fourie shook his head, looking around the busy hall. “This is no place to talk. Come with me.”

Rathe followed him through the Clockmakers’ Square and then along the arcaded walk that ran along the southern edge of the Temple Fair, feeling if anything rather like a dog of somewhat dubious breed. Fourie made no comment, never even looked back, until at last he stopped by one of the tall casements that looked out across the dust‑drifted paving. The ballad‑sellers and the printers seemed to be doing their usual brisk business, but there were fewer children than usual among the crowd. Rathe looked again, but saw no sign of black robes or grey, freelance astrologers or students.

“They’re only interested because it’s bad for business,” Fourie said. His tone was conversational, but Rathe wasn’t fooled. The surintendant was angrier than he had let on in the grande bourgeoise’s presence–in Astreiant’s presence–angry that two of his people had been questioned by the regents’s representative, angry that none of them had done anything to find the missing children, angriest of all that he didn’t have any more likely course of action than he had the day the first child had disappeared. And don’t we all feel that way, Rathe thought, but I wish I were elsewhere just now.

“If it weren’t for the fair,” Fourie went on, “they wouldn’t be quite so concerned. Of course, if it were just southriver brats going missing, they wouldn’t even have noticed. Makes me sick. Do your jobs, but expect us to interfere every chance we got, and don’t, whatever you do, let doing your jobs disturb us.”

“Astreiant seems a bit more–reasonable,” Rathe ventured, wondering where this was leading.

The surintendant seemed on the verge of a snort, then shook his head. “No, you’re right about that. Astreiant seems to have a finer understanding of what’s involved in the enforcement of the queen’s law. Gods only know where she got it. It doesn’t seem to run in the nobility.”

“Or the haut bourgeoisie,” Rathe said, unable to stop himself, and Fourie responded with another thin smile.

“Oh, they’re worse. And I daresay you and I could go on like this all day with our grievances, but that would get nothing done. So, Rathe. What have you done about Caiazzo?”

Not precisely the haut bourgeoisie, no longdistance trader is, but close enough, Rathe thought. I might have known where this was leading. “I wasn’t aware, sir, that you precisely wanted me to do anything. I thought my writ was to keep an eye on him, for any possible involvement in these disappearances, and that I’ve done. I’ve spoken with him, mostly on the matter of his printers. And that knife of his I made the point on at the end of the Dog Moon.” He shook his head. “But–I’m sorry, sir–I just don’t see that this is anything Caiazzo would get himself involved in. Where’s the reason behind it, sir? And, more to the point, where’s the profit? Oh, I know what you said about political profit, but that’s never been his style, it’s too–too far down the road. Caiazzo always wants results he can see now as well as make use of later. Sure, he could make use of a political profit later, but where’s the immediate profit?”

Fourie shrugged, a faint frown creasing the space between his eyebrows, and Rathe realized he’d let himself get carried away by his own argument. “Have your investigations turned up something more likely, Adjunct Point?”

“I’ll agree it’s likely the starchange is involved,” Rathe said, stung, and remembered b’Estorr’s account of the rumors circulating at the university. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering about these hedge‑astrologers the Three Nations were complaining about.” He hadn’t meant it, had just been looking for an alternative, but as his own words sank in, he pursued the thought. “Think of it–where have they come from? They don’t claim association with any of the altars, or with the university–and they’ve pissed off the students as a body, which sensible people don’t do–and ostensibly claim no political affiliation. And if you’re not buying that bill of goods for Caiazzo, sir, you can’t buy it from these.”

The surintendant studied him with a jaundiced gaze. “Then I trust the arbiters of the fair, or Fairs’ Point, or University Point, are looking into it, as well as you. But at the same time, I don’t want you ignoring the possibility of Caiazzo’s involvement in favor of your own theories– I very carefully don’t say because you like him. This is too important, Nico. Whatever you think of my feelings toward him, I wouldn’t order you do to something like this if I didn’t think–feel–there was good reason. But I want it done.”

Rathe took a deep breath, held it until his own temper subsided. Fourie had spent more time in the company–the presence–of the grande bourgeoise. If Gausaron had left Monteia, and Rathe himself, a little short‑tempered, it was astonishing that the surintendant had kept his notoriously short temper in check for so long. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir, though I won’t pretend it’ll be easy.”

Fourie smiled, a bloodless expression, without humor. “If it were easy, Nico, I wouldn’t have insisted on your doing it.”

And that, Rathe thought, was as close to a commendation as anyone got from the sur, short of a eulogy.

When he got back to the station, the hour‑stick was just showing midday, and he made a face at it: it had already been a long day, and didn’t look to get any shorter. He found Houssaye, returned his coat to him, and shrugged gratefully back into his own, welcoming its familiarity. He had just settled in at his worktable when Salineis poked her head in the door.

“Lieutenant Eslingen to see you, Nico.”

Rathe bit back a groan–he doubted the Leaguer was there to thank him for anything–but nodded. “All right, send him in.”

Eslingen had clearly found–or taken–the time to tidy himself up from the depredations of a night spent in one of Sighs’ cells. His hair was caught neatly back, though the ribbon no longer matched the color of his coat, his hat was brushed, its plume uncrushed, and his linen was bright. Rathe wished for a moment that he hadn’t been in such a hurry to return Houssaye’s coat, then put the thought aside with impatience. The Eslingens of this world would always seek to gain advantage through appearance, and the Rathes could never hope to match them. What did surprise Rathe was the lack of resentment he felt toward the soldier.

“Adjunct Point.” Eslingen’s voice was icy, and Rathe’s heart sank. Clearly, Eslingen felt rather differently about the whole thing.

“Eslingen, look, I’m sorry about what happened, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“It wasn’t me who started this–Seidos’s Horse, you ought to thank me for ridding you of a troublemaker.”

“We don’t generally shoot them dead,” Rathe shot back, and, hearing his voice rise, got up to close the door of the narrow anteroom. He shook his head. “Forget it, it’s not worth arguing about.”

“I’m inclined to disagree with you, Adjunct Point, seeing as it’s lost me my job.”

Rathe turned to stare at Eslingen. “You’re joking. No, no–sorry, forget I said that. She let you go?”

“Can you blame her? In times like these, does she want a Leaguer who, even in self‑defense, and–what was it the magistrate said the release said–defense of property, was seen to kill a member of one of the most influential guilds in the city? I’d say that would be bad for business in a bad time, wouldn’t you, Adjunct Point? So now I’m in your city without employment or a roof over my head. All because I did what you told me to, Rathe, and that’s send for the points if there was any trouble. I did, and look what happened.” He gestured widely, and for the first time Rathe noticed the heavy saddlebags on the floor at the other man’s feet. “Hells, I thought we Leaguers were looked on with disfavor, I didn’t realize the extent of the loathing people have for your lot.”

“That was Ranazy,” Rathe said, and didn’t add, and you know it. “He’s a bully and not a cheap one. And he makes us all look bad. You know how Devynck feels about Monteia–for that matter, you know how Devynck feels about me. So you can tar us all with the same brush, fine, everyone else does, or you can see that it’s the truth. We’re all blamed for the actions of a few. Sound familiar?”

Eslingen stared at the pointsman for a long minute, the anger fading as he recognized the justice of what Rathe had said, and done. “It sounds familiar,” he said. “Can I sit?” He nodded to the chair along the wall.

Rathe rubbed his eyes. “Of course. Sorry. Not a good morning for you, and the night won’t have been much better, for all they’re a decent lot at Sighs.” He sat back down behind his table, leaning his elbows on its well‑worn surface. “What can I do?”

Confronted by it, Eslingen found himself at a loss. He had been bolstering himself with his anger, thoughts of the demands he would make on the pointsman, but now he could only shake his head. “Gods know, Rathe. I need a place to live, I need a job.” He grinned suddenly. “But don’t think I’m applying for a job with the points. I don’t think we’d suit, do you?”

“I’ve seen odder,” Rathe answered, but tipped his chair back to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. “There ought to be plenty of work available just now–” He heard Eslingen draw breath to protest, and hurried on. “–but I can understand a lot of it’s not really what you’re looking for.” He tipped his head in a shrug. “It’s never easy for gentlemen to find appropriate work, and that’s what your commission would make you, isn’t it? So hiring on as a fairground knife would be right out.”

“Putting that aside, since I will get hungry eventually, would anyone hire a Leaguer right now?” Eslingen asked.

“Some would,” Rathe answered, absently, but then the thought struck him. There was one job that he knew of, was almost sure the place hadn’t been filled, and it would get him personally out of a good deal of trouble… “Some might.” Oh, gods, he added silently, am I really going to do this? He leaned forward, intent now. “Look, Eslingen, you’ve got every right to be angry–my having no choice doesn’t help you losing your place–but maybe, just maybe, I can make it up to you. That was what you came here for, wasn’t it?”

Eslingen nodded, the faintest of smiles on his handsome face. “That, and the thought of wringing your neck.”

“Which would have put you back in cells,” Rathe pointed out, “and here rather than Sighs.”

“I’ve slept in stables before.” The smile might have widened a fraction, but Rathe couldn’t be sure.

“All right then. But I want to be plain with you about this. I think the job would suit you. The man I’m thinking of lives like a gentleman, and is highly respected throughout Astreiant.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but,’ ” Eslingen said.

“A couple of them, actually. His name’s Hanselin Caiazzo, and if you were still working at Devynck’s, I’d tell you to ask her about him, you’d get an honest answer. He’s a longdistance trader–merchant‑venturer,” he added, and Eslingen nodded again. “A large part of his business is perfectly legal and above board, but there’s a sizeable percentage of it that isn’t.” Rathe cocked his head at the other man. “I don’t know how much time you’ve spent in Astreiant, all in, or what you know about a place called the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives.”

Eslingen sat back in his chair, one dark eyebrow winging upwards. “I’ve heard of it,” he said. “Devynck told all her soldier friends to stay away from it. That was enough for me.”

Rathe nodded. “Good. There’s nothing they like better in the Court for a bunch of roistering, on‑leave soldiers to come in thinking they’re tough enough to handle it, because they’re not. But Caiazzo has contacts and businesses within the Court. He can walk in and out, pretty much at will–but then, he is southriver born.”

“And you?” Eslingen asked, when it seemed clear that Rathe had finished. The pointsman looked startled.

“Me? Yeah, I’m southriver born, too.”

“Can you walk in and out of this Court with impunity?”

“I’ve done it.”

“But not like Caiazzo does it,” Eslingen finished, and Rathe grinned. There’s a lot you’re not telling me, Adjunct Point, Eslingen thought, and decided not to pursue the matter. Rathe had said enough to get his message across. “So what’s so special about this Caiazzo, then? I assume there are reasons none of your lot have scored a point on him yet.”

“Oh, there are, chief among them being he’s good at covering his tracks, most of his success comes from his legal businesses, and people are loyal to him. And he has canny associates, as well as a deft hand with a fee.” Rathe paused. “But the thing is, he had this bodyguard–”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I don’t step into a dead man’s shoes. Not like this. Thank you kindly, Rathe, but–”

“Will you shut up for a moment?” Rathe said, equably. “His last bravo’s alive and well and sitting in a Customs Point cell.” Eslingen looked at him, and Rathe met the stare with a bland smile. “Duelling.”

“So who are you doing the favor?” Eslingen demanded. “This Caiazzo or me? For that matter, it seems extraordinary that you have to make amends to two different people for matters of point scoring. I’m beginning to be just the slightest bit afraid of you, pointsman. You’re not safe.”

“It’s not as elaborate as all that. Caiazzo’s tough deserved what he got, and better for him this way.” Rathe shook his head. “Look, he called himself a duellist, but he didn’t call his duels formally. He just sort of took it upon himself to, well, execute them. Caiazzo was having fits trying to figure out how to be rid of him anyway. Not that I did it to oblige him, but when I was able to make the point, fair and square, on a charge of murder, I did it and Caiazzo didn’t make more than a token complaint. And if he’d–Douvregn, I mean–if he’d gone on like that much longer, he’d’ve gone mad. Duellists can, you know, especially if they don’t cry fair and public.”

“You know a lot about duelling. I presume that’s just in pursuit of the law,” Eslingen said, eyeing the blade that lay along Rathe’s leg.

“Not really,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen looked dubious.

“Oh?”

Rathe shrugged. “A friend of mine’s a duellist. Course, he’s also a necromancer, so he has an outlet. Of sorts.”

Both Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “What an interesting life you lead, pointsman.” He took a breath. “I want to know about Caiazzo. You said there were a couple of ‘buts’ involved.”

“It’s about these children.” Rathe looked unhappy. “The surintendant–the surintendant of points, my ultimate boss–thinks Caiazzo might be involved. I don’t. I’ve been after Caiazzo for almost five years now, I know the kind of mud puddles he likes to play in, and children aren’t it. I’m certain in my heart he’s not involved, but the sur wants me to keep an eye on him. Took me aside this morning to tell me that, though how I’m supposed to do that when I have all these disappearances in my book, and have to check up on illegal printers…” He paused and took a breath, darting a rueful glance at Eslingen. “Sorry. But if the sur wants Caiazzo watched, then I have to take care of it. Hanse–Caiazzo needs a new bravo. You need a job and a place to live, and I can promise you, his house is a lot grander than the Brown Dog.”

“It would have to be,” Eslingen murmured, but there was no denying the sudden surge within him. He had to husband his coin if it was to last to the next campaign season, and if he could live in a gentleman’s comfort till then, all the better. “How’s he treat the hired help, then?”

“Better than they deserve, I imagine,” Rathe said. “Douvregn was always very well turned out.”

“Not livery?”

“I told you, he’s not a gentleman, Eslingen, he’s a merchant, a southriver merchant, and proud of it. He’s not the sort to ape the nobility, so set your heart at rest. You’ll be able to afford to dress as well as ever, without the spectre of livery.”

“But with the very real spectre, I imagine, of finding myself dead in the Sier if he should find out I’m spying on him,” Eslingen said.

Rathe shook his head. “Caiazzo’s not like that–not quite like that. He’s no idiot. I’m trusting you to find out that he’s not involved in these disappearances. I expect you to find out he’s not involved.”

“And if I find out he is?”

Rathe grimaced. “Then get out, fast, and let me know.”

“Why am I even considering this?” Eslingen demanded.

“Because it’s a long summer until anyone good is hiring again, you told me so yourself, especially soldiers of your rank. Because you saw what happened at the Old Brown Dog. Leaguers aren’t well loved at the best of times, and right now–”

“Right now, we’re right up there with pointsmen in popularity, aren’t we?” Eslingen said, with a return of his earlier anger. Rathe ignored it.

“Because these are children who are disappearing. Southriver, northriver, from all over the city. Gone without a trace, and I tell you, Eslingen, usually only a runaway can manage that.” He frowned into the distance, eyes fixed on something only he could see. “I’ve seen that happen enough times. The serious runaways, the ones with real, hard reasons to run. They’ll do it, and we can turn over every stone, and not find them. Because they know when and how fast to run. But this number of kids, from so wide a range of backgrounds… they’re not running, Eslingen. Someone’s taking them. And I don’t think it’s Caiazzo, but I can’t make that decision, I can’t take that risk. You need a job, a place to live. I need to be able to keep an eye on Caiazzo without having to give up the other jobs at hand, which I refuse to do.” He broke off, glaring at Eslingen, but the look wasn’t really directed at him, the Leaguer realized. He was angry with whoever had suggested he write off the children already gone. And Rathe never would.

“I was a runaway,” he said quietly. “And you’re right. I knew when and how far and fast to run. But I was reasonably lucky. It might not have ended up this well. All right. I may be out of my mind, Rathe, but if this Caiazzo will have me, I’ll keep an eye on things for you.”

Rathe smiled, and the easing of lines from his face made Eslingen wonder just how many hours a day the adjunct point was working on this business. “You want to meet him now?”

“Are you off duty already?”

Rathe made a face. “Oh, calling on Caiazzo is part of being on duty, it seems.” He stood, stretched, and came around the desk. “So, if you’re interested…”

“Oh, I am,” Eslingen assured him, and immediately wondered if he was doing the right thing. The astrologer had said his status could change at the new moon, but he couldn’t think this was quite what he had had in mind. Before he could say anything more, however, the door opened, and Monteia appeared.

“Good, Rathe, you’re back. Oh. Lieutenant Eslingen.” Monteia shut the door behind her. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you, Chief Point.”

Rathe gave him a wary glance, not quite trusting the demure tone, but the Leaguer didn’t meet his eyes.

“Good,” Monteia went on. “It shouldn’t have happened, none of it, but once it did we had no choice but to bring you in. I want to thank you for your understanding.”

“Not at all, Chief Point.” This time, it was Eslingen who looked at Rathe, and the adjunct point who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Apparently, Eslingen thought, he wasn’t intending to inform the chief point of the plan to use a deputy to spy on Caiazzo. Probably as well.

“What did the sur want, Nico?” Monteia asked.

“Mostly to ask me if I’d found anything against Caiazzo, anything that would show he was involved.” Rathe grinned. “And to complain about the grande bourgeoise.”

“He won’t get any argument from me on that, but this business with Caiazzo…” Monteia shook her head. “It’s beginning to sound unhealthily like an obsession.”

Rathe sighed, almost inaudibly. It seemed, Eslingen thought, to be a standing problem between them. “I don’t think so, Chief, with respect. I think the sur is getting some information we’re not privy to, maybe from court, maybe from gods know where, but political. Because that’s the connection he keeps pushing–the succession.”

Monteia looked askance. “Not very likely, is it, Nico?”

Rathe sighed again, louder this time. “No, it’s not, but what am I supposed to do, tell the surintendant of points, no, sir, you’re wrong, and I won’t do it? I’ve tried to tell him, gods know. But he won’t let me off.”

“It’s a waste of time,” Monteia said. “Aside from anything else, the last thing we need is for the families to think we’ve forgotten about them. So if you can do what the sur wants without its cutting into your real work, Nico, that would be lovely.”

“Yes, Chief,” Rathe said. He glanced involuntarily at Eslingen, wondering if he should mention his plan to Monteia, but decided against it. It wasn’t as though he was authorizing any fees for Eslingen against the station’s expenses–that would be Caiazzo’s responsibility. Not that Monteia wouldn’t appreciate the irony, but the fewer people who knew, the better for Eslingen.

Monteia nodded. “So be off with you, then, Nico. The council wasted enough of our time this morning. Oh, and Nico?” Rathe turned in the doorway.

“I don’t expect to see you back here tonight, understand?”

Rathe smiled and nodded. “Yes, Chief. And thanks.”

She waved a hand. “Go on, get out. Good luck to you, Lieutenant.”

Eslingen nodded, recognizing dismissal when he heard it, and followed the adjunct point out into the main room. Rathe said something, low‑voiced, to the woman at the duty desk, and then slung his jerkin over the shabby coat.

“Shall we go?”

“Why not?” Eslingen murmured, and trailed behind him through the station’s yard into the busy street. They took the river roads, along the upper levels of the Factor’s Walk, and as he threaded his way through the busy crowd, Eslingen had to admit some misgivings. After all, was a job with a southriver‑rat‑made‑good really what he was looking for? The man might be wealthy–was wealthy, according to Rathe, who would know–but not all of that wealth was honestly come by. That Rathe seemed to think well of him, or at least to praise him with faint damns, was something of a reassurance, but, all in all, Eslingen thought, I might have been better off staying Devynck’s knife. The towers of Point of Sighs–Point Assize, its true name was, a typical Astreianter sour joke–rose among the wharf‑side buildings, and he looked away, swearing under his breath. Wiser it might be to stay a tavern knife, but Devynck wanted no part of him after last night, and there weren’t that many tavernkeepers who would hire a Leaguer and a soldier. Which left Rathe’s merchant, this Caiazzo. He could almost picture the man, the sort of gross merchant one found on the broadsheet prophecies, usually at the head of predictions involving Bonfortune and Tyrseis. He would be large and loud, his clothes rich and tasteless, canny, cunning, shrewd, but without the tact that redeemed those qualities–a bully, Eslingen thought, a man of weight who wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

They had reached the eastern docks by then, and Rathe paused, scanning the pennants that drooped from the crowding masts. Eslingen copied him automatically, though he recognized only one of the house‑signs, the blue and white stripes of Gauquier Daughters. It would be granddaughters now, or great‑granddaughters, he thought, and wondered if he should change his mind now, before Rathe had gone to the trouble of an introduction. But then Rathe’s hand was on his arm.

“See? One of Hanse’s ships was reported in this morning, so I knew we’d find him here. I wanted you to get an idea of the man, better than what I’ve given you.”

“Marvelous,” Eslingen said, and knew he sounded less than gracious. “Thank you.” He followed Rathe through a tangle of untended handcarts, and out onto the wharf itself. It was almost as wide as a city street, but only a single ship, a tidy caravel, the sort that Eslingen had seen in every port along the southern coasts, was tied up at the dock. The pennant at its single mast was a long streamer of scarlet, a gold shape like an inverted heart at the broad end: Caiazzo’s house‑sign, it had to be, Eslingen thought, and scanned the caravel’s crowded deck for the man of his imaginings. There was no one among the dozen sailors and bare‑backed laborers who matched that description, and the knot of factors gathered by the hoist looked equally unlikely. A woman in a neat skirt and bodice, a blue coat with split sleeves open over it, was standing to one side, and Rathe moved toward her. Eslingen followed, and saw a magist’s bar vivid on one shoulder. He hesitated, but Rathe didn’t seem to notice.

“Aicelin, where’s Hanse?”

The magist lifted an eyebrow that was as grey as the feathers of the gargoyles that fought the seagulls for the dockside scraps. “Business, pointsman?”

Rathe cocked his head. “Of a sort. He still looking for a bravo?”

“He’s not had a lot of time to interview candidates. Why? I know you’re not offering your services, much to both our disappointment.” She glanced at Eslingen, both eyebrows rising now in silent question.

“Lieutenant Eslingen here recently mustered out of the Dragons,” Rathe said, “and is in need of a position.”

“Until last night, he was working at the Old Brown Dog in Point of Hopes,” a new voice said. One of the factors–not a factor, Eslingen corrected himself instantly, the fabric and the cut of the plain coat were far too good to be a mere factor’s, not a factor at all, but the merchant‑venturer himself–detached himself from the group by the steadily growing stack of cargo, and came to join the magist. “Devynck’s new knife. Now, as I see it, good knives prevent trouble.”

He smiled, showing teeth, but the expression didn’t reach his black eyes. He was a wiry man, built a little like Rathe himself, but his face was narrower, the bones of cheek and jaw stark under the olive skin. Up close, his clothes looked even more expensive, his shirt of fine linen, freshly washed and pressed, fastened at the neck with a lace‑edged stock, the coat plain grey silk with only the jet buttons for decoration, but cut to flatter the slim build. He was young to be as rich as Rathe had hinted, Eslingen thought, maybe forty, but then, it took a young man to outface the law.

“You’re remarkably well informed, Hanse,” Rathe said, sounding bored. “If you know that, you also know it can hardly be laid at Eslingen’s door, now, can it?”

“I’d be more inclined to lay it at yours.” Caiazzo showed teeth again, but this time the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened in real amusement. “Not yours personally, Nico, but the points? Yes, I’d say they have something to answer to Devynck for.”

Rathe looked sour. “You can leave that to Monteia and Devynck to settle between them, I think.” He shrugged. “But I thought I could at least introduce Eslingen to you.”

Caiazzo laughed softly, and turned to Eslingen. “Known our Nico long, have you, lieutenant?” His voice was pleasant enough, still touched with the sharp southriver vowels, but Eslingen’s scalp prickled.

“Only a week. Long enough to lose my job, though.”

“Only a week? Gods, Nico, even for you that’s quick.”

“The times are like that,” Rathe answered. “You’ve heard the story, I thought I owed Eslingen something for it, the situation not being his fault. You need a new bravo, Eslingen needs a new place… It seemed to make sense.”

“It does,” Caiazzo agreed, and sounded almost rueful. He looked at Eslingen again, the glance frankly assessing. “Duellist?”

It wasn’t hard to guess the required answer, not after what Rathe had told him. Eslingen shook his head. “Soldiers are rarely duellists, sir. It’s not our skill, and only fools try to do two things that well. If you want a duellist, you’ll have to hire someone else.”

“I had a bodyguard who thoughthe was a duellist,” Caiazzo said. “What I want is a knife with brains, not pretensions.” He glanced at the magist, and Eslingen thought he saw her head tip forward slightly. Caiazzo nodded himself, decisively. “All right, Eslingen, let’s try it. Nico, I’m obliged–I think, and to a point.”

“A little in‑good‑standing?” Rathe asked, demurely.

Caiazzo’s head lifted slightly, the gesture of an angry horse, but then he had himself under control again. “I’ll think of it that way.” He looked back at Eslingen. “I’ll pay you a snake for a week, Eslingen, keep you or not, and we’ll talk wages at the end of that time. What do you say?”

“I’m in,” Eslingen answered, and wondered if he was doing the right thing. Caiazzo wasn’t what he’d imagined, but there was something a good deal more dangerous about the trader than he’d expected.

Caiazzo beckoned to the magist. “Aicelin Denizard, my left hand. We’ll try him for a week, Aice, see how it works?

“Despite the doubtful provenance, I think it’s worth it,” the magist answered. Face and voice were sober, but there was laughter in her eyes, and Eslingen caught himself smiling in answer. Denizard held out a painted hand–black and silver on pale skin, intricate and unsmudged–and Eslingen took it carefully. “A pleasure, lieutenant.”

“Mine, surely, magist,” Eslingen replied, and bent his head to her.

“Where’s your gear, Eslingen?” Caiazzo asked.

Eslingen nudged the saddlebags he’d set down when Rathe had spoken to the magist. “This is it.”

“Not your weapons, surely.”

Eslingen shook his head. “They’re at the Aretoneia.”

Caiazzo looked over his shoulder at the caravel, and then at the group of factors. Something he saw there made his mouth tighten, but he said nothing, and looked back at the soldier. “Right, then. Aice, go with him, pay whatever bond they want–I’m sure the points will want their share–and bring him back to the house. Take the boat, I’ll be here a while.”

And I don’t envy his factors, Eslingen thought. He glanced at Rathe, and saw the same thought reflected in the pointsman’s half smile. He held out a hand, and Rathe’s smile widened. “Thanks.”

Rathe lifted a shoulder, but looked faintly pleased. “Like I said, I owed you this much, after last night. I wish you good luck with it.” He looked up at the sky, gauging the position of the winter‑sun. “Hanse, I’ll be seeing you.”

“Like my shadow,” Caiazzo agreed, and Rathe turned away.

“This way,” Denizard said. “What’s your first name?”

“Philip.” Eslingen slung the bags over his shoulder again, and followed her down to the end of the wharf where a private barge was moored. It was small, only four oarsmen and a steersman for crew, but Eslingen couldn’t help being impressed. It took money to keep a boat in Astreiant, almost as much as it took to keep horse and grooms–but then, if Caiazzo’s business took him along the wharves, then it was probably as much necessity as luxury. The steersman held out his hand to help Denizard down into the cushioned seats, and Eslingen glanced back to catch a last glimpse of Rathe as he turned away down the river road. It was just as well he’d gone quickly; Caiazzo had good reason to be wary of anything brought him by any pointsman, and Eslingen was quite sure that at least one reason he had been sent with Denizard was to give the magist a chance to gather her impressions of him, arcane as well as mundane. The thought of her ghostly investigation was enough to make him shiver a little as he stepped into the boat beside her, and he thought he saw her smile. She gestured for him to seat himself, and he did so, schooling himself to impassivity as the boatmen began to cast off. The astrologer had warned him against water–but there was no avoiding this. He was determined to give them no cause for suspicion: whatever Rathe’s motives had been, placing him here, this had the chance of becoming a decent position, and he wasn’t well off enough to risk losing it, at least not yet. If the trader was involved with the missing children, well, that would change everything, but even Rathe didn’t seem to believe that. The boat lurched against the current before the oarsmen could find their stroke, and he smiled blandly at the magist, trying to ignore his sudden unease.,

Denizard smiled back, and fished a small silver medallion from under her bodice, cupped it in both hands. Eslingen eyed her warily, recognizing a truthstone, and the magist’s smile widened. “Now, lieutenant–Philip, if I may. Tell me about your service. From the beginning, please.”

Rathe made his way west again along the river, skirting the Rivermarket and the warrens of the Factors’ Walk, ignoring the small twist of conscience within him. He had, after all, told Eslingen exactly why he was recommending him for the job, and what he was–and wasn’t– looking for. Nor was it entirely self‑serving; Eslingen did need a job and a place to live, and Caiazzo’s service was a good deal richer than Devynck’s. And it was unlikely that Caiazzo would put him into a position that would bring him into danger, at least not yet, not until Caiazzo had decided that he could trust his new man, and by then Eslingen would have seen enough to make the decision for himself… Still, the soldier was virtually a stranger here, with little knowledge of the city and its more notorious citizens; Rathe couldn’t stop himself from feeling slightly guilty for what he’d done.

And that, he told himself firmly, was foolish. He’d done the best he could for Eslingen, and for himself; he had other work to do before he could take Monteia’s offer and declare himself off duty. He reached into his pocket, checked his tablets. The last set of nativities–one for a girl who’d vanished from the family inn two days before Herisse Robion, the other for a boy just under apprentice‑age, son of a weaver– should be ready; he could at least collect those and bring them to b’Estorr along with the rest. He glanced at the sun again, and smiled, slowly. Better still, he would send a runner to University Point and ask b’Estorr to meet him at Wicked’s. At least that way he could be sure of getting one decent meal.

The sun was low in the sky as he finally reached the tavern, the papers with the nativities folded securely in his pocket. The building itself, long and low and old, wooden walls on a solid stone foundation, had once been a temple, though that had been generations ago, before the Pantheon had been built. On the clearest of days, with all the windows open to daylight, you could see some of the old carvings, high on the walls just below the ceilings, but those were the only lingering traces of its former life. Nor did anyone–these days, at least– consider its current use an especial blasphemy, not least because no one could remember what god it had served. There was an offering tablet, one of the blank stones that stood for all‑the‑gods, and a candle beside it to appease the prudish, but that was all. The name was more of a joke than anything, a typical southriver joke. Astreiant was, Rathe thought, usually a city that could laugh at itself. Only these days, people weren’t finding much to laugh at, and neither did he. But there was always Wicked’s, to put aside immediate worries.

The crowd was still thin, though some of it spilled into the tiny front yard, shopkeeper’s girls enjoying a chance at the soft weather after a day spent within doors. Rathe went inside: the dim, cool light was more welcoming after a day spent crisscrossing the city. Though it was still early, Wicked herself sat at one end of the massive stone bar, surveying her customers dispassionately. The current Wicked–there had been at least three predecessors, Rathe knew from neighborhood gossip, though no one knew for sure if they had been kin–had run the tavern for as long as Rathe had been a regular. She had been there when he’d signed his apprenticeship papers, and she was still there, not looking much different than before, though she had to be fifty if she was a day. She raised an eyebrow as she saw Rathe, and lifted a hand to beckon him over.

“You’d better not be visiting Devynck’s troubles on me, boy,” she said by way of greeting, but the tone took away most of the sting from her words.

Rathe shook his head, and held out empty hands. “You see before you an off‑duty pointsman, hungry, very thirsty, and in extreme need of good company. So where else would I go? Beer makes people mad, Wicked, wine makes them wise.”

“Donis help us when pointsmen turn philosopher.”

“It’s that or run mad these days.” Rathe dropped into a chair at the table nearest to her, glanced around the room. There was no sign of b’Estorr yet, and at the moment, he found he didn’t particularly care. Wicked detached herself from the bar, and came to stand looming above him, hands on ample hips.

“You look like something that washed up after a particularly nasty flood tide,” she said, and shrugged. “But then, it could be the coat.”

Rathe lifted his head, then decided it wasn’t worth arguing with her, especially when he’d reached the same conclusion just that morning. “Thank you,” he said. “Might I have some wine, please, mistress?”

Wicked snorted, but smiled, and stalked back to the bar, disappearing through the door behind it that led to the kitchens and her private stockroom. When she came out, she was carrying a tall stone bottle and two heavy glasses–real glasses, not the usual pottery cups. She set it all down on the table, and sat down opposite him.

“Because you don’t like my coat?” Rathe asked.

Wicked leaned forward across the table. “Because, first, I think you need it. Second, Istre sent your runner back by here to say he would be here after first sunset, and to bespeak a very nice bottle of wine that one, knows his stuff for all he’s Chadroni. And, third, even if he did and you didn’t, I wouldn’t bother. I don’t waste this on people who’d waste it. I figure you’re probably here for a while, pointsman, and better for you it is, too, than moping at home or at the station.”

“I had reached that decision myself,” Rathe said, with dignity. “I suppose I’d better get some dinner if I’m not to insult one of your– what, Silklands vintages?”

Wicked shook her head. “Believe it or not, Chadroni. Istre tells me their beer is vile. Maybe there’s hope for the regicidal bastards.” She tugged the cork free with a grunt of effort, set bottle and cork in front of him with a flourish.

Rathe spread his hands. “If you say so, Wicked, I have to believe it. And I’ll have whatever’s going from the kitchen tonight.”

“You’ll have what I give you,” Wicked answered, and pushed herself up from the table. “I’ve lasanon with cheese and herbs that’ll be better with that than a custard pie.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing better than to argue, and the innkeeper turned away. Rathe leaned back in his chair, and reached for the papers folded into his pocket. He pulled them out, eight sheets, each with their neatly inked circles and the symbols of the planets set in their places, looking for some connection, however tenuous, between the eight. Approximate age was all they had in common, certainly not background, and that was what had the city in an uproar. And he didn’t see anything in these papers to change that.

He made a face, and turned them facedown on the scarred table, wishing b’Estorr would arrive. The door was still open to the evening breeze, a southern breeze, warm, but without the river’s damp. He could hear the sounds of the businesses around Wicked’s closing up for the day, tables and carts pulled in, shutters down or across, the clank of iron as locks and chains were snugged home. First sunset was definitely past; over in Point of Dreams, the day‑shows would be well over, and the playhouses sweeping up, getting ready for the night‑show. It had been weeks–a moon‑month, he realized, guiltily–since he had seen a play, even a night‑show farce. The actors who shared the garret above his own lodgings had seemed cold lately; he would have to make amends, when he had the time. And he would need to make time, he realized. They if anyone could help him with Foucquet’s missing apprentice, especially if the boy wasn’t missing at all…

“So how do you like the wine?”

Rathe looked up, and pushed the papers aside. “Don’t know. Haven’t dared try it yet. I thought, being Chadroni, it might come ready mixed with its own poison.” b’Estorr looked thoughtful. “I don’t think it’s from the royal cellars.”

“How’d you know I’d need it?”

“Poison or a drink?” b’Estorr asked, and seated himself opposite the other man.

Rathe gave him a sour look, but conceded the point. “The drink.”

“These days, don’t we all,” b’Estorr answered, and filled both glasses. Rathe took one, lifted it in silent toast, and sipped curiously at the amber liquid. It was good, very good, but not astonishing. He had been in the mood for something astonishing, and he set the glass down again with a vague sense of disappointment. b’Estorr went on, as if he hadn’t noticed, “I heard about the trouble at Devynck’s–I had cause to go to All‑Guilds today, the clerks were talking about nothing else.”

“And blaming the points, I daresay,” Rathe muttered.

“Among others,” b’Estorr answered.

Rathe looked at him. “Strange to say, though, you people are the only ones I haven’t heard suspected.”

“Well, who’d dare?” b’Estorr returned. “I take it you mean magists, and not Chadroni.”

Rathe smiled in spite of himself. “I think that people feel if Chadroni were involved, it wouldn’t be this… disguised. Good straightforward people, the Chadroni, if a little bloodthirsty.”

b’Estorr twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “That’s true enough.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “The only reason they didn’t latch onto me as the guilty party when the old Fre was murdered was that they’d’ve been insulted at the thought of any but their own class murdering the king. In Chenedolle, in any of the League cities– in the Silklands, for Astree’s sake–I’d’ve been dragged off to execution without a second thought. But in Chadron, murder is the province of the high nobility.”

“Fun place to set up a points station,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr nearly choked on his wine. Rathe grinned–that had evened the score for the remark about poison–but sobered quickly. Something he’d said himself hadn’t quite rung true… “But I’m wrong, aren’t I, there’s one group of magists people do suspect.”

b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.

“Those hedge‑astrologers, the freelances, the ones the Three Nations have been complaining about.”

“Magists are generally astrologers,” b’Estorr said, with dignity, “but few astrologers are magists.”

“I’m not sure most people make that distinction.” Rathe frowned suddenly, impatient with the game. “Seriously, Istre, have you heard anything more about them?”

b’Estorr shrugged. “Not much more than before, I’m afraid. They’re still around–and they don’t charge nearly enough for what they’re doing. The students are pissed, of course, and the arbiters have promised to do what they can, but every time they get close to one of them, they seem to fade away.”

“Well, joy of it to me, we need to keep an eye on them, too,” Rathe said.

“I’d have thought that was the arbiters’ business,” b’Estorr said.

“And also ours.” Rathe glanced toward the open door, hearing sudden loud voices, and then relaxed slightly, recognizing the tone if not the speakers. They sounded light, for a change, almost happy, and Rathe realized for the first time just how tense he had become. Then a knot of people–actors all, Rathe knew, and his upstairs neighbor Gavi Jhirassi at their center–burst through the open door.

“They can threaten to close us down, but they know right now there’d be riots if they tried it. And that’s just what Astreiant wants to avoid, so they won’t. And meanwhile, it’s marvelous business for us.”

“Still, it’s a risky piece, Gavi, and Aconin should mind his pen.” That was a rangy woman in a plumed cap, her eyes still smudged with the paint she wore on stage.

Jhirassi made a moue, and his eyes lighted on Rathe. “Nico! Have they actually let you out? We were beginning to think you were working all hours.”

b’Estorr glanced at Rathe, eyes amused. Rathe shook his head. “Gavi’s my upstairs neighbor. And an actor, though I probably don’t need to tell you that. Quite a good one, really.”

“You’re too kind,” Jhirassi said, and leaned on the back of the empty chair.

Rathe sighed. “Gavi Jhirassi, Istre b’Estorr, Istre’s at the university.”

“Not a student,” Jhirassi said. “A master, then?”

“Join us, why don’t you, Gavi?” Rathe said, and the actor spun the chair dexterously away from the table. “I wanted to talk to you anyway, and this saves me a trip to the theaters, since we’re never home the same hours these days.”

Jhirassi nodded. “It has been a while since we’ve seen you, Nico. Not that I can blame you, with what’s been on recently, I mean, really, The Seven Seekers? It’s not particularly subtle, and this staging isn’t particularly inventive. At least Aconin doesn’t write me ingenue parts–” He broke off, looking at Rathe. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Rathe allowed himself a wry smile, and quickly retold Foucquet’s story of her missing clerk‑apprentice. Jhirassi’s face grew more intent as he listened, and for once he didn’t interrupt. When Rathe had finished, he said, “And you’re afraid he’s become one of the missing, obviously, for all you’re saying everything else. Well, we’ve not had any new brats–sorry, children–” The correction was patently insincere. “–hanging about, but you said he might have gone to Savatier’s.” He tipped his head to one side, considering, then shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ll ask there tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Please,” Rathe said.

“And if I find him?”

“Let me know, and I’ll let Foucquet know. She can handle it from there, sort it out with the boy’s mother.”

“If Savatier has him,” Jhirassi said, “if she’s taken him on, he’s likely to be good, Nico. It could be a shame to force him back into the judiciary.”

“I know,” Rathe answered. “But his mother has a right to know if he hasn’t gone missing. Who knows, she might be so delighted to hear he’s with Savatier, and not disappeared, she might let him stay on.” He didn’t sound terribly convincing, and knew it, and so, from the look on the actor’s face, did Jhirassi. The judiciary was a good career, and a rich one, ideal for those who had the proper stars, and that range was broadly defined. Clerkships like the one Albe Cytel had held were as jealously guarded as any guild apprenticeship, and for the same reasons: their holders had an advantage over the hundreds of others who tried to make their living in the trade, and that advantage could be passed from mother to child. Cytel’s mother would be reluctant to lose that, no matter what the boy’s stars said, and there would be ambition and expectation involved as well. Sometimes it was hard to make the parent’s desires give way to sidereal sense. He himself had been lucky, Rathe thought. He might have been an apothecary, or an herbalist, given his parents’ occupations, but it had been clear from his stars that Metenere’s service was not for him, and they had made no protest. He looked again at the sheaf of papers with their scribbled nativities. There had been nothing in common among those children’s stars, or at least nothing that he could see, not even a common like or dislike of their present circumstances.

“I’ll ask at Savatier’s,” Jhirassi said again. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“I appreciate it,” Rathe answered.

Jhirassi nodded, mischief glinting in his eyes, but then common sense reasserted itself. He rose gracefully from the table, smiled at b’Estorr, and crossed to the corner table where the rest of the actors were sitting. Rathe watched him go, but his mind wasn’t on the slim figure.

“That sounds–interesting,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe rolled his eyes.

“In other circumstances, yes. It might almost be amusing, but not just at the moment, thank you. Not with people–respectable guildfolk, mind you–trying to do our jobs for us.”

“Is it true someone was killed last night?” b’Estorr asked.

Rathe nodded. “A journeyman butcher, name of Paas Huviet. He was threatening to attack the inn, and when he wouldn’t heed the warnings, Eslingen–he was Devynck’s knife–shot him dead.” He managed a crooked smile. “Which I don’t think comes under your purview, Istre.”

“I would think not,” the magist agreed. “So what happened to him, the knife, I mean?”

Rathe grimaced. “Oh, gods, that was a mess. We had to call the point on him, if only to keep the rest of the crowd quiet, but of course it was disallowed. It had to be, really, he’d only fired in self‑defense and in defense of real property. But Devynck let him go, since she didn’t want there to be more trouble because of him. So I… I got him a position in Caiazzo’s household.”

b’Estorr stared at Rathe, then laughed. “What possessed you to lodge him with Caiazzo, of all people? I take it you don’t much like this knife–Eslingen, was it?”

Rathe looked faintly embarrassed. “Yeah, that’s his name. And, no, in actual fact, I like him, he’s a good sort, clever–”

“So why, in the Good Counsellor’s name, stick him with Caiazzo?” b’Estorr paused. “Or do I have it turned around?”

Rathe hesitated, but there were few men he trusted more than the Chadroni. And besides, he added silently, I wouldn’t mind having someone tell me I’d done the right thing. “I need someone in Caiazzo’s household,” he said, lowering his voice. “The sur thinks he might be involved with the missing children somehow, but I’ve got my hands too full investigating the disappearances themselves to waste time on something I don’t think is very likely. It seemed a natural conjunction.”

b’Estorr shook his head. “Gods, Nico, remind me never to call in any favors from you, you have the most backhanded way of returning them. He agreed?”

“He agreed. I didn’t exactly hold a knife to his throat, either, Istre,” Rathe said.

“It’s not a bad idea, though,” b’Estorr said, thoughtfully. “As long as Caiazzo doesn’t find out, that is.”

That was something Rathe did not particularly want to think about. He reached for the pieces of paper instead, slid them across the table toward b’Estorr. “Here. These are for you. We’ve managed to gather some more information on the children missing from Hopes–I think you have all the nativities now. I don’t know, maybe if you look at them in line with Herisse’s, or something, maybe the days of their disappearance, you’ll find something we’ve missed.”

b’Estorr set down his glass and spread the papers out on the table, studying each in turn. Rathe watched him, absurdly fearful that he would see some dire pattern just glancing at them, something the points could and should have seen. And that’s just being ridiculous, he told himself firmly, hearing more than an echo of his mother in his mind. But the papers looked pathetic, lives in limbo, reduced to so many numbers and calculations. He wasn’t an astrologer, at least no more so than most people in Astreiant, possessing a rudimentary knowledge of the mathegistry that defined their lives. b’Estorr could read the figures Rathe had given him as easily as Rathe could read the broadsheets, and Rathe wondered what picture the nativities conjured up for the magist. Could he see these children, get a sense for who they were–are, he corrected firmly–what their dreams, hopes, futures might be? He shook his head, at himself this time, and took another swallow of his wine, never taking his eyes from b’Estorr. Finally, the magist rolled up the papers and placed them carefully in his leather pocket case. He smiled a little sheepishly at Rathe.

“Sorry. There’s little enough I can do right now, but I get caught up. It’s interesting, but I’m not seeing any obvious patterns off the top of it. No common positions, bar the gross solar position of the winter‑sun and its satellites for most of them. And of course the Starsmith.”

Rathe nodded. The winter‑sun and its three kindred stars stayed in each of the solar signs for about fourteen years; everyone born within that period shared those signs. The Starsmith took even longer to move through its unique zodiac. “That hardly counts, though, right?”

“Right. And not all of them were born with the winter‑sun in the Anvil, either, some of them are young enough that it was in the first degrees of the Seabull.” b’Estorr shook his head again. “For that matter, they weren’t even all of them born in Astreiant.”

“That we had noticed,” Rathe said. “It’s almost as though there’s less of a pattern than there should be, and where you expect to find one, no matter how meaningless–I expected, we reasonably could have expected, all the kids to have been born here–it’s not there. It’s the kind of negative pattern you couldn’t create if you tried, you’d be bound to slip up somewhere.”

“That’s an interesting thought,” b’Estorr said, and this time it was Rathe who shook his head.

“It could just be frustration speaking. Damn it, there has to be some pattern there, somewhere.”

b’Estorr nodded. “And the absence of pattern would be meaningful, too. Don’t give up hope yet, Nico.”

Rathe smiled ruefully, leaned back in his chair as a waiter appeared with his dinner–the promised lasanon, he saw without surprise, smelling strongly of the garlic and summer herbs layered with the cheese and the strips of noodle dough. Wicked was right, the wine would complement that, or vice versa, and for the first time that evening, felt his mood begin to lift. “I’m not. It’s just–”

“Eat,” b’Estorr said, firmly.

“You sound like my mother,” Rathe complained, but did as he was told. A string of cheese clung to his chin, and he wiped it away, enjoying the rich taste.

“I sound like my mother,” b’Estorr answered, “and they were both right.”

Rathe smiled again, genuine affection this time, and turned his attention to his plate. b’Estorr was right, they were doing all they could, and it was still too early to give up hope.

They pushed the missing children from their minds for the rest of dinner, talking idly of other things. Rathe found himself relaxing at last, though he couldn’t be sure how much of that was the excellent wine. He drained the last swallow left in his glass, and set it carefully back on the table.

“Time I was getting home,” he said aloud, and the chime of a clock merged with his last word. He frowned slightly at that–he hadn’t thought it was that late–and saw the same confusion on b’Estorr’s face.

“That’s odd,” the necromancer began, and a second clock struck, not the quarter hour, as the first had done, but repeatedly, a steady chiming. In the distance, Rathe could hear another clock join in, and then a third and a fourth.

“What in the name of all the gods?” he began, but he was already pushing himself up out of his seat. All across the long room, people were standing, faces pale in the lamplight, and Wicked herself appeared in the kitchen doorway, broad face drawn into a scowl. It sounded like the earthquake, though the ground had never moved, the way all the bells and chimes had sounded, shaken into voice by the tremor, and he shoved his way to the door, and out into the narrow yard.

The chimes were still sounding, and Rathe had lost count of the number, knew only that it was more than twelve, more than there ever should be. The shopgirls were on their feet, too, one with her hand on her belt knife as though she faced a physical threat, another pair shoulder to shoulder, steadying each other against an earthquake that hadn’t happened. The nearest clock was at the end of the Hopes‑point Bridge, and he turned toward it, searching the darkening sky for its white‑painted face and the massive bronze hands. It was hard to see in the winter‑sun’s twilight, but for an instant he thought he saw the hands spinning aimlessly against the pale disk. Then the chimes stopped, as abruptly as they had begun, and the hands settled, frozen, proclaiming the hour to be six. And that was impossible, that time had passed a good six hours ago, or wouldn’t come for another six. Rathe’s mouth thinned, and he looked back toward the tavern to see b’Estorr there, Wicked framed in the door behind him. As though the silence had released some spell, voices rose in the tavern, high, excited, and afraid.

“What in Tyrseis’s name was that?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr shook his head, his fine‑boned face troubled.

“I don’t know. Something–a serious disturbance in the stars, but what…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

“Damn,” Rathe said. He could hear more voices in the streets now, loud with the same note of excited fear, and lifted his voice to carry to the people behind Wicked. “All right, then, it’s over. Nothing to panic about.”

“But–” one of the shopgirls began, and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Her fellow, braver than the rest, or maybe just less in awe of the points, put her hands on her hips. “The clock’s out of true, pointsman, what are we going to do about that?”

“The university will have the correct time, and the regents will see that the clocks are reset,” Rathe answered, and tried to project a confidence he didn’t feel. It wasn’t as simple as that, and they all knew it– when the clocks had been unstrung by the earthquake, it had taken days for everything to be sorted out.

b’Estorr said, his voice pitched to carry, “The Great Clock, at the university–it’s made to keep time through any upheaval. It should be all right. And it’s a good clear night. There’ll be no problem checking the time against the stars.”

Rathe nodded his thanks, and Wicked heaved herself out of the doorway, came to join them in the center of the yard. “So what in Demis’s name would cause such a turmoil?” she demanded. “I’ve seen a lightning storm do something like it, but that was one clock–”

“And this is a fine clear night,” Rathe finished for her. “I don’t know, Wicked.”

“No more do I,” b’Estorr said again, “though I intend to find out.”

“Would it have anything to do with the children?” Rathe asked, his voice softer now, and b’Estorr spread his hands.

“I don’t know,” he said again. “I don’t see how, what the connection would be, but I don’t trust coincidence.” Rathe sighed, nodding agreement, and the necromancer looked toward river. “I should be heading back, they’ll want every scholar working on it.”

“Go,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr hurried past him, stride lengthening as he headed for the bridge. He could smell smoke, and with it the pungent scent of herbs, and guessed that people were already beginning to light balefires in the squares and crossroads, offering the sweet smoke of Demis leaf and lowsfer to appease the gods. That was all to the good, as long as they didn’t go burning anything else, and he looked at Wicked. “I’d better go, too. They’ll be wanting me at Point of Hopes.”

She nodded, her face grim. “I daresay. But I doubt there’ll be trouble, Nico. This is too–strange, too big for a riot.”

“I hope you’re right,” Rathe answered, and headed for the station. The streets were crowded, as they’d been after the earthquake, and there were smoky fires in every open space. They were well tended, he saw without surprise, and didn’t know if he was glad or worried to see so many sober, rich‑robed guild folk feeding the flames. The neighborhood temples were jammed, and there was a steady stream of people heading for the bridge–heading to the Pantheon and the other temples in the old city, Rathe guessed, and could only be grateful that their fear had taken them that way, rather than in anger.

The portcullis was down at Point of Hopes, though the postern gate was still open, and two pointsmen in back‑and‑breast stood outside. They carried calivers, too, Rathe saw: clearly Monteia was taking this seriously. He nodded a greeting, received a sober nod in return, and went on into the station’s yard.

Monteia was standing in the doorway, talking to a young man whose wine‑colored coat bore the badge of the city regents, but she broke off, seeing him, and beckoned him over. “Good, Nico. You’d better hear this, too.”

The messenger said, “The city and the university will be confirming the correct time tonight in a public ceremony, to start at once. The regents would like all the points stations to proclaim and post the notice.”

“Does that mean the university clock is all right?” Rathe asked, and the messenger looked at him.

“So far as I know–well, so far as they can tell. That’s why they’re checking, of course.”

Rathe nodded, remembering b’Estorr’s assurance, and Monteia said briskly, “I’ve already started getting the word out, Nico, but I’d take it as a favor if you’d attend the ceremony. People tend to trust you, and I don’t want the ones who don’t get there to say that we neglected our duty.”

“All right,” Rathe said. He wasn’t sorry to have the excuse, after all; it would be a sight worth seeing, but, more than that, he was as eager as anyone to see with his own eyes that the time had been put right. He turned away, but Monteia’s voice stopped him.

“Nico.”

“Yes, Chief?” He turned back, to see her holding a wooden case. It had brass feet and a brass‑bound door, and only then did he recognize it as the station’s case‑clock.

“See that this gets set right,” Monteia said, and handed it to him.

Rathe took the box gingerly, appalled at the thought of the fragile gears and delicate springs of the workings, but shook the fear away. The case‑clock had been designed for travel; more than that, it had survived at least ten years in the station’s main room. It would easily survive a simple trip to University Point and back. “I’ll take care of it,” he said aloud, and headed back out into the street.

It seemed as though the news of the ceremony had already reached the neighborhood. The streets, and then the bridge itself, were jammed with bodies, all flowing toward the university precinct. Rathe let himself be carried with the crowd, but at the university gates displayed his truncheon, and was admitted grudgingly into the main courtyard. All the lights had been quenched there, even the mage‑fires that usually burned blue above the dormitories’ doorways, and in the darkened center of the yard a group of magists–all high‑ranking, senior officials and scholars, by the cut and colors of their robes and hoods–clustered around a long table covered with the tools of their trade. Even at this distance, and in the dark, he could recognize the concentric spheres of the university’s pride and joy, the great orrery, the largest and most exact ever made. He had been in dame school the day it had been unveiled, and all the city’s students had been taken to view it, and then given a week’s holiday, to impress on their memory that they had seen something special. In spite of himself, he took a step forward, and nearly collided with a student in a gargoyle grey gown.

“Sorry, sir, but no one’s allowed any closer.”

“I’m sorry,” Rathe said. “Tell me, I was sent with a clock, to reset it, where should I go?”

The student rolled her eyes. “So was everyone, sir. Anywhere will be all right, they’ll call the time once they know it.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and moved away. It was true enough, he saw. A number of the crowd, maybe one in ten, clutched case‑clocks or traveling dials, waiting patiently for the scholars to restore the time. Some were servants from the nobles’ houses along the Western Reach, but an equal number were from the city, guildfolk and respectable traders, and Rathe shivered, thinking again of the clocks chiming out of tune, out of order. Astreiant needed its clocks, not just for telling the time of day, but for matching one’s actions to the stars, and there were more and more trades in which that was not just a useful addition, but a necessity. To be without clocks was almost as bad as being without the stars themselves.

At the center of the yard, the robed scholars were moving through their stately choreography, lifting astrolabes and sighting staffs and other instruments Rathe didn’t recognize. He could hear their voices, too, but couldn’t make out the words, just the sonorous roll of the phrases, punctuated by the occasional sweet tone of a bell. Then at last a pair of scholars–senior magists, resplendent in heavy gowns and gold chains and the heavy hoods that marked ten years of study–lifted the great orrery, and another senior magist solemnly adjusted first one set of rings, and then the next. It seemed to take forever, but then at last she stepped away, and the bell sounded again.

“Quarter past one,” a voice cried, and the words were taken up and repeated across the courtyard. Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief, and flipped open the clock case to turn the hands himself. He closed it again, ready to head back to Point of Hopes, and heard a familiar voice from among the scholars.

“Nico!”

He turned, to see b’Estorr pushing through the crowd toward him. He was wearing his full academic regalia, a blue hood clasped with the Starsmith’s star‑and‑anvil thrown over his shoulders, but loosened the robe as he approached, revealing a plain shirt and patched breeches.

“Istre. That settles it, does it?”

“Everything except why,” b’Estorr answered.

Rathe sighed, but nodded. “Does anyone have any ideas?”

“Not really, at least not yet. It may have something to do with the starchange–there are a lot of odd phenomena associated with it, and the Starsmith is closer this passage than last time.”

b’Estorr shook his head again. “But there’s one thing you should know, even if it’s not public knowledge.”

“Oh?” Rathe could feel the night air chill on his face.

“Our clock, the university clock. It struck then, too.”

“What?” Rathe frowned. “I thought you said it was built to withstand upheavals.”

“It’s built to stand natural phenomena,” b’Estorr answered. “It’s carefully crafted, well warded–half the gears are cast with aurichalcum, for Dis’s sake–which worries me.”

“I should think that was an understatement,” Rathe muttered, and, to his surprise, b’Estorr grinned. The mage‑lights were returning, casting odd blue highlights in the necromancer’s fair hair.

“Yes, well, I agree. The masters and scholars are looking into it, of course, but I thought at least one pointsman ought to know.”

“Thanks.” Rathe shook his head. “I can’t help thinking about the children. I’m not fond of coincidences, Istre.”

“Neither am I,” b’Estorr answered. “I just don’t see how.” He sighed and worked his shoulders, wincing. “Gods, I’m tired. But at least the clocks can be reset now.”

“That’s something,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded uncertain. “You’ll let me know if there is a connection?”

“Of course. If we find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said again, and touched the other man’s shoulder, then started back toward Point of Hopes. At the gate to the precinct, he looked back, to see b’Estorr still standing in the mage‑light, the gown hanging loose from his shoulders. The necromancer looked tired, and unhappy; Rathe shook his head, hoping it wasn’t an omen, and kept walking.

7

« ^ »

eslingen set his diptych, Areton and Phoebe, on the altar table, and placed the Hearthmistress’s candle in front of it, then turned to survey the room. It was half again as large as his room at the Old Brown Dog, and the furniture was better than anything he’d seen since the glorious three days he and his troop had occupied an abandoned manor house. That hadn’t lasted–they had been driven back again on the fourth day, with casualties–and he shook the thought away as ill‑omened, touching first Areton and then Phoebe in propitiation. It had been a good day so far, better than he’d had any right to expect; there was no point in tempting the gods, or the less pleasant fates. The magist, Denizard, had seemed pleased enough by his answers to her questions–and he had been careful to tell the truth in everything, though he’d shaded it a bit when it came to Rathe. But it was absolutely true that he’d known the pointsman for less than two weeks, and that Rathe had been partly responsible for his losing his place at Devynck’s; the fact that, despite everything, he rather liked the man hadn’t entered the conversation, and most certainly he hadn’t mentioned Rathe’s request. The truthstone hadn’t recognized his equivocation–and how could it? he asked silently. Denizard hadn’t known enough to ask the question that would uncover that link, and he had been very careful in his answers. Besides, he was bound to tell Rathe only if the missing children were involved, and Rathe himself didn’t seem to think that was likely. Fooling Caiazzo might be a different matter, even if the man was no magist, but so far the longdistance trader hadn’t returned to the house.

He glanced around the room again, his own meager belongings looking small and rather shabby by contrast, and hoped he was doing the right thing. At worst, it would be for a week, and at the end of it he’d have two heirats–not much, he thought, but not nothing, either. And, at best, it would be work he could do, and decent pay, and conditions a good deal better than the Old Brown Dog had offered.

There was a knock at the door, and a woman came in without waiting for his word. She was thin and stern‑faced, and carried a tray piled high with covered dishes. “Magist Denizard said you hadn’t eaten,” she said, by way of greeting. “You can set the tray outside when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said, and gave her his best smile, but she set the tray on the table and disappeared without responding. He raised an eyebrow at the closing door–nothing could have made his status more clear, on trial, not yet of the household–but lifted the covers from the dishes. The food smelled good, onions and wine and the ubiquitous Astreianter noodles, these long and thin and drenched in a sauce of oil and a melange of herbs, and he realized suddenly that he was hungry. He ate eagerly–Caiazzo’s cook was a woman of real talent–but when he’d finished, found himself at something of a loss. For a single bleak moment, he would have given most of his savings to be back at Devynck’s arguing with Adriana over the latest broadsheet, but made himself put that thought firmly aside. That option had been closed to him since he’d shot Paas Huviet–since the moment Devynck had put the pistol into his hand, really, and there was no turning back. He carried the tray to the door, and set it carefully outside, close to the wall.

As he straightened, he heard a clock strike, and frowned, startled that it was so late. An instant later, a second clock sounded, this one within the house, its two‑note chime oddly syncopated against the rhythm of the distant tower clock. Other clocks were striking now, too, and kept sounding, past what was reasonable. He counted eleven, twelve, then thirteen and fourteen, and heard a voice shrill from the end of the hall.

“What in the name of all the gods–?”

A second voice–Denizard’s, he thought–answered, “Be quiet, and keep the others quiet, too.” The chiming stopped then, on a last sour note as though a bell had cracked under the steady blows, and the magist went on, “It’s over. Get back to the kitchen and keep everybody calm, there’s no need to panic yet.”

Eslingen saw the first woman drop a shaky curtsey, and Denizard looked at him. “Good. Come on, Eslingen, Hanse will be wanting us.”

Eslingen reached behind him for his coat, and the long knife on its narrow belt, and followed the magist down the long hall, shrugging into his clothes as he went. Caiazzo himself was standing at the top of the main stairway, scowling up at the house clock that stood against the wall behind him. The hands, Eslingen saw, declared it to be half past six, and he shivered in spite of himself.

“What in all hells was that?” the trader demanded, and Denizard spread her hands. She had flung her gown over chemise and skirts, and Eslingen could see the hard line of her stays as the gown swung open. Her grey‑streaked hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she shook it back impatiently.

“I don’t know,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “Not an earthquake, or lightning–”

“That’s obvious,” Caiazzo snapped.

“–which means some other sort of natural disturbance,” the magist went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. “The starchange means things are unsettled, but I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

“Wonderful,” Caiazzo said, and looked up at the clock. “So what do we do now, magist?”

Denizard sighed, drawing her gown closed around her. “Reassure your people first, I think. Then send someone to the university, the Great Clock there is unlikely to have gone out of tune, and even if it has, they’ll be able to reset it from the stars. And then–I don’t know, Hanse. Try to find out what happened, I suppose.”

“And what do you think happened?” Caiazzo asked. His voice was calmer now, and Denizard sighed again.

“I’m only guessing, mind, my speciality isn’t astrology. But the starchange means that the Starsmith is coming closer and closer to the normal stars, and that means it has more and more influence on them. It’s possible that its approach could upset the clocks–they’re set to the ordinary stars, not the Starsmith.”

“But if that’s what happened,” Caiazzo said, “why haven’t I heard of anything like this before? The last starchange was in living memory, surely something like this would’ve started stories.”

“I don’t know,” Denizard said again. “The Starsmith will be moving into the Charioteer, that’s a shared sign, one of the moon’s signs, and it hasn’t done that for, oh, six hundred years. I don’t think even the university has good records for that long ago.”

Caiazzo muttered something under his breath. Eslingen smelled smoke suddenly, strong and close at hand, and turned instantly to the main door. Before he could reach it, however, it opened, and the stocky man who’d been introduced as the household steward came into the hall.

“Sir. The neighbors are lighting balefires, and with your permission, I’d like to have our people do the same. And there’s a crier saying that the university is checking the proper time.”

Caiazzo’s eyes flicked to Denizard, who shrugged, and then back to the steward. “Go ahead. It’ll give them something to do besides worry.”

“Sir,” the steward said again, and started toward the kitchen.

Caiazzo looked back at the magist. “As for you, Aice, take Eslingen here and get over to the university. Take my travel clock, and make sure we get the right time.”

Denizard nodded. “You’ll want a clocksmith in for the big one, though.”

“Another damned expense,” Caiazzo muttered, and turned on his heel and stalked away.

Denizard looked at Eslingen, the corners of her mouth turning up in a wry smile. “Well. You heard our orders. Let me dress, and we’ll be on our way.”

The streets were crowded, every crossroads filled with a smouldering balefire, and the Manufactory Bridge was filled with people heading northriver. Toward the university, Eslingen guessed, and wasn’t surprised to see a bigger crowd gathered outside the university gate. A number of them, he saw, carried clocks of one kind or another: not surprising, he thought, and did his best to help Denizard elbow her way to the gate. Most people gave way before her magist’s gown, but the guard on duty at the gate shook his head apologetically.

“I’m sorry, magist, but you’ve come too late. The ceremony’s started–almost finished, by the sound of it.”

Even as he spoke, a bell sounded from inside the compound, a high, sweet sound, and a voice called something. There was a noise like a great sigh of relief, and another voice repeated the words.

“Quarter past one!”

“Quarter past one,” Denizard said, and nodded to the guard. She turned away, shielding Caiazzo’s clock against her body, and adjusted the mechanism. “Well, that finishes that.”

“Does it?” Eslingen asked, involuntarily, and the magist gave him a wry smile.

“Probably not. But that’s all we can do about it now.”

“I suppose.”

“You have a better idea?” Denizard asked, but her smile cut the hardness of her words.

Eslingen smiled back, and shook his head. “No, I admit. But–I just can’t say it feels right.”

“No,” Denizard agreed. “We–you and I in particular, Eslingen– will need to keep a careful eye on things for the next few days, I’d say. This can’t be a good omen.”

Eslingen nodded back, wondering again if he should ever have accepted Rathe’s advice, and fell into step beside her, heading back to Customs Point and Caiazzo’s house.

Another servant, rounder‑faced and more cheerful than the woman who’d served him the night before, woke him with breakfast and shaving water the next morning, and the news that Caiazzo would want to see him sometime before noon. “He’ll send for you, though,” she added, “so be ready.”

“Do you know when–?” Eslingen asked, and left a suggestive pause, hoping she’d fill in her name.

The woman shook her head, as much to refuse the unspoken question as in answer. “I’ve no idea, sir.”

“Crushed again,” Eslingen murmured, just loud enough to be heard, and thought her smile widened briefly. But then she was gone, and he turned his attention to the business at hand. He was still on sufferance, obviously, and would be for some time, especially after the events of the night before; the household would be closing ranks against outsiders. All he could do was tolerate the snubs, and look for some way of proving his usefulness.

One of the junior servants–a boy who could have been from either the counting house or the kitchen; there was nothing to betray his rank in the neat breeches and dull jerkin–came for him as the house clock was striking ten. Eslingen, who had been listening to the distant, musical notes, dragged himself away from that further evidence of Caiazzo’s status, and gave his stock a last quick tug before he followed the boy from the room. He was aware of more signs of Caiazzo’s wealth as they moved from the servants’ quarters into the main house– panelling with spare, geometric carvings, glass and silver on the sideboards in the main hall, wax candles in every room–but schooled himself to impassivity. He would lose nothing by seeming familiar with the trappings of wealth, and gain nothing by sneering. Not, he added silently, that there was much to sneer at. Caiazzo’s taste, at least in the public rooms, was impeccable, even a little severe for a man who’d been born a southriver bookbinder’s son.

The boy led him up the front staircase, past a knot of clerks with ledgers and a neatly dressed matron who looked torn between anger and nervousness. The edges of her fingernails were rimmed in black; the remains of paint, he thought at first, and then realized it was ink. One of the printers Rathe had mentioned? he wondered, but knew better than even to think of asking. Caiazzo’s workroom was at the end of the gallery, overlooking the side alley and the next‑door garden, and as the boy tapped on the door and announced him, Eslingen took that chance to make a brief survey of the room. It was large, and well lit– only to be expected, for a man who made a sizeable part of his living on paper–and the clerk’s counter that ran the length of one wall was drifted with papers. There was a worktable as well, neater, and a thin woman in a shade of red that didn’t flatter her sallow complexion was flicking the last coins into the hollows of a tallyboard. A status of Bonfortune stood in a niche in the wall behind her, fresh flowers at its feet–propitiation, Eslingen wondered, or just common caution? The magist Denizard leaned against the opposite end of that table, her robe open over a sharply cut skirt and bodice, and Caiazzo himself stood by the tall windows, staring toward the masts that soared above the housetops. He turned at the boy’s appearance, and nodded to the woman in red.

“All right, Vianey, that’s all for now. Bring me the full accounting as soon as you have it.”

“Of course,” the woman answered, sounding vaguely affronted, but covered the board and swept out with it clutched to her breast.

“So, Lieutenant Eslingen,” Caiazzo said, and took his place in the carved chair behind the worktable. Eslingen, with a sudden rush of insight, guessed that the trader rarely used it for work, but often for interviews. “Devynck speaks well of you.”

Decent, under the circumstances, Eslingen thought, but said nothing, managed a half bow instead.

“But you didn’t tell me you know one of my people,” Caiazzo went on. “Dausset Cijntien works for one of my caravan‑masters.”

“Does he?” For a moment, Eslingen’s mind was as blank as his face. “I knew he worked for a caravan, but not whose.”

Caiazzo fixed black eyes on him for a moment longer, as though wondering what else he would say, but Eslingen met his stare squarely. He thought he saw the hint of a smile, of approval, flicker across the trader’s face, but then it was gone. “Aice says the other names you gave me speak well of you, too. I’m prepared, despite the otherwise questionable provenance–”Caiazzo lifted a hand, forestalling a comment Eslingen had not been about to make. “–a recommendation from the points, and especially Adjunct Point Rathe, isn’t always the best thing for a member of my household–to put you on my books.” He smiled again, this time more openly. “As I told you yesterday, I do need a knife, and one who looks like a gentleman can only be an improvement over one who thought he was.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said, though he wasn’t at all sure it was a compliment.

Caiazzo’s smile widened slightly, as though he’d guessed the thought and rather enjoyed it. “Right, then–”

He broke off as the door opened, and a harrassed‑looking clerk came in. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir, but Rouvalles is here, and he insists on seeing you.”

Caiazzo gave the statue of Bonfortune a reproachful glance, but sighed. “Eslingen, you’ll stay. Show him in, Pradon.”

The clerk bowed, and hurried away, closing the door again behind her.

“I’m not armed,” Eslingen said hastily, “bar my knife–”

Caiazzo waved a dismissive hand. “It won’t come to that.” He looked at Denizard, who straightened, hauling herself off the end of the table. Eslingen hesitated, then took his place at Gaiazzo’s right. The longdistance trader didn’t say anything, but Eslingen saw the flicker of eyes that acknowledged his presence.

The door opened again, and the clerk stood aside to let a tall, neatly dressed man into the room. He was young, Eslingen realized with some surprise, or at least young to be running Caiazzo’s Silklands caravan, didn’t look any older than Eslingen himself. And he was handsome, too, in a genial, good‑fellow sort of way, an open face and an easy smile beneath a ragged mane of wavy hair that was just the color of bronze, but there was something in his pale eyes than belied the easy manner. He checked slightly, seeing Caiazzo in his chair, and Eslingen saw the blue eyes flick left and right, taking in first Denizard and then himself.

“Standing on ceremony, Hanse? You don’t need your knife against me.”

“I was in the process of hiring a new one,” Caiazzo answered, “and I figured he might as well start now.” He nodded toward the soldier. “This is Eslingen, served with Coindarel, and now of my household. I understand one of your own men speaks highly of him.”

The caravan‑master–Rouvalles, the clerk had called him, Eslingen remembered–blinked. “One of them may, for all I know. Who?”

“Dausset Cijntien,” Denizard said.

“Then you can ask him yourself, he’s below.”

Caiazzo nodded thoughtfully. “So what was it you wanted, Rouvalles?”

The caravan‑master took a deep breath. “Look, I wouldn’t have come myself, except it’s getting late. We need to leave within the week to make this season work, and I still have goods and supplies to buy. I need coin, Hanse, and soon.”

His voice had just the hint of a Chadroni accent, Eslingen realized. He glanced at Caiazzo, but the longdistance trader’s expression was little more than a mask.

“You’ll have to wait,” he said, without inflection.

Rouvalles’s eyes narrowed, and Eslingen caught a glimpse of the cold steel beneath the good humor. Not surprising, he thought, and I’d bet it serves him well both trading and on the road, but he’s not a man I’d like to cross.

“How long?” The caravan‑master matched Caiazzo’s tone.

“Two days.”

Eslingen thought he heard a hint of relief beneath the projected boredom, and glanced again at Caiazzo. Rathe had hinted that not all of the longdistance trader’s businesses were legitimate, but the caravan was public enough that it surely had to be–unless it was the source of the coin that was problematic? There had been talk in the kitchen the night before about a ship that had just come in… He shook himself away from that line of thought, and concentrated on the conversation at hand.

Rouvalles hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, showing his easy grin. “Right, we can wait that long, but we’re cutting it very close this year, Hanse.”

“I know it,” Caiazzo answered. “There’ve been some–unexpected events.”

“Like last night?”

“Not like that.”

“What I might call problems, then?” Rouvalles asked, almost cheerfully, but his eyes didn’t match his tone.

Caiazzo nodded once. “You probably would. But it’s nothing that’ll affect you.”

“No more than it already has,” Rouvalles answered.

“Not seriously,” Caiazzo corrected. It looked for a moment as though Rouvalles might protest, but Caiazzo fixed him with a stare, and the younger man spread his hands in silent acceptance.

“There’s one other thing,” Caiazzo went on. “Your troop‑master, Cijntien, you said he was here?”

Rouvalles nodded, looking wary.

“You said I could ask him myself,” Caiazzo said. “About Eslingen here. Well, I want to.”

“I’ll send him up,” Rouvalles answered, but Caiazzo shook his head.

“Aice can go.”

The magist showed no sign of annoyance at being asked to do a servant’s job, but slipped almost silently out the door. She returned a few minutes later, Cijntien in tow. The troop‑master looked uneasy at being brought upstairs, Eslingen thought, with some sympathy, but kept his own face expressionless.

Caiazzo leaned back in his chair. “I understand you know someone I’ve taken into my household.”

Cijntien glanced toward Eslingen. “Philip?” he asked, and then looked as though he wanted to recall the word. He looked instead at Rouvalles, who nodded.

“I guess you do, then. Go ahead.”

The troop‑master relaxed slightly. “I know Eslingen, yes, sir. I served with him, oh, seven, eight years. He was a corporal, then a sergeant under me.” He glanced again at Eslingen, then back at Caiazzo. “He’s a good man.”

“Reliable, or clever?” Caiazzo asked. He enjoyed the awkwardness of the situation, Eslingen realized suddenly, not quite out of malice, but more out of temper. Rouvalles had made him uncomfortable; he was perfectly happy to visit the same discomfort on everyone else in reach.

“Both.” This time, Cijntien refused to look at his former subordinate. “Clever enough to lead raiding parties–hells, he was the man I’d pick first for that, over anyone else–but I’d trust him at my side. Or myback.”

“And that’s where it really counts,” Caiazzo murmured, and looked at Rouvalles.

“If Cijntien speaks well of him, you’re safe enough.” Rouvalles smiled again, suddenly, with more than a hint of mischief in his eyes. “After all, I’ve been trusting him with your business for two years now.”

And that, Eslingen thought, is a score for the Chadroni.

“Right, then,” Caiazzo said. “Thank you, Cijntien. Rouvalles, I’ll send word as soon as the coin is ready.”

“I’ll expect to hear from you,” Rouvalles answered, with a nod, and turned away before Caiazzo could dismiss him more explicitly. The door closed again behind him and Cijntien, and Caiazzo looked at Eslingen.

“As you will have gathered, things are–complicated–for me at the moment. I can’t afford not to investigate all the possibilities, especially where my knife’s concerned.”

It was, Eslingen realized with some surprise, a sort of apology. He gave another half bow, and said, in his most neutral voice, “Of course, sir.”

Caiazzo studied him for a moment longer, as though wondering what lay behind those words, then looked at Denizard. “Aice, get him settled–find him decent rooms, some better clothes, make sure he knows what’s expected of him. And send Vianey back in.”

“Right,” Denizard answered, and gestured for Eslingen to precede her from the room. He obeyed, wondering again just what Rathe had landed him in.

Over the next few days, he began to find a place for himself in the household. No one mentioned the night of the clocks, not even in whispers, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or nervous. The university published an official explanation–the approach of the Starsmith, it said, had caused the clocks, more attuned to the ordinary stars, to slip momentarily out of gear–but few of Caiazzo’s people seemed convinced. Nor, for that matter, were most Astreianters, if the broadsheets were anything to go by, Eslingen thought. They blamed evil magists–foreign, of course–and the changes in society since the old queen’s day, and in general anything else they could think of. One or two blamed whoever it was who was stealing the children, or at least called it a punishment or a warning to find the missing ones before worse happened. That was something Eslingen could agree with wholeheartedly, but he had little time for such matters. Caiazzo required his presence at most meetings, including a second encounter with the Chadroni caravan‑master. There was no money for him this time, either, and Eslingen was beginning to be certain there was something very wrong. Clearly, Caiazzo had expected to have cash in hand by now–even had the trader been inclined to take that kind of advantage of his business partners, Rouvalles was not the sort to put up with these delays for more than one season–and Eslingen found himself wondering if Rathe had been wrong after all, if the trader was involved with the child‑thief. But he could see no connection between a lack of funds and vanishing children: if Caiazzo was involved, he decided finally, he would be more likely to have coin in hand, not to be short of money. Still, he found himself listening carefully to the dinner gossip–he was eating with the rest of the middle servants now, the cook and the steward and the chief clerk Vianey, though not Denizard– and equally carefully to the sessions in Caiazzo’s counting room.

On the fifth day of his employment, he was leaning against the casement while Vianey droned through a list of expenses–mostly relating to the upkeep of the house and boat–when a knock came at the door. Caiazzo stopped pacing to glare in the direction of the sound, and Denizard said, “Come in.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” That was one of the male servants, a tall man Eslingen knew only by sight. “But he insisted on seeing you.”

He had a boy by the collar of a thoroughly disreputable jacket, Eslingen realized, and the boy himself was even less prepossessing than the clothes, a thin creature with a missing eye‑tooth and the first scattering of what promised to be a bumper crop of adolescent pimples. Caiazzo eyed him with disfavor, but, to Eslingen’s surprise, didn’t explode immediately.

“I’ve a message for you, sir,” the boy said, and held out a much‑folded sheet of paper.

Caiazzo crossed to him in a single stride, took the paper from him and scanned it quickly, his frown deepening as he read. “Right. Take him down to the kitchen, see if he wants anything to eat. Aice, Eslingen, come with me.”

The servant bowed–he had never loosed his hold on the boy– and backed away, dragging the boy with him. Denizard frowned too, looking more worried than Eslingen had ever seen, and reached for the coat she had left over the back of a chair.

“Where are we going?” Eslingen asked, and Caiazzo swung to face him.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Eslingen spread empty hands. “Your safety’s my business; if you want me to do my job, I need to know where we’re going. You’re not happy, but that could mean anything–we could be going to your factor, or anywhere.”

Reluctantly, Caiazzo smiled. “We’re not going to my factor, no. I– have business, in the Court.”

Eslingen blinked, but then managed the translation. Even in the few weeks he’d spent in Astreiant, and especially these last few days in Caiazzo’s house, he’d learned the difference between business at court, business in the courts, and business in the Court. And if it was the last… no wonder Caiazzo wanted his bodyguard along, if he was visiting the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives. He had wheedled the story behind the name out of one of the maids–it had been the base of a band of knives who had controlled most of the southriver neighborhoods a century ago, and it had taken three regiments of Royal Dragons to bring them down–and if even half the stories about their descendants were true, Rathe’s and Devynck’s warnings had been restrained. “I’ll fetch my pistol, then,” he said aloud, and Caiazzo nodded.

“Do that.”

Denizard looked up sharply. “She won’t like that.”

“Then she can come here, next time,” Caiazzo answered. “Get your pistol, Eslingen, and hurry.”

They went by river, for all it was a short journey, just to the public landing north of Point of Graves. The city gallows stood there, Eslingen knew, and wondered if it was for the pointsmen’s convenience. He followed Caiazzo and Denizard through the narrowing streets, aware of the curious and covetous looks, aware, too, of the way women and men melted out of sight into doorways and alley mouths. Warning someone? he wondered. Or themselves warned off by Caiazzo’s presence? Caiazzo didn’t seem to see, but when Eslingen looked closer, he could see a small line like a scar twitching to the left of the trader’s mouth. He was still angry, and Eslingen wondered again just what he was getting into.

The streets narrowed further, walls springing up between the buildings themselves, and Eslingen realized with a small shock that they were in the Court proper. Once, generations ago, it might have been some noble’s country house, back when the landames kept their country houses on the south bank of the river, but it had long since been broken up, first into merchants’ houses, and then into tenements, until the shells of the once‑elegant building had acquired odd accretions, and rickety lean‑tos propped up the tottering stones of the walls. It would have been a bad place to attack, Eslingen though, thinking of the other Royal Dragons, would still be a bad place to attack, or to be attacked. He could feel the weight of the pistol in the pocket of his coat, balanced by the familiar drag of his sword, and was not fully reassured. They were being watched, more closely than before, and he risked another glance at Caiazzo. The trader’s mouth was set, but the scar was no longer twitching, and Eslingen hoped that was a good sign.

Caiazzo stopped at last in front of a low shopfront, low enough that he had to bend his head to pass under the broad lintel. Denizard followed without a backward glance, and Eslingen went in after her, the skin between his shoulder blades prickling. If they were attacked inside, the low doorway would make it very hard to escape. To his surprise, however, the only visible occupant of the shop was an old woman, neat in a black skirt and bodice, an embroidered cap covering her grey hair. She sat on a high stool in front of a writing board, ledger open in front of her, her feet not quite touching the ground, fixed Caiazzo with an unblinking stare. There were no goods on the counter, Eslingen realized, no indication of what–if anything–this shop sold.

“How’s business, dame?” Caiazzo asked, and tipped his head in what was almost a bow.

The old woman shook her head, closing the ledger, and hopped down off her stool. Standing, her head barely reached to the trader’s armpit, but Eslingen was not deceived. There would be a bravo, probably more than one, within easy call, and the gods only knew what other protection.

“Well enough,” she said. “My business. But what about yours, Hanselin? That’s less well, by all accounts. You bring not only your left hand, you bring a new dagger with you, whom I’ve never seen before. Do you feel the need of a dagger?”

Caiazzo shrugged, the movement elegant beneath his dark coat. “Times are uncertain.”

The old woman looked far from convinced, but she nodded. “Inside.” She turned without waiting for an answer, and pushed through a door that had been almost invisible in the paneling. Caiazzo made a face, but moved to follow. Eslingen put a hand on his arm, all his nerves tingling now.

“Permit me,” he said, and stepped in front of the trader to go through the door behind the old woman. There was no shot, no hiss of drawn steel, and he glanced around the narrow room, allowing himself a small sigh of relief as he realized it was empty except for a table and chairs.

The old woman took her place at the head of the table, fixed Eslingen with a dark stare. “Not what you expected, eh, knife? Thought it would be more dangerous?”

Eslingen blinked once, decided to risk an answer. “I see enough danger right here, ma’am. I’ve been a soldier, I know what old women can do.”

Caiazzo shot him a warning glance, but the woman laughed. “I dare say you do, soldier. I knew you were one, from your boots.”

Caiazzo said, “No hurry, dame, but you said it was important.”

The old woman looked at him. “That’s rude, Hanselin, and not like you. Business must be bad.”

“Business, in general, is well enough,” Caiazzo said, through clenched teeth, “except for the one small thing that you know about. Somewhere between here and the Ile’nord something’s breaking down. If it’s here, dame, you’ve got problems.”

The woman’s stare didn’t waver. “We both have the same problem, Hanselin. Nothing has come in from the Ile’nord. Nothing. Not coin, not goods, not word.”

Caiazzo flung himself into the chair opposite her, swallowing an oath. “It’s your business, too, dame. What’re you doing about it?”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly getting close to the end of her patience, and Eslingen saw Denizard tense fractionally. The old woman merely folded her hands on the table top, and said, “The same as you. I sent men north, a few weeks back, when you first mentioned the problem to me. Yours or mine, one of them will find out what’s keeping her, Hanselin. She owes us–forgive me, owes you too much to be playing us foul like this. I expect one or both of mine back within the next few days.”

“Mine should be in soon, too,” Caiazzo said. “But the fair is well underway. I have two seasons of trade to underwrite. Without that gold, it could be a very cold winter, and I won’t be the only one feeling the chill.”

The old woman leaned forward, her hands flattening, palms down, on the smooth wood. “Your knife is new, untested, and you trust him with knowledge like this?”

Eslingen felt his shoulder blades twitch again, wondering if Caiazzo had blundered, and if he, Eslingen, was going to be the one to answer for it. The trader barely glanced his way.

“Oh, and am I so poor a judge of character? A fool who’s useful for channeling the gold–forgive me, goods–we both need, but not to be trusted in matters of my own business, my own household?” With a single fluid movement, Caiazzo pulled a short, wide‑bladed knife from beneath his coat, and drove it into the table between him and the old woman. She didn’t move, her eyes going first to the knife and the new cut, the first, it made in the polished wood, and then back to Caiazzo. “I know you, dame,” Caiazzo went on. “You’ve still got the arm for it. If you can’t trust me, or worse, think I’m too fatally stupid to be your associate in this, then do something about it. Otherwise–”

He let the word hang, and the old woman looked back at him, cold eyes unchanging. Gods, the man’s mad, Eslingen thought, and if it’s on his challenge, there’s damn all I can do. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, wrapping his fingers cautiously around the butt of his pistol, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Denizard’s hand close on the back of Caiazzo’s chair, the knuckles white beneath the skin.

The old woman reached out, jerked the knife free with an expert’s hand, her expression still the same, and Eslingen thought, gods, if she goes for his heart, I’ll go for hers, and we can sort it out later. He tilted the pistol, still in his pocket, hoping the flint would work in the confined space. It would be more likely to set his coat on fire, if it fired at all, but there wasn’t room to draw his sword, and his knife was no good at this range.

“I’d forgotten,” she said at last, “that your mother was a binder.” She laid the knife down flat on the table, and pushed it back across to Caiazzo. “You’ve kept it well. She’d be pleased.” She looked at Eslingen, and he let the pistol ease back into its place. “My apologies if I touched your honor.” She leaned forward as Caiazzo reached for his knife, placed her hand on his. “I do trust you, Hanselin, as I would my own child. This business with the Ile’nord…” She shook her head. “If I didn’t trust you, if I didn’t trust your judgment and acumen–well, as you say, we wouldn’t be doing business together. I’ll send word to you as soon as I hear anything.”

It was clearly a dismissal, and Eslingen glanced curiously at Caiazzo. The trader rose, nodding. “And I’ll do the same. But you know that’s of use only if they bring the gold.”

“If they bring word only, Hanselin, your autumn ventures are still safe. Your reputation is still more than sound. One way or another, the money will be there for you.”

“Yes, but…” Caiazzo gave a grim smile. “Then where will my reputation be? I appreciate it, dame. I don’t want to take you up on your offer.”

“Nevertheless, it stands.” The old woman smiled back, widely this time, and Eslingen shivered. The implication was clear enough even to him: if Caiazzo failed, she would provide the capital, but at a price.

Caiazzo bowed again, his temper barely in check, and stalked from the room. Eslingen followed hastily, and heard Denizard shut the door again behind them. Caiazzo said nothing until they were well clear of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and had turned onto the street that sloped down to the landing.

“I bet it stands,” he said at last. “Nothing she’d like better than to get that far inside my business. Well, it’s not going to happen–” He broke off, head going back like a startled horse, black eyes fixing on something beyond the landing. Eslingen reached automatically for his pistol, and Caiazzo laughed aloud, looked up to the sky. “Gods, Bonfortune, it’s about time the stars turned my way.”

Eslingen looked again, and saw another caravel, larger than the one he’d seen before, making its way cautiously up the river. Caiazzo’s red and gold pennant flew from its mast, and the deck was piled high with cargo.

“Aurien, by the Good Counsellor,” Denizard said, sounding as startled as the trader, and Caiazzo laughed again.

“A half month early, thank Bonfortune, and heavy laden. We’ll meet him, Aice, see what he’s brought me. You, Eslingen–” He turned to face his knife, his whole expression suddenly alive and excited. “Go to my counting house–do you know where it is? Tailors’ Row, by the Red Style–tell Siramy and Noan to meet me at the wharf. Then–” he grinned, gestured expansively, “take the afternoon off.”

“Yes, sir,” Eslingen said, and the trader hurried toward the waiting boat.

Eslingen watched him go, suddenly aware that he had been left on his own at the edges of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and then, impatient, shook the thought away. The Tailors’ Row was well clear of the Court, back toward Point of Sighs; he lifted a hand to the boat, saw Denizard wave in return, and then turned west toward the Tailors’ Row.

It wasn’t a long walk to the counting house, a narrow, three‑story building tucked between two much larger warehouses. He delivered his message to a clerk and then to Siramy herself, watching her expression change from uncertainty to a delight that hid–relief? He couldn’t be sure, and hid his own misgivings behind an impassive face. Caiazzo was definitely short of coin, that much was obvious, but why and what it meant was anybody’s guess–except that it probably meant that the longdistance trader was not involved with the missing children. Rathe had been right about one thing: Caiazzo didn’t get involved with anything that didn’t promise a hefty profit, and this venture with the old woman, whatever it was, had certainly been intended to provide decent funds. Except, of course, that it had clearly gone wrong. Eslingen sighed, wondering if he should use his unexpected freedom to find Rathe and let the pointsman know what had happened. There would be less risk now than any other time, but he found himself suddenly reluctant to betray Caiazzo’s interests. The man was having enough troubles; the last thing Eslingen wanted to do was to add to them. The two factors–and a harassed‑looking clerk, arms filled with tablets and a bound ledger–hurried past him toward the river, and Eslingen turned toward the Rivermarket. Whatever else he did, whether he contacted Rathe or not, he did have to buy some new shirts. He could make his decision after he’d searched the market for something decent.

The Rivermarket was less crowded than it had been the other times he’d ventured into its confines. Probably most people were shopping at the Midsummer Fair, he thought, and hoped that would mean he would be able to strike a few bargains with the secondhand clothes dealers. There was a woman who claimed contacts at the queen’s court, who swore that she had the pickings of the landames’ cast‑offs, and he threaded his way through the confusion until he found her stall. The clothes, some good, some much‑mended or threadbare, good only for a seamstress to take a pattern from it, were piled every which way on a crude trestle table, watched by the woman and a beetle‑browed man whose knife was easily at the legal limit. He was dividing his attention between the stock and a thin girl a little younger than apprentice‑age, and Eslingen wondered just which one he’d been hired to watch. The man saw him looking, and frowned; Eslingen met the stare with a bland smile, and began sorting through the piled clothes, pulling out shirts. Most were too worn to be of use, though one still had a modest band of lace at the collar and cuffs, and he set that one aside to examine more closely later. The lace was good quality; maybe, he thought, he could pick it loose and find a seamstress to attach it to a different garment. He dug deeper into the pile, found another shirt that looked almost new, and spread it out to check for damage. The linen was barely worn, the only sign of its provenance a ripped hem–and that, he thought, holding it up to gauge the size, he could even mend himself. It would be large, but not unwearable, and he bundled it with the other, bracing himself to haggle.

“Eslingen!”

It was Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen turned, not knowing whether he was glad or sorry that the decision was taken out of his hands. The pointsman had abandoned his jerkin and truncheon, was wearing a plain half‑coat open over shirt and trousers, and he carried a basket loaded with what looked like the makings of a decent dinner. Eslingen blinked at that–he had somehow assumed that Rathe would have someone to do his housekeeping–and nodded a greeting. “Rathe.”

“I hope you’re doing well in your new employment,” Rathe went on, the grey green eyes sweeping over the other man’s clothes and the shirts he held in his hands.

“Well enough,” Eslingen answered, and took a deep breath as the stall‑keeper moved toward them. “I need to talk to you, if you’ve got the time.”

Rathe nodded, without surprise. “Always. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’m not sure that would be fully politic,” Eslingen said, grimly, and Rathe grinned.

“Maybe not, at that. New clothes?”

Eslingen nodded, and the stall‑keeper said, “Those are from Her Majesty’s own court, good clothes that’ll stand a second owner. And they don’t come cheap.”

Eslingen took a breath, irritated by the assumption, and Rathe said, “From Her Majesty’s court, maybe, but by way of the other Court.” He looked at Eslingen. “You wouldn’t credit the trouble we have with laundry thieves.”

Eslingen grinned, and the woman said, “That’s not true, or fair, I get my goods legitimately and you know it.”

“And charge court prices for clothes you bought from northriver merchants,” Rathe answered.

It seemed to be a standing argument. Eslingen said hastily, “How much?”

The woman darted a look at Rathe, then resolutely turned her shoulder to him. “A snake and two seillings–and the lace alone is worth that much.”

It probably was, Eslingen admitted, but pretended to study the shirts a second time.

The woman crossed her arms. “That’s my only price, Leaguer. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Eslingen said, and fumbled in his pocket for the necessary coins. The woman took them, and Eslingen folded the shirts into a relatively discreet package. “Shall we?”

Rathe nodded. “Where are you bound?”

“I hadn’t decided. I was told to take the afternoon off.”

“You should see the fair, then,” Rathe answered.

“Actually, I had some business at Temple Fair,” Eslingen said. “I’d like to see what the latest word is on the clocks.”

“Bad, that.”

“And what do the points say it was?” Eslingen asked.

“The same as the university,” Rathe answered. “I’ll walk you to the Hopes‑point Bridge.”

“Good enough,” Eslingen said, accepting the rebuff.

They made their way through the market and climbed the gentle slope to the Factors’ Walk in a surprisingly companionable silence. At the base of the bridge, the Factors’ Walk ended in a paved square where the low‑flyers gathered between fares. In the summer heat, the air smelled richly of manure and the sour tang of old feed, but the fountain and trough at the center of the space was surprisingly clean. Eslingen paused to scoop up a drink in his cupped hands, disdaining the cup chained above the spigot, and Rathe said, “So. You wanted to talk to me, you said.”

Eslingen stopped himself from glancing around–there would have been nothing more suspicious–and shook the water from his palms. “Yes. I suppose so, anyway.”

He stopped there, not knowing where to begin, and Rathe said, “Anything on the children?”

“No. And I doubt there will be.” Eslingen hesitated, resettling the shirts under his arm. “Caiazzo’s having troubles, yes, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the children–the opposite, in fact.” Quickly, he went through the events of the past few days, from the caravan‑master’s visit to the meeting with the old woman to Caiazzo’s relief at the arrival of the ship. “It seems to me,” he finished, “that if Caiazzo was involved in all this, he’d have money in hand, not be seeking it.”

Rathe tipped his head to one side, eyes fixed on something in the middle distance. “Unless the business, whatever it was, had gone wrong somehow.” He broke off, shaking his head.

Eslingen said, “If he’s acting for someone else, which I think he’d have to be, from what I’ve heard, well, that someone would have to be a fool, to keep Caiazzo short of coin. If nothing else, it draws suspicion–as witness our conversation, pointsman.”

Rathe grinned at that. “No, I daresay you’re right, Eslingen. I wish to Sofia I knew what he was up to, though.”

Eslingen shook his head in turn. “Oh, no, that’s not part of the bargain. The children only, thank you, Rathe.” He smiled then. “I’m starting to enjoy my work.”

“I was afraid you would,” Rathe answered. “But, thanks, Eslingen. I appreciate this much.”

Eslingen shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. “It matters,” he said. “These lads–” He broke off, shaking his head. “It matters,” he said again, and turned away before the pointsman could say anything more. He could feel Rathe’s gaze on him as he climbed the steps to the bridge, but refused to look back. He had done as much as he’d agreed to do; Rathe was repaid for his favor, and that was an end to it.

Rathe watched him go, the blue coat soon lost among the brightly dressed crowd on the bridge. He hoped the soldier was right–and logically, he should be; if Caiazzo were involved, he should have coin to spare, not be scrambling to outfit his caravans, or forced into dealings with mysterious old women. Rathe had a shrewd idea of who she was–Catarin Isart was a blood descendant of the Chief of the Thirty‑two Knives, and had long been rumored to have dealings with Caiazzo–and he didn’t envy the longdistance trader if ever she did get a finger into his business. But Isart would deal in children if the price was right, and that meant, he acknowledged silently, that a trip of his own to the court was in order. He had contacts there, people he couldn’t quite call friends, but on whom he could rely, at least up to a point. And for once the job in hand would work to his advantage: no one, not even the sharpest of knives, would dare, or want, to protect the child‑thief. But first, he decided, he would go back by Point of Hopes, and tell Monteia where he was going. There was no point in taking chances with the court and its denizens.

It was late in the afternoon by the time he reached the court, crossing the rickety bridge that spanned one of the nastier gutters running down to the Sier. He let his blade show under his open half‑coat, knowing he was being watched, and knowing, too, that the watchers would assume a second, hidden weapon, or maybe more than one. He followed the main path through the warrens, counting intersections, turned at the fifth, beneath a sign that had once been a purple fish, but was now fading to an unlovely puce. The building he was looking for stood three doors further on, its door sagging from rusting hinges. It had been part of the original mansion, but the stones were beginning to sag, the mortar crumbling from between them, the frames of the windows and the wooden sill starting to rot. He grimaced, thinking of the floor beams, and stepped back to glance up to the second story windows. A lantern stood in the center of the three, unlit but very visible, and he smiled, and pushed open the main door. The stairs looked as rotten as the window frames, though he knew at least some of the dilapidation was designed to trap the unwary, and he stepped carefully, testing each step before committing his weight to it. Several of the boards creaked alarmingly, and one cracked sharply, but he reached the second floor without mishap, and stepped onto a landing that looked a good deal sturdier than anything else in the building. There was only one door, but before he could raise his hand to knock, it was pulled open. A woman stood there, leather bodice laced over a sleeveless shift, skirts kilted to her knees. She was holding a knife several inches longer than the one Rathe carried, and he lifted his hands away from his side.

“That’s not legal, that is,” he said. “How’s business, Mariell?”

“You don’t want to know, pointsman, trust me.”

“That good,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded bitter. “Is Mikael in?”

“Why?” Mariell’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not been working, you know. Or have you come on a hire?”

“I try to do my own dirty work,” Rathe said, mildly. “And I know he hasn’t been working, but even if he had been, that’s not what I’m here about.”

“It’s all right, Mariell, let him in.”

The speaker was a dark giant of a man, his face unexpectedly ruddy under a thatch of coarse black hair, only his beard showing a sprinkling of grey. Mariell stepped back, still frowning lightly, and Rathe edged past her. The door was narrow, had had slats added to it to make it narrower, and he couldn’t help wondering how Mikael himself got in and out of it.

Mikael smiled, genial, looking for all the world like a guildmaster well satisfied with life–as well he might, Rathe thought. Mikael was at the top of his profession, and Rathe was irresistibly reminded of Mailet. The butcher was clearly a man of choleric nature who was good with a knife, whose stars had steered him to a peaceable profession. Mikael was a good‑natured man who also happened to be very good with a knife, whose stars had led him to a less peaceful life, sometimes as bodyguard or bravo, sometimes as a killer.

“So, Nico. What brings you this far in? Business?” Mikael seated himself in a barrel chair by the open window, gestured for Rathe to take the stool opposite. The air was a little fresher up here, and there were herbs scattered along the floor and hanging from the rafters. Rathe recognized one of the hanging bunches as woundwort, and for a moment was dizzied by the thought of Mikael as physician as well as executioner. Well, he thought, why not. In the Court, it made as much sense as anything.

“Business of a sort,” he answered.

“Blaming us for the clock‑night, probably,” Mariell said.

Mikael ignored her and held up a sweating stone pitcher in silent offer. Rathe nodded. Mariell made a disgusted noise, and disappeared into an inner room, slamming the door behind her.

Mikael shook his head, but said nothing, picked up a mug and filled it, handing it to Rathe.

Rathe decided not to pursue the issue. “Who’s good these days?” he asked, and nodded toward the wine jug.

Mikael made a face. “Piss poor most of it is, I tell you, but Harin has gotten in a couple hogsheads that I’m not embarrassed to drink, and she’s not embarrassed to sell. It’s all been piss poor even since old Grien died.”

“Did Grien die?” Rathe asked, all innocence. “All I’d heard was that she’d disappeared, and young Grien took off for parts unknown. Good thing Harin stepped into the breach.”

“Yes, wasn’t it?” Mikael replied, equally bland. “So, what sort of business?”

Which meant Mikael had had enough of that topic. Rathe leaned back, balancing awkwardly on the stool, not particularly reassured by the weight of the knife at his side. “The city’s strange these days, Mikael. You must have felt it. You been working more or less than usual?”

“What kind of question is that for a working man, Nico?” Mikael demanded, and Rathe spread his hands.

“Off the books, Mikael, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on these days. Kids disappearing…”

“And you only take notice because they’re merchants’ spawn, don’t you?” The tone was less angry than the words, almost a token protest.

Rathe sighed. “That’s not fair, Mikael. You have to admit, this is something outside the ordinary. The Quentiers were telling me they’d lost a–prentice, I guess you’d call him.”

Mikael’s lips twisted beneath the beard. “Bet they didn’t go to the points, did they?”

“Well, they told me, and I’ve added it to my books.” Rathe matched the other man’s half smile. “Unofficially, of course, Estel wouldn’t thank me if I made it official. But that’s not all of it. Caiazzo is more than commonly edgy these days. I mean, we all know he’s not the most serene individual, but he’s close to the edge. And that’s bad for business, Mikael.”

Mikael’s eyes narrowed, and Rathe knew the other man had taken his oblique meaning. “You’ve been trying to close Caiazzo down for, what, five years now, Nico?” the knife said at last, and Rathe shrugged.

“Sure. But the fact of the matter is, his business keeps the peace along much of the southriver and in the outer Court.”

“His and Dame Isart’s,” Mikael corrected automatically. Rathe met his stare, and it was the big man who looked away first.

“What is it you really want to know, Nico?”

“Just what I said, really,” Rathe answered. “What’s going on with Hanse? Things aren’t right with him, and he’s letting it show. Have you done any work for him this summer?”

Mikael shook his head. “All right, Nico, and this I’ll give you for free. No, I haven’t worked for him this summer, and that’s not usual, not through the fair. He usually hires me on to keep an eye on things for a couple of his merchants who come in for the fair. And there’s a banker you might know, Dezir Chevassu, changes a lot of Hanse’s money as it comes in and out. Usually that’s good for two weeks solid hire, and not too much heavy work, there never is with bankers, not really. This year…” He gestured, showing empty palms. “Nothing. Not a damned thing. He hasn’t even told me he won’t be needing my services, and you know Hanse, polite to the last, or if you’ve offended him, you don’t know it until it’s too late.”

“Yes, but who could he hire to finish you, Mikael?” Rathe asked. “How many takers do you think there’d be for a job like that?”

Mikael favored the younger man with a smile that was almost indulgent. “And how many young hotheads do you have in the points, Nico? Idiots who should know that a job is suicide, but see it as their way of proving themselves? No, there are plenty of people who’d try to hit Mikael, if Caiazzo wanted to hire someone, I can give you the names of half a dozen. But he hasn’t. And he hasn’t given me the brush. Just–nothing. And that’s not normal.” He paused then, the animation draining from his face, and Rathe guessed he was thinking of the children, making the same unwelcome connections that Rathe himself had been making. “Go see Chevassu,” Mikael said at last. “She might have some answers for you. Truth be, told, I think Hanse took more than a little business away from her. She used to have some interests as a merchant‑venturer.”

“So is she now a resident?” Rathe asked, and Mikael shook his head.

“Chevassu favors the money side of things. She’s solely banking and exchange these days.”

Rathe set his empty cup on the table–ruddywood inlaid with white stone, a pretty piece of work, and probably good to have at hand in a brawl. He wondered if Mikael had liberated it from one of the locals. “I’ll do that,” he said, and stood slowly. Mikael didn’t favor sudden movements. “I assume this Chevassu isn’t located in the Court.”

Mikael snorted. “Not likely. Chevassu lives well north of the river–further north than most of her clients. And that argues a lack of diplomacy, to my mind. You’ll find her in the Chancery district, on the Temple Road. Or at the Heironeia, during business hours. And, Nico.” He fixed the younger man with a sudden, baleful stare. “If Hanse is involved in the child‑stealing, I expect you’ll let me know. He’s a good employer, but this–this is bad, bad business, bad for business. I don’t like it.”

Rathe met the stare squarely. “If he is involved–and I don’t have any real reason to think he is, Mikael, I’m clutching straws here–then he’s mine. This is a points matter.”

“Unless I get there first,” Mikael answered.

Rathe nodded slowly, acknowledging what he couldn’t prevent. “But I’ll do my best to stop you. I want this one very badly, Mikael. Just so you know.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Mikael said, and opened the narrow door.

Rathe made his way back toward Point of Hopes, his mood hovering vaguely between satisfaction and guilt. Mikael had spoken honestly, for once, and that was good, but Rathe wished it hadn’t been at the price of spreading suspicion against Caiazzo. He sighed then. Worse than that was the nagging fear that the surintendant might be right after all.

Chevassu lived in Manufactory Point–well northriver, as Mikael had said, but not as undiplomatic a choice as the knife had implied. It was a good neighborhood, but not old; for a woman who’d almost certainly been born southriver, it was a wise choice. The adjunct point at Manufactory was a woman named Talairan, small, with a deceptively lazy air. Rathe had seen her crack skulls once, during an ugly guild fight, and was not deceived. She grinned up at him as he came into the station, and jerked her head toward a side room. Rathe nodded, relieved–he wasn’t particularly fond of Huyser, Manufactory’s chief point–and followed her into the narrow workroom. She closed the door firmly behind him, and perched on the end of the bare table.

“What in all hells is going on southriver, anyway, Rathe? One riot, one near riot, and a man shot dead in the street? And before the clocks, so there’s no excuse.”

“That was self‑defense,” Rathe said, automatically, and Talairan shook her head.

“Sounds like you’re having a rare old time down there.”

“Nothing we’d like more than to share it with you,” Rathe said dryly. “You telling me it’s all peace and tranquility here?”

Talairan’s mouth twitched. “Hardly. Not only are these missing kids not in the manufactories, no matter what they think southriver, we’ve lost some of the ones that are supposed to be working there. Now, some of them are just runaways–and I can’t fully blame them, not from most of those places, it’s not like they’re learning a trade. My feeling is, the older ones are thinking, well, if I get caught, I can always blame it on the child‑thieves.”

Rathe nodded, not surprised. The manufactories weren’t the worst places to work in the city, but they weren’t the best, and they lacked the community of the guild system, and room for advancement. A chairmaker there would make chairs all her life; an apprentice carpenter had at least some faint chance of becoming a master, though that, too, was changing. “I’ve a question for you,” he said, and saw Talairan’s gaze sharpen.

“About the children?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t think so. But the sur thinks possibly.”

Talairan lifted an eyebrow. “You’re flying high these days, my son. All right, try it on.”

Rathe nodded, and took a breath, wondering precisely how to phrase his questions. “There’s a banker lives hereabout, name of Chevassu. Know her?”

Talairan laughed. “Sure I know her. I keep my beady eye on her, seeing as I’m sure she shaves the rate of exchange the way her lessers shave coins. Last I heard, though, bankers were hardly the most likely suspects.”

“Tell me about her,” Rathe said.

Talairan blew air from puffed cheeks. “Where to begin? She’s a respected woman hereabouts, the question is how she got that respectable–seeing as she came from southriver.” Rathe nodded, unsurprised, and Talairan went on, “Rumor has it she has partial interest in a couple of the better class houses over in Hearts, which is where her own coin comes from, and, of course, they say she banks for folk in the Court–not the queen’s–and the ’Serry and the Old Crossing. Why?”

Rathe ignored the question. “Is she a fence?”

“No. Or not anymore. Like I said, my main concern is how she juggles her books and with whom.” She fixed him with a sudden glare. “I would take it very badly, Rathe, if you were going after her on my ground.”

Rathe shook his head. “No–my word on it, Tal. It’s just… well, you mentioned court connections. I hear they’re with Caiazzo, probably legal enough, and I’ve some questions for her. That’s all.”

Talairan nodded, appeased. “I’ve been hearing some very odd talk about him, trickling up from Fairs’ Point. Business problems, I heard. Is there a connection with the children?”

“I don’t know–I didn’t think so, still don’t, really. But there’s no denying there’s something wrong there.”

“He’s never dealt in human flesh,” Talairan said, doubtfully, “and especially not children.”

Rathe nodded, ran a hand through already disheveled hair. “Tell me about it. But I don’t like the coincidence, what pointsman does?”

“A lazy one,” Talairan answered, and jerked her head toward the wall she shared with Huyser’s office.

Rathe smiled, but wryly. “So I need to look into it.”

“Caiazzo’s rightfully Customs Point’s concern.”

“Customs Point,” Rathe said, enunciating each syllable with acid precision, “thinks Hanselin Caiazzo is an honest businessman and a boon to the district.”

Talairan stared at him. “They said that?”

“They’ve said it,” Rathe said grimly.

She whistled softly. “His fees must be powerful.”

“So they tell me. Thanks for your help, Tal.”

“You’re welcome, for what it was worth. I’ll ask for the return of the favor some day.”

“I don’t doubt you will,” Rathe answered, and let himself out.

Despite what Mikael had said, Chevassu was not at the Heironeia. Swearing under his breath, Rathe retraced his steps, threaded his way through Manufactory’s crowded streets to the banker’s house. It was an expensive‑looking place, but at second glance he could see that the glass in the upper windows was of distinctly lesser quality, and the stone of the facade was not matched on the sides. Monetary difficulties? he wondered, as he tugged the heavy chain of the bell, or just southriver practicality? The door opened after only a moderate wait, and a tall, greying man in footman’s livery looked down at him. The discrepancies between facade and sides were just practicality, Rathe decided, looking at the quality of the linen and the metal braid that guarded every seam of the man’s narrow coat. If she could afford to dress her servants like that, she could afford good glass if she wanted it.

The footman opened his mouth–to direct him to the trades door, Rathe was sure–and Rathe cut him off with a smile that showed teeth. “Adjunct Point Rathe from Point of Hopes. They told me at the Heironeia that Madame Chevassu’s here.”

“Point of Hopes?” The man was visibly startled, but recovered himself quickly. “We’re in Manufactory Point–”

Rathe shook his head, and the man stopped.

“May I ask your business?”

“You may not,” Rathe answered, pleasantly. “Just tell Chevassu that I’d like to speak to her, please. I don’t think she’d refuse.” He let the words hang.

For a moment, it looked as though the footman would protest further, but then southriver habits took over, and he stepped back from the doorway. Rathe followed him in, as always a little annoyed by his own methods. It was bad enough to use a woman’s past against her, worse when it was the same as his own–and worst of all when it made him into a bully.

“Wait here,” the footman said, and disappeared up the main staircase. He was back a moment later, and paused disdainfully at the top of the stairs.

“Madame will see you now.”

Rathe nodded, and climbed to join him, the wood of the railing warm under his hand. The house smelled expensive, herbs and wax; the furnishings were good, obviously chosen by someone with an eye for quality, and he revised his opinion of Chevassu’s fortunes once again. If she needed funds, all she would have to do was sell one or two of the tapestries that adorned her upper hall–so what, he wondered silently, is Caiazzo up to, that he doesn’t just borrow from her?

“Pointsman Rathe, madame,” the footman said, flinging open a painted door. “Point of Hopes.” He stressed the last word, and Rathe couldn’t repress a grin of his own.

“Adjunct Point, actually, madame,” he said, and stepped past the man into Chevassu’s workroom. It was a cluttered place, full of good furniture and better paintings, and the fittings on table and sideboard were all of silver. “I appreciate your seeing me.”

Chevassu was easily sixty, maybe older, her hair a grey somewhere between iron and silver. Her skin was the color of very old ivory, and her eyes were the palest blue Rathe had even seen, barely darker than the ice blue silk of her gown. She didn’t rise from behind her table, but gestured for Rathe to take one of the fragile chairs instead. It was a nice balance of courtesy and status, Rathe reflected, and perched carefully on the carved and gilded seat. It creaked under his weight, but he thought it was stronger than it looked.

“I’ll be blunt, I’m curious what Point of Hopes wants with me,” Chevassu answered. She wore no paint, either on hands or face, and her skin was crisscrossed with a web of fine lines, like soft and crumpled paper. “I’ve done no business there these past, sweet Heira, seven years. Do you tell me my past has come back to haunt me?”

“I’m more interested in your present, madame, and I’ll say straight out it’s nothing to do with Point of Hopes,” Rathe answered. He watched her closely as he spoke, but saw no change in her calm expression. “I understand you handle the exchange for Hanselin Caiazzo.”

“I have done,” she answered, and Rathe tilted his head to one side.

“But not this year?”

“I fail to see why I should tell you–” Chevassu began, sounding almost indulgent, and Rathe lifted a hand.

“Bear with me a moment, madame. You know what’s been happening in Astreiant this summer, you know why we in the points are looking sideways at anything out of the ordinary. And you also know that Caiazzo’s dealings, business and otherwise, have not been exactly ordinary. I understand, you do business with him, you wouldn’t want to jeopardize that, and I wouldn’t ask you to–in the normal way of things. But things are not normal.”

“Are you accusing Caiazzo of being behind these child‑thefts?” Chevassu demanded. She sounded, Rathe thought, almost more outraged by that than by anything else he’d said.

“I don’t know,” he answered, bluntly. “But there are people who do think so, and I’m duty bound to make sure he’s not.”

Chevassu tipped her head back, bringing him into the far‑sighted focus of the old. “Off the books, pointsman?”

“As far as I’m able.”

She studied him for a moment longer, expression thoughtful, then nodded. “I’ll take the chance. Hanselin Caiazzo’s not one to deal in these goods. Let me tell you a little bit about him.” It was the tone a grandmother used to begin a story on a winter‑eve, and Rathe smiled back at her, not the least deceived.

“Hanselin is one of the canniest and most intelligent businessmen I’ve worked with, not excepting his mother, who was as canny as they come. The two don’t always go together, but Hanselin–ah, he has both, in roughly equal portion, and what I wouldn’t give to see a copy of his nativity.”

So would I, Rathe thought. He knew almost nothing of the trader’s stars, he realized, with some surprise, not even the major signs of his birth.

“It’s not the usual nativity of a longdistance trader, I would wager,” Chevassu went on, “and it’s equally not your usual southriver knife’s, however much he likes walking that line. How many questionable businesses do you think he fees, either the whole or in part, here in Astreiant?”

She seemed to expect an answer, and Rathe shrugged. “I’ve lost count, but then, I have a suspicious mind.”

She gave him an approving nod, as though he’d passed some test. “You probably do, it’s a hazard of your profession, and I’m not surprised you’ve lost count, because it changes year to year. He keeps the money moving in and out and that keeps his–associates–on their toes, and that keeps them all the safer. But there’s always been one thing that puzzles all of us. For all he’s a shrewd judge of the chance, and a hard man for a bargain, he’s had more coin than he ought for the past several years. Oh, the Silklands caravan is well managed, extremely well managed indeed, and that pays well and in coin, but he’s always had more to hand than he reasonably should have, coin that’s not tied up in goods until he chooses to spend it. Now, here it is, time for him to be changing monies, setting his Silklands caravan on the road, outfitting his ships… and things have been very quiet from Customs Point this year. Aurien’s caravel coming in, that was luck, but it hasn’t helped. So, Caiazzo’s problem is a money problem, pointsman, and one that has roots years back. Whatever’s wrong can’t have anything to do with the children, but it could get him into serious trouble, in and out of the court. Which I would surely hate to see.” She smiled. “And now you’re wondering why I’d tell you this much.”