Point of Hopes

Rathe blinked. “Frankly, yes.”

Her smile widened. “Hanselin has a nice hand in his business, a subtle hand. There are people who would like to take his place whom I would very much dislike dealing with. Which is why this old woman has been rambling on at you, pointsman, and you’re very kind to listen to her.”

Rathe blinked again, a kind of awe filling him. She had told him everything he could have thought to ask, and never once had directly implicated herself or anyone. “Not at all, madame, it’s been my pleasure to listen to you ramble.”

“Because that’s all it is, of course, pointsman.”

Rathe’s eyes met hers, his expression as ingenuous as her own. He’d agreed to keep it off the books; she could and would deny ever having said any of this, if he were foolish enough to try to make a points matter of it. But he did believe her–if nothing else, it fit in too well with what Eslingen had said. Caiazzo was having problems, and with something that had worked well in the past. And that argued that he didn’t have anything to do with the missing children: the two events just didn’t fit. In other times, the sources of his coin might be Rathe’s concern, but at the moment, he could leave that to Customs Point, and concentrate on the children. “Of course, madame. And I thank you for letting me take up so much of your time. You must be very busy.”

She sighed, and lifted an enameled bell that stood beside the silver inkwell. “I could be busier, and hope to be so soon. My man will see you out.”

The door opened, and the footman loomed in the doorway. Rathe nodded politely to Chevassu–almost a bow–and followed the servant out.

Caiazzo’s temper had improved markedly since the arrival of Aurien’s caravel, and for the first time, Eslingen began to understand why the longdistance trader’s household was so fiercely loyal to their employer. With the immediate problems somewhat relieved, Caiazzo relaxed, showing a deft awareness of his people that surprised and, unexpectedly, charmed the soldier. The household relaxed, too, as the night of the clocks receded without further consequence, and Eslingen found himself made cautiously welcome.

“You’ve done well, settling in,” Denizard said, as they climbed together toward Caiazzo’s workroom.

Eslingen shrugged. “I’m not ungrateful, but I’m also not unaware that at least some of them think I’m good luck. And that’s a chancy reputation.”

Denizard grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about Azemar, she’d follow every broadsheet astrologer in the city if she could just figure out how to do it all at once. No, seriously, you’ve done well. I think Hanse will want to keep you on, if you’re willing.”

Eslingen hesitated. Now that it had come to an offer, he found himself surprisingly reluctant, but then he shook the thought away, impatient with himself. This was the best place he’d had, not excepting his post with Coindarel, and he’d be a fool to turn it down, particularly when he couldn’t have put a name to the reluctance. “Thanks,” he said. “I–it’s a good place, I’d be glad to stay.”

“Good–” Denizard broke off as the door to the counting room snapped open, and Caiazzo himself stood framed in the doorway.

“Oh, there you are. Good. Eslingen, I want you to go to the fair, to the caravan‑masters, and tell Rouvalles he can send for his coin tomorrow–any time after second sunrise, tell him. And you can make reasonable apologies for me, but don’t give him any explanations.”

“Sir,” Eslingen said.

“After that–” He rolled his eyes at Denizard. “After that, meet me at the public landing at the northriver end of the Manufactory– the Point of Graves–Bridge. You’re in for a treat, Eslingen, we’re going to see my merchant resident.”

“Sir?” Eslingen said again, and immediately wished he’d left the question unasked.

Caiazzo’s grin widened. “Oh, you’ll like Madame Allyns, Eslingen, and, more to the point, she’ll certainly like you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the standing clock. “Be there by noon, that should give you enough time with Rouvalles.”

The dismissal was obvious. “Sir,” Eslingen said, for the third time, and took himself off.

The fair was in full swing at last, and Eslingen wasn’t sorry to have an excuse to explore its byways. The older members of the household grumbled that this fair was a shadow of its usual self, that the commons of Astreiant were too busy looking over their shoulders and keeping a hand firmly on their children to loose their purse strings, but for Eslingen the rows of stalls–some of them easily as big as an ordinary shopfront, and as well stocked–were an almost magical experience. He had been to the various fairs of Esling as a boy, and once to the Crossroads Fair held at the autumn balance outside Galhac, south of the Chadroni Gap, but none of them compared with this display of goods. He took a roundabout road to the corrals on the eastern edge of the fairground, dizzying himself with the scent of spices from the Silklands and the strange, musky ambers and crystal flowers from the petty kingdoms north and west of Chadron. They lay in baskets and shallow dishes on every counter, and the suns’ light sent the pungent odors skyward. Between the drapers and the dyers, he nearly walked into a black‑robed astrologer, orrery out as he spoke to a girl in an apprentice’s blue coat. Eslingen murmured an apology, but the astrologer had already turned away, pocketing his orrery, and faded into the crowd.

“Hey,” the girl called, but he was already almost out of sight. She swore and started after him. Eslingen blinked, startled–what had the man been promising her, to run so fast–but shrugged the thought away. The leathersellers’ alley was too crowded to pass–Astreiant was noted for its leatherwork, but bought most of its hides from the League–and he skirted the mob of masters, each with her train of apprentices and journeymen. Handcarts trundled between the stalls and the river, hides in various stages of preparation stacked so high that the sweating laborers could barely see the path in front of them. Eslingen kept a wary eye out, and wasn’t sorry to reach the end of that section.

The caravan‑masters, by a commonsense tradition, had the two rows of stalls on the eastern edge of the fairground, by the corrals where they and their people lived for the duration of the fair. Someone had set up an altar to Bonfortune at the southern end of the makeshift street, and the smiling statue was draped with flower wreaths and printed offering‑slips. The ground at its feet was dark, sticky with spilled wine and shreds of rice and noodles: the caravaners were impartial in their allegiances, and in their methods of worship.

Caiazzo’s booth–another small shop, really, with a bright blue canvas roof over half‑height wooden walls–lay closer to the western end of the street, marked by the pennants with his house‑sign hanging from the tent poles. Eslingen waited until the factor had finished with her customer, a stocky woman in plain brown who clutched a letter, credit or introduction, in one painted hand, before he stepped up to the counter. It was padded with leather to protect the bolts of silk brocade and silk velvet from the rough wood. There was silk gauze as well, a length embroidered and re‑embroidered with gold and pearls; he reached out to touch it, in spite of knowing better, and winced as his fingers caught on the delicate fabric. A bolt of this was worth a common man’s salary for years, and the nobles who bought it paid in gold; he was not surprised to see a solid‑looking man watching him from the shadows inside the stall.

“Can I help you, sir?” the factor said, and blinked. “You’re Hanse’s new knife, aren’t you? Trouble?”

Eslingen shook his head. “No trouble, and yes, I’m Eslingen. I have a message for Rouvalles, if he’s here.”

“He’s back at the corrals,” the factor answered. “Do you know the way?”

“No, but I can probably find it,” Eslingen answered.

The factor grinned. “You can’t miss his camp, it’s got the house pennants all over it. We use the fourth corral–it’s almost directly behind where we are now–and Rouvalles has the stable beyond that.”

“It sounds simple enough,” Eslingen said, dubious, and the factor’s smile widened.

“Look for the house pennants,” she advised, and turned to greet a tall woman in a beautifully cut bodice and skirt.

Eslingen sighed, but knew better than to come between her and a potential customer, especially one as well dressed as this woman. He found a path between two of the stalls that seemed to be in general use, and emerged into the confusion of the corrals. There were five of the wood and stone enclosures, each one filled with horses; the low buildings beyond, clearly built as stables, seemed to be being shared impartially by people and animals. The air was hazed with dust, and a thicker plume of it rose over the furthest pen, where a trio stripped to shirts and breeches were attempting to cut a single animal out of the herd. The horses, each one marked by a ribbon braided into its mane, snorted and swirled, unwilling to be caught; Eslingen snorted himself–he would never had let his troopers handle their mounts that badly–and made his way toward Caiazzo’s pennant hanging above a stable door.

The stalls in that section seemed to be occupied exclusively by horses, and Eslingen nodded his approval even as he glanced around for someone who could direct him. Rouvalles was wise to keep his horses out of the common herd; you never knew how well anyone else kept their animals, and the last thing you needed was to have your best mounts down sick when you were ready to move out. A skinny man was mucking out the furthest stall, and Eslingen moved toward him, inhaling the familiar scent of hay and dung.

“I’m looking for Rouvalles,” he said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the noise outside.

The skinny man straightened, showing a wall eye that made him look rather like the horse he was tending, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Above.”

Looking more closely, Eslingen could see the stones of a steep stairway set into the wall at the end of the building. “Thanks,” he said, and climbed to the floor above. The space had obviously once been intended for hay storage, and indeed the broad boards were still scattered with bits of straw, but at the moment it had been turned into an indoor campsite. Bedding was piled in neat rows along each wall, beneath windows propped open to the fitful breeze, and carpets hung from a web of ropes at the far end of the space, creating a makeshift room. A group of four or five men, mostly Chenedolliste, by their looks, were sitting around an unlit brazier, tossing dice on its flat cover. The nearest stood easily, seeing Eslingen, and stepped into his path.

“Can I help you?” he asked, around a stick of the sugar‑candy the Astreianters sold ten‑for‑a‑demming, and Eslingen lifted the badge he wore on a ribbon around his neck.

“I’m here to see Rouvalles,” Eslingen said, patiently. “From Caiazzo.”

The man scowled around his candy, and Eslingen wondered just how much bad feeling the delay had engendered. “I’ll see if he’s free,” he said, and ducked under the carpets without waiting for an answer. He reappeared a moment later, scowling even more deeply, and Rouvalles himself held aside the carpet that served as a door.

“Come on in–Eslingen, isn’t it?”

Eslingen nodded, and ducked under the heavy fabric. It smelled of horses and smoke and sweat and leather, all the scents of a campaign, and he took a deep breath, savoring even the heat of the enclosed space. Rouvalles gave him a wry smile.

“Regretting your change of employment already?”

The smile, Eslingen saw, didn’t touch his eyes. “Not so far,” he answered. “But this does bring back memories.

Rouvalles gave a short laugh, easing some of the tension and anger in his face, and gestured to one of the stools. “I bet it does. So, tell me, what does Hanse want?”

Eslingen seated himself, taking his time with the skirts of his coat. All the furniture around him was portable, he saw, from the stools to the narrow table and the narrow bedstead; all would break down into easily‑carried pieces. The entire room, carpets, bedding, furniture, even the strongbox that lay half‑hidden under a worn square of blanket, would fit easily on a single pack animal.

“Cijntien told me he’d made you an offer,” Rouvalles said, and shrugged. “I suppose it still holds, though Hanse wouldn’t thank you– and I’m not sure how much I care about that, just now.”

Eslingen brought himself back to the matter at hand. “No, so far I’m quite comfortable with my employment, thanks. Caiazzo sent me to tell you that the money will be ready tomorrow. You can send a couple of men to collect it any time after second sunrise.”

Rouvalles paused in the act of pouring two glasses of wine: anger at the delay notwithstanding, customs of hospitality, bred on the caravan routes, died hard. He turned to Eslingen, one eyebrow lifted, then Eslingen thought he saw the other man’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Well, that’s good news at least,” the Chadroni said, after a moment. He made a face, as though he had forgotten he was holding the cups, and handed one to Eslingen. “I rather thought you’d come to put me off again.”

Eslingen took a careful swallow of what proved to be a heavy, aromatic wine. He said, “Not this time. And I can’t say I blame you for wanting to leave the city as soon as possible.”

Rouvalles frowned slightly, as though puzzled, then his face cleared. “Oh, the children. I thought you meant the clock‑night. No, neither one’s made my life any easier, let me tell you.”

“Nor anyone’s,” Eslingen said, and remembered what Jasanten had said–had it only been a week ago? Children born under Seidos might well find employment with the caravans, though why a caravan‑master would steal children was beyond him–unless, he thought suddenly, there was someone foreign, someone in the Silklands, say, who wanted them? It didn’t seem likely, but he owed Rathe at least that much of an effort. “Have the broadsheets been blaming you lot, then?”

Rouvalles scowled, the pale eyes narrowing. “Along with everybody else, yes, they’ve mentioned the caravans, and we’ve had a few worried mothers wandering through, peering in corners when they think we’re not looking.” He shook his head as though amazed at the thought, then looked sharply at Eslingen. “And you can tell Hanse I don’t hire kids, and never have done, he should know that.”

So much for being subtle, Eslingen thought. At least he assumed I was asking on Caiazzo’s behalf. He said, “I’ll pass that on. But–and this is me asking, not Caiazzo, I’m just curious–does that mean you don’t take apprentices?”

“Did you see any apprentices in the hall?” he asked, but his tone was milder than his words. “Oh, we take apprentices, all right, or I do, but what we get… it’s always the ones who’ve already failed at something else. Nobody in Astreiant–nobody anywhere–sets out to become a caravaner.”

“Did you?” Eslingen asked. “I mean, if you’re going to be good at something, it doesn’t seem as though you’d go into it by default. And from what Caiazzo says, you’re probably the best.”

Rouvalles tilted his head, stared into space for a few moments, then said, “I didn’t set out to become a caravaner, no. Never thought it was–open–to me. But once I did, I discovered I liked it, and had a knack for it. Rather like you and soldiering, I would imagine?” he asked, making it not quite a question, and the blue eyes were pale, cool.

“A lot like soldiering,” Eslingen agreed. He finished the rest of his wine, stood up. “Thanks for the drink, it’s a thirsty day.”

“Are you sure you won’t come along?” Rouvalles asked. “This is no time to be a Leaguer, either, in Astreiant.”

“I’m trusting Caiazzo can protect me,” Eslingen answered, with more confidence than he entirely felt. “If you’ll send to him tomorrow, after second sunrise, he’ll have the money for you.”

“We’ll be there,” Rouvalles said, and Eslingen thought there was the hint of a threat in his tone. He lifted an eyebrow in question, and the Chadroni spread his hands. “No ill meant, Eslingen, but I’m a week later than I should be, and I still have supplies and goods to buy, so it’ll be another two weeks before I’m on the road. Hanse–but Caiazzo knows all this.”

Eslingen nodded in restrained sympathy, “I’ll tell him, but, as you say, he knows.”

“If he knows,” Rouvalles said, and the good‑humored face was suddenly grim, “if he knows, why in all the hells hasn’t he sent the money I need?”

Eslingen shrugged, regretting his casual remark. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Don’t think I haven’t,” Rouvalles answered.

Eslingen didn’t answer, but ducked through the improvised door into the hall. The group was still gathered around the brazier, he saw without surprise, making a very bad pretense of interest in the dice game. The carpets would absorb some sound, but not all of it; it was no wonder they had listened. He smiled cheerfully at them, and went down the staircase to the stables.

He was early at the landing, and sat in the sun nibbling half a dozen ripe strawberries purchased on the edge of the market while he watched Caiazzo’s boatmen bring the barge expertly across the current and alongside the landing. The longdistance trader sprang out almost before the ropes were snugged home, Denizard following more decorously, and stalked up the gentle slope toward the street. “Come on, then,” he said, as he drew level with the soldier, “we don’t want to keep madame waiting.

Eslingen fell into step half a pace behind him, wondering why not, but the look of mischief in Caiazzo’s eyes was enough to keep him from asking aloud. He risked a glance at Denizard, but the magist looked, if anything, a little bored. Eslingen sighed, and resigned himself to whatever would happen. Caiazzo led them through the Manufactory district, skirting half a dozen brick‑walled compounds that smelled of wood and glue and other, less‑identifiable substances, and up the queen’s‑road into a neighborhood where sober‑looking shops alternating with small, well‑built houses. He turned into the courtyard of one of the larger of the latter, and the door opened before he could knock. A servant in sober livery bowed them into a reception hall, murmuring something Eslingen couldn’t quite hear, and vanished through a narrow door.

As the door closed behind him, Eslingen glanced surreptitiously around the hall, impressed in spite of himself by the carved panels and the interlaced tiles that faced the hearth. There was real silver on the sideboard–put out for show as well as use, surely–and the livery had been of good linen, generously cut. The candles–unlit, at this hour, when the sun poured through the unshuttered windows, filling the room with light–were wax pillars as thick as a man’s wrist. Surprisingly good taste from a woman who was partner to a southriver rat, he thought, but his heart wasn’t in the sneer, not confronted by this restrained wealth, the dark wood that showed highlights as cool as the polished silver, the quiet service. Oh, the house itself might be on the wrong side–the Manufactory side–of the queen’s‑road, but the interior was as rich as any petty‑noble’s palace, or richer.

Caiazzo saw him looking then, and smiled. It was an expression Eslingen had already learned to distrust; he glanced sideways at Denizard, and saw her grave and unsmiling as ever, her painted hands folded into the sleeves of her master’s robe. That was reassuring–if there were real trouble, Denizard would be tensed for it–and Eslingen sighed as unobtrusively as possible. So it really was just one of Caiazzo’s jokes, something he thought would startle or shock his new knife, and Eslingen braced himself to meet the surprise as calmly as possible.

The door to the rest of the house opened then, and a liveried servant stepped through. “Madame Allyns,” he said, and Eslingen caught his breath.

The woman who swept through the doorway was enormous and beautiful, skin like rich cream from the top of her breasts to the roots of her golden hair, eyes blue as summer skies, lips–slightly pouting– the pink of the inside of a shell. A strand of pearls a half‑shade lighter than her skin wound twice around her neck, and vanished into the shadowed valley of her cleavage: A brooch the size of a man’s hand– Oriane and the Seabull, Eslingen thought, not quite incredulous, in full congress–clasped her bodice, drawing the eye irrevocably to the divide between her massive breasts. She was as large as any two women, and four times as lovely.

“Hanse,” she said, and swept forward, hands outstretched in greeting.

Caiazzo caught them, brought each in turn to his lips, bowing slightly. “Iniz. How pleasant to see you again.”

“I trust so,” Allyns answered, and turned, smiling, to the others. “Mistress Denizard I know–and I’m delighted to see you again, my dear–but this gentleman–” The smile was back, full of heavy‑lidded speculation. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Eslingen swallowed hard, willing his arousal to subside. Caiazzo said, “May I present Philip Eslingen, late of Coindarel’s Dragons? My new knife.”

“A soldier,” Allyns said. “How charming.” She held out her hand, and Eslingen bowed over it. She smelled of roses, heavy‑scented, late season flowers, a fragrance men could drown in… And then she had twitched her hand deftly out of his grasp, and turned back to Caiazzo, one delicate brow lifting. “And I hear you have need of a knife these days, Hanse. I’m–concerned.”

“There’s no cause for worry,” Caiazzo answered, and Allyns smiled again, too sweetly.

“But there is for concern, is there not? Our partnership has been a profitable one. I’d hate to have to find another longdistance trader, especially this late in the season. But I’d hate it even more if my investments failed to materialize.”

“I doubt very much it will come to that,” Caiazzo answered. “Even considering your legendary prudence, Iniz. Shall we go in?”

Allyns regarded him for a moment longer, and then nodded. She turned away, the rich silks of her skirts hissing against the stone floor, against each other. Caiazzo, suddenly, startlingly drab against her opulence, followed, and the servant shut the door behind them. Eslingen glanced at Denizard, wondering if he should follow, but the magist shook her head fractionally. She seemed to be listening for something, and Eslingen tilted his head to one side, too, not sure what he was waiting for. The house was very quiet; in the distance, he heard a door close, and then, from the street, the rattle of wheels and the sound of a horse’s hooves.

At last Denizard relaxed, looked at him with a rather wry expression. Eslingen said, “It’s all right, then?”

The magist nodded. “Oh, yes. Or, if it’s not, it’s far too late to worry about it.” She saw Eslingen stiffen, and added, “They’ve been partners for fifteen years, Philip. We’re as safe here as in our own house.”

Eslingen nodded back, reluctantly. He knew that most longdistance traders–Merchants‑Venturer, as the guild called itself– formed partnerships with Astreiant’s Merchants Resident: each needed what the other could supply, goods exchanged for capital, and markets for each other’s products, but that didn’t explain the particulars of the situation. “She didn’t sound happy,” he said, and Denizard looked away.

“There have been some–difficulties this year,” she said, after a moment. “As you’ve probably gathered.”

Eslingen nodded. “Is it something I should know about? To do my job?”

Denizard sighed. “Hanse said I should use my discretion, telling you. And since you’ve said you’ll stay on… about five years ago, when Seidos was in the Gargoyle, Hanse and Madame Allyns bought a seigneurial holding in the Ile’nord–in the Ajanes, west of the Gap.”

“I thought,” Eslingen said, and chose his words carefully, “I thought only nobles–nobles of four quarterings–could own those holdings.”

Denizard nodded. “That’s right. But there was a woman, a woman of I think eight quarters, who owed Madame quite a bit of money. So they made a bargain: d’Or–this woman would take the title, paid for with Madame’s money, and Hanse’s, and send a share of the estate’s takings to them as payment.”

Eslingen took a slow breath, let it out soundlessly. Caiazzo played dangerous games, and not just the ones southriver. Under the law, a commoner who presumed to purchase a noble title would lose her investment if she were found out, might, if the offense were particularly egregious or open, be sentenced to a fine–but that wasn’t the real deterrent. The nobles of the Ajanes were jealous of their privileges, jealous to the point of having forced the queen’s grandmother to agree to attach the rule of four quarters to the sale of all estates in their domain. And they were old‑fashioned enough to try to wipe out such an insult in the commoner’s blood. Eslingen could feel the hairs stirring on the nape of his neck at the thought of trying to protect Caiazzo from Ajanine nobles and their servants. He had served under an Ajanine captain once, for eight months when he was sixteen; it had been the first time he had deserted, and that had been the only thing that had saved his life. Three days after he had run, the Ajanine had thrown his company into a mad assault on a well‑garrisoned Chadroni fort, and had lost them all in the space of an hour. Eslingen, and the ten men sent to track him down, had been the only survivors; they had enlisted together under a sober League captain less than a moon‑month after that battle. He shook that memory away, said, still cautiously, “But what’s to stop this woman from refusing to pay, now she’s got the estate?”

Denizard gave him a grim look. “Madame Iniz still holds notes of her hand, for one thing, worth more than that estate.”

“Notes can be repudiated,” Eslingen said.

Denizard nodded. “Not easily, but, yes, they can be. But Hanse trades through there, too. And I wouldn’t want to annoy Master Caiazzo, would you?”

“No,” Eslingen agreed. But I’m not an eight‑quarter noble from the Ajanes. The words hung between them, unspoken, and Denizard made a face.

“It seemed worth the risk. There’s a gold mine on the estate, and merchants are always short of gold.”

Eslingen started to whistle, cut the sound off in a hiss of breath. Gold made all the difference, made the risks worth taking, both the risk of buying the property and of threatening the true noble who held it for them. Merchants are always short of gold, indeed; it’s gold that builds the manufactories and pays the caravan masters and the Silklands merchants when there’s nothing else to trade. I see why they did it, why it’s worth it, but, Seidos’s Horse, it’s a risk.

“And,” Denizard went on, “the stars were favorable.”

They would have to be. Eslingen squinted slightly. Seidos had been in the Gargoyle, she had said, which made sense. The Gargoyle was Argent’s sign, and Argent‑Bonfortune was the god of the merchants: the planet of the nobility in the sign of the merchant, a reasonable omen. But if Seidos was in the Gargoyle in the Demean reckoning, that meant it was–somewhere else–in the Phoeban zodiac. “If Seidos was in the Gargoyle,” he said aloud, “it was also in, what, Cock‑and‑Hens?”

Denizard looked away. “We’re common, it’s Demis who rules our lives.”

But that’s noble land. Eslingen killed that response–he was no magist, and his astrological education came from the broadsheets he read assiduously; there was no reason to think he was right, when Denizard said otherwise. But the estate in question was noble, and fell under Phoebe’s rule, under the signs of her solar zodiac. And by that reckoning, Seidos was in the sign of the Cock‑and‑Hens, the winter‑sun’s sign, sign of changing seasons, of change and suffering and impending, inevitable death. You could interpret the purchase as a change, and a kind of death, but still… it’s not a chance I’d want to take.

8

« ^ »

rathe leaned over Salineis’s shoulder as she made the last of the nightwatch’s entries in the station’s daybook–a call to locate a strayed maidservant, who’d turned out to be standing at the well chatting with her leman, barely a quarter hour overdue, the sort of thing they were all seeing entirely too much of these days–and then added his initials to the entry. It was his day to supervise the station, something of a welcome break in what had begun to seem like months of walking from point to point in search of clues to the missing children. It also meant that Monteia would not be there, and, since Rathe had had little chance to pursue the question of the unlicensed printers, he was just as glad not to have to explain that to her.

“Not a bad night, on the whole,” Salineis said, and Rathe dragged his attention back to her.

“How’re things by the Old Brown Dog?”

The woman shrugged, and unclasped her heavy jerkin. The bodice beneath it was sweat‑dark at her underarms, and another damp patch showed between her shoulder blades as she turned to hang it on the wall. “Not too bad, actually. The Huviet boy’s master, what’s his name, Follet, he’s let it be known he blames Paas, and that’s shut up most of them. Of course, Follet’s never liked Mistress Huviet–who does?– but at least it seems to be keeping the peace.”

Rathe nodded. “And Aagte?”

“Devynck,” Salineis said, with some precision, “is keeping her mouth shut and herself out of sight, for which I thank her stars and all my gods.” She shook her head, set a dashing cap on top of her piled hair. “And it seems to be working. They’re doing a decent business again, and Timo says he saw some of the locals drinking there when he checked in last night. If they blame anyone, it’s that knife of hers.”

“That’s good news,” Rathe said, and meant it. Eslingen was well clear of Point of Hopes; he could afford to take the blame for a little longer, at least until it had been forgotten.

“Well, we’ve needed some, after clock‑night,” Salineis answered, and turned away.

Rathe seated himself in front of the daybook, paged idly through the events of the last three days. The clock‑night had frightened and sobered the city, it seemed; since then things had been relatively quiet, except for the false alarms, and, best of all, no children had gone missing in that period. Half a dozen had been reported, but all of those had been found within a few hours. And that reminds me, he thought, I still have to get myself over to Point of Dreams and see if the Cytel boy is really with Savatier’s company. The memory brought with it a twinge of real dread: surely, he thought, if Albe was there, and safe, Gavi would have told me… But Jhirassi had been working; their waking hours had not overlapped. Still, he decided, I’ll make it my business to walk by there on my way home tonight.

The front door opened then, and he looked up, expecting one of the duty points or someone come to report another missing child. To his surprise, Monteia swept in, bringing with her the distinct scent of manure. She scowled at him, scraping her shoes on the iron blade set in the floor by the sill, and Rathe said, cautiously, “I didn’t expect you in today, Chief.”

“No more did I.” Monteia inspected her soles, swore under her breath, and scraped again. “I dined with the other chiefs last night, Nico, and there’s some business that won’t wait.” She looked at her shoes again, nodded, satisfied, and leaned back out the door. “Vatan! Send one of the runners to sweep the gate and clean up here, and then get in here yourself. I need to talk to Nico.”

Rathe rose, already dreading her news, and followed her into the workroom. Monteia kicked her shoes into a corner, padded in stocking feet to her chair and sat down, planting both elbows solidly on the cluttered surface.

“Sit, man,” she said. “It’s not you I’m annoyed with, not personally.”

There was no good answer to that, and Rathe perched warily on the nearest stool.

“I take it the night was quiet?” Monteia went on.

“According to Sal, yeah. Nothing but false alarms, though by the look of the book that kept them on the run.”

Monteia grunted. “That’s what I’m hearing from all the points, and it’s one piece of good news, I suppose. There hasn’t been a child stolen in the last ten days–oh, plenty of reports, but those kids have all been found.”

“So what’s the bad news?” Rathe asked, after a moment. “Aside from the fact we haven’t found the first eighty‑five.”

Monteia gave him a sour look. “The bad news is what I’m hearing from our own markets. Not only are all of us too busy to do more than shake our fists at the illegal printers, the printers are blaming us for the kids–and I want to see that stopped. Claes tells me you were inquiring after one called Agere?”

Rathe nodded. “She’s printed some of the worst that I’ve seen sold here. I told Claes we’d split the point if we made it, since Agere works out of Fairs’ Point. I handed the sheets I got over to the judiciary.”

“Fair enough.” Monteia’s scowl deepened again. “But I want her.”

Rathe hid a sigh. Tracking down illegal printers seemed less than vital, given the missing children, but he knew Monteia was right. They couldn’t abandon everything else, no matter how much they might want to concentrate on the children. “I’ll do what I can, Chief.”

“I know.” Monteia shook her head. “Sorry, Nico, it was a long night.”

“More bad news?” Even as he asked, Rathe knew that wasn’t it, or not precisely so, and wasn’t surprised when Monteia shook her head again.

“Not exactly–it might even turn out to be good news. Have you heard there’s a new species of astrologer working the fair?”

“I’ve heard something. I’ve spoken with a few people about them. Not affiliated with the university or the temples, and the Three Nations are all upset because they’re undercutting the student prices.”

“That about covers it,” Monteia said. “Fairs’ Point say they think there are six or eight of them, but they’re very shy of the points.”

“Probably don’t want to pay the fees,” Rathe said.

Monteia gave him a thin smile. “Only Claes says he thinks they’re paying entirely too much attention to children.”

“Did he question them on it?” Rathe demanded.

“Of course he did, do you think he’s an apprentice?” Monteia reined in her temper with a visible effort. “They say–and I’ll be damned if I can contradict them–that of course they are, since children are most in need of protection and advice these days.”

“But still–” Rathe leaned forward, unable to keep still. “No one knows who these people are, or where they’ve come from, right? So we should find out, and fast, before anyone else goes missing.”

“They could be a visitation from the gods,” Monteia said, and snorted. “After clock‑night, I’d believe it. Some people would rather blame anybody else before they’d question an astrologer.” She held up her hand, forestalling Rathe’s instant response. “But I agree with you, Nico. Claes is having them watched, but I want you to start on it from our end. See what you can find out, see if there’s any connection between them and our missing, and do it fast, before this lull ends, and we start losing children again.”

Rathe pushed himself up from the stool, his mind already racing. He would visit Mailet’s workshop first, he decided; the rest of the children came from families or work places that were less settled than the butcher’s, would be harder to find. “I’ll talk to Istre, too,” he said aloud. “The university has a stake in dealing with these hedge‑astrologers.”

Monteia nodded. “We’ve been working them pretty hard, even your friend. We’re not the only people who had the clever notion of sending nativities to the magists. Between the twelve of us, I think we’ve sent nearly eighty birth‑stars over there, and none of us have gotten anything back yet.”

That was sobering, but Rathe shoved aside the uncertainty. “I’ll ask Istre when I speak to him,” he said. “Gods, this could be the chance we’ve been waiting for.”

He made his way quickly through the streets, barely aware of the uncertain glances, truculent and oddly embarrassed all at once, as he reached the Knives Road. Mailet’s hall was busy–busy enough, Rathe saw, that Mailet himself was working the front of the shop, flanked by sweating journeymen. The air smelled of animals and blood, and Rathe was glad they were working in the street and not in the close confines of the building. Mailet glanced up at Rathe’s approach, brows drawing together in a scowl, but he mastered himself instantly, and finished his business with his customer before turning on the pointsman.

“And what do you want here this time, Rathe?”

“I want to speak to Trijntje Ollre,” Rathe said, and curbed his own excitement before it could turn into irritation.

“Why–?” Mailet broke off, his eyes focussing on something over Rathe’s right shoulder. “Not before time, Liron. Now, get these stones sluiced down.”

Rathe glanced back, to see an older apprentice hurrying toward them, water buckets hanging from a carrying yoke balanced on his shoulders. He turned his attention back to Mailet, and said, “I need to talk to her because we have some new information.” He grimaced at the sudden hope in Mailet’s face, “It’s nothing solid, not yet, but–it would help if I could talk to Trijntje.”

Mailet took a deep breath, but jerked his head toward the main door. “You know your way by now. She’s in the hall with the others.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and ducked past him into the shop.

As promised, the apprentices were at work at their long tables, knives flashing in the sunlight that poured in through the high windows. They seemed in less of a rush this time–Rathe didn’t see a magist to keep track of favorable stars–but the piles of vegetables at each broad table were still visibly diminishing. He could smell the peppery, pungent odor of all‑save, and saw a young apprentice moving from table to table distributing the shabby bunches. The journeyman Grosejl saw him then, and moved quickly to intercept him, her face drawing into a wary frown.

“Any news?”

Rathe shook his head. “Not directly, no. But there are some questions I need to ask Trijntje–we have some new information that may help.” He saw the hope flare in her eyes, and added, guiltily, “I don’t know for certain–I can’t promise anything.”

“Something’s better than nothing,” Grosejl answered, and waved toward the line of tables. “Trijntje! Come here a moment.”

The girl put down her knife obediently, and came toward them, wiping her hands on her apron. “Is–” She broke off, unable to finish the question, and Rathe shook his head.

“We haven’t found anything, either way, but there are some questions I need to ask.”

“I don’t know what else I can tell you.” She wound her hands in her apron, then frowned at herself, and stopped.

Rathe said, “Have you–did you and Herisse consult any astrologers recently? Or did any of the other girls?”

Ollre looked up at him, her frown deepening, but more perplexed, he thought, than angry. He caught himself holding his breath, not wanting to say more, for fear of telling her what he wanted to hear.

“At the First Fair, we did,” she said at last, and shrugged. “It’s supposed to be auspicious for butchers, and then Metenere was trine the sun, and all. So we had our stars read.”

Rathe nodded. “You and Herisse together?”

“Yes.”

He held his breath again. “What stall did you visit, do you remember? Or did you go to one of the students?”

Ollre shook her head. “We didn’t have to go to one of the booths or the Three Nations, which was a good thing, too, at their prices. There were some astrologers walking around, I don’t know their affiliation– I thought they were students, at first, but their robes were black, not grey. So we went to one of them.” She seemed to see something in Rathe’s expression, and her head lifted. “Well, neither one of us had coin to waste, and he was cheap enough, and honest‑sounding. Not at all forbidding, or obnoxious, like the Three Nations.”

“What sort of a reading did he give you?” Rathe asked. He heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the startled look on her face: it was not good manners to inquire into someone’s stars, but he was past caring, swept on before she could protest. “Did he give you anything–a written horoscope, a broadsheet, anything?”

Ollre blinked at him, visibly uncertain, and Grosejl said, “I don’t see what the details have to do with anything, pointsman.”

“I need to know what kind of service he provided,” Rathe said. He looked at Ollre. “You don’t have to tell me the details, but I do need to know how he read you, what he did for you.”

Ollre looked suddenly embarrassed. “Well, he didn’t actually do much for me, my nativity’s not that good, just to the hour. So he just said general things, and said he couldn’t help me much–except for this.” She reached under her apron, into the pocket she wore beneath the skirt, and brought out a small disk. “He said it was for luck, that the stars were going to be unsettled for a while, and that I’d need it.” She made a face. “He was right there, wasn’t he?”

Rathe stared for a moment at the dark round of wax, then said, “May I?”

Ollre shrugged and held it out, and he took it from her hand. It was a crude thing, stamped with planetary signs around a central figure of Areton with his shield. He recognized most of them, but couldn’t begin to guess what the sequence meant. But b’Estorr would know, he thought, and turned it over. The reverse was blank. “Did Herisse get one of these?”

“Oh, yes, and she talked to him for a lot longer–of course, she knows her stars to the minute.” Ollre’s fond smile vanished suddenly. “Here, you don’t think that has anything to do with her vanishing, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe said. “It’s possible, yeah, but we don’t know for sure. Can I keep this?”

“If it had anything to do with–” Ollre shuddered. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

“And if it didn’t,” Rathe said gently, “I’ll see it gets back to you. Can you tell me what this astrologer looked like?”

The girl shrugged, looked embarrassed again. He’d been of middle years, not grey, not young; of middle height and middle color and spoke without an accent, beyond the normal tang of Astreianter speech. It wasn’t much, but Rathe hadn’t been expecting much, and nodded politely. “Thanks, Trijntje, this has been a help.”

The girl nodded, looking as though she wanted to ask something more, but Grosejl touched her arm. “All right, Trijntje, get back to work.” She looked at Rathe as the apprentice moved slowly back toward her table. “What’ll you do with it, anyway?”

Rathe looked down at the little charm, then, very carefully, slipped it into his purse, knotting the strings securely over it. “Take it to a magist I know at the university.”

Grosejl nodded. “Gods, I hope you find her–all of them. It’s the not hearing, you see. It’s the–the blindness of it all. No word, no knowing what might have happened.” Her lips twisted. “Death isn’t all bad, pointsman. At least it’s an end.”

You don’t have a friend who’s a necromancer, Rathe thought. He could feel the excitement rising in him at the first real evidence he’d found, and thrust it sternly down before the journeyman could see and misunderstand. He made his excuses quickly, and headed back out to the street. He would visit the other shops and families, at least the ones he could find, and then he’d head to the fair, let Claes know about this new connection. And then… he fought back the sense of certainty. Then he would go to the university, and see what b’Estorr had to say about the charm.

It took him the better part of three hours to contact the relatives and employers of the children on his book, and the results were less than conclusive. The brewers’ apprentices had certainly gone to the First Fair, and had had their stars read, though the remaining apprentices couldn’t say whether it had been by the Three Nations or the black‑robed strangers. The price would have mattered, they admitted, but they simply didn’t know. One of the shop boys had been star‑mad, had his stars read at every possible opportunity, and he had definitely spoken to one of the hedge‑astrologers–but, the counterwoman had warned, he’d also spoken to a student of the Three Nations, and had at least gone into a booth run by the Temple of Sofia. As for the rest, no one could remember whether or not they’d spoken to any astrologers, but at least, Rathe thought, they couldn’t say they hadn’t either. He knew the dangers of overconfidence, of building too much on too little fact, but couldn’t seem to stop himself from hoping. It was the first decent piece of luck they’d had–Astree, send it’s the right piece, he thought, and paused at one of the shrines outside the Pantheon to buy and light a stick of incense.

The fair was as busy as ever, and Rathe knew from experience that he was more likely to find Claes at the point station than in the fairground itself. Even so, he couldn’t resist the chance to pass through the teeming market, keeping an eye out for black‑robed astrologers. It was too much to hope he’d catch them at something–if they were involved, they’d been far too careful to arouse suspicion–but still, it would be good to get a look at them.

He reached the printers’ row without seeing any sign of them, however, and the sight of Agere’s faded sign took the edge off his pleasure. He turned toward it, falling in behind a well‑dressed matron whose broad body and full skirts helped screen his approach, and then reached around her to slip a sheet from the top of its pile. Agere turned toward him, her smile faltering as she recognized the jerkin and the truncheon at his belt.

“You’re not with Fairs’ Point,” she said, confidently enough. “You’ve no jurisdiction here, pointsman.”

“Unfair, Agere, I might just want to buy a sheet.” Rathe skimmed through the smudged printing, feeling his face stiffen with anger. “Not this one, though.” It was the worst he’d seen yet, openly blaming the points for failing to protect the missing children, and hinting that they–and perhaps the metropolitan and the city government–were somehow behind the disappearances. He set the page back on its pile, and gave Agere his least pleasant smile. “So now we’re conspiring with Astreiant herself? You flatter us, usually it’s the Leaguers, or the manufactories, or the soldiers–of whatever nation–or anyone else you think you can attack and get away with. And I don’t see a bond‑mark here.”

“I don’t print those,” Agere said, without inflection. “I’m selling them for someone else.”

That was the usual excuse, and Rathe’s lips damned. “Oh, Agere, couldn’t you say something I hadn’t heard a hundred times already?”

“I didn’t print it,” Agere snapped. “Is it a fee you’re after? Then have the decency to say so.”

Rathe regarded her a moment longer. She had been right about one thing, he had no jurisdiction here. To make the point stand, he would have to fetch someone from Fairs’ Point to make the arrest, and by the time he’d done that, Agere would simply have disposed of the offending broadsheet. He said, “No fee for a warning, Agere. Caiazzo’s not fond of politics–yeah, I know you print under his coin–and there’s not a fee high enough to buy me off when I can watch Caiazzo drop you. And then we will score you without that counterfeit license to protect you. Have a good fair, printer.”

He walked away, aware of the printer’s eyes burning into him, her anger only just leashed. He turned the next corner, blindly, found himself in the leathersellers’s quarter, and stopped, surprised that his hands were shaking. It was one thing to listen to the rumors, the insults, to have it told to him, but to see it in print, in the broadsheets that were the lifeblood of Astreiant… the plain black‑and‑white of the type was somehow more threatening that any spoken accusation. Words disappeared as soon as they were spoken, but the letters on paper stayed to haunt a man.

He found Claes at the Fairs’ Point station, as he’d expected, presiding over the ordinary chaos of the main room with a tankard in one hand and his truncheon in the other. Rathe sidestepped a drunken carter, bloody‑nosed and furious, and lifted his hand to get Claes’s attention.

“Can it wait?” the chief point called back. “We’ve a pack of fools here who started their drinking with the first sunrise.”

“It’s important,” Rathe said, and waited.

Claes swore. “It had better be. You, Gasquet, take over here, sort them down into the cells–and I’ll take it very ill if you let them kill each other before they’ve had a chance to sober up.” He gestured for Rathe to precede him into the station’s counting room, and shut the heavy door behind them. Rathe blinked in the sudden quiet, and Claes said, “So. What in Tyrseis’s name is so important?”

“Monteia said you were worried about these hedge‑astrologers,” Rathe said. “The freelances. I’ve talked to the kin of our missing children. One of them, the butcher’s girl, she got a charm from them a few days before she disappeared, and at least three of the others probably consulted them. The others may or may not have talked to them, but I can’t prove they didn’t.”

Claes was silent for a long moment. “That’s thin, Rathe. Very thin.”

“It’s more than we’ve had before,” Rathe answered, and the chief point sighed.

“True. But that was nothing at all.”

Rathe swallowed hard, banking down his irritation. “Look, I know it’s not much. But four of our lads who probably talked to them–one definitely, and she got a charm from him, which I’m taking to the university to see what the magists make of it–gods, Claes, we can’t afford to ignore it.”

“And I don’t intend to ignore it,” Claes answered. “I don’t trust them, I don’t know what they’re doing here, and they don’t charge nearly enough not to want something besides their fees. But I can’t act on just this, and you know it.”

Rathe nodded. “I know. But I did think, the sooner you knew about it, the sooner you–and all of us–could start checking on the other kids, see how many of them talked to these astrologers before they disappeared.”

Claes grinned. “And you’re right, certainly–and, yes, this was important, I’ll give you that. But I’d like more to go on, Rathe, that’s all.” He waved a hand in dismissal, and Rathe opened the workroom door.

“I’m working on it,” he said, and made his way back out into the streets of the fair.

Claes was right, of course. It wasn’t much to go on, and Rathe felt his mood plummet as rapidly as it had improved. And that, he knew, was as unreasonable as his earlier optimism. The connection with the astrologers was still the most solid–the only–link they had between the child‑thefts; he couldn’t afford to ignore it, or to build too much on it, at least not yet.

He made his way back through the fair by a different route, avoiding the printers and the crowds that always filled the leathersellers’ district, and found himself among the smaller booths, where the smaller merchants venturer sold their mix of goods directly. It was crowded here, too–most of the stalls carried less expensive items, trinkets, small packets of spices, silk thread, Chadroni ribbons, beads, the coarse southern glassware, that even an apprentice could afford–but this year there were few enough of them in evidence. There were few children in general–occasionally a northriver child, escorted not just by the usual nurse, but also by an armed man or woman of the household; more often a plain‑dressed girl or boy hurrying on some errand, unable to give more than a wistful glance at the gaudy displays–and Rathe was suddenly angry again. This was no way for a child to see the fair, and, especially for the older ones, the ones who worked for their keep, their mistresses’ fears were depriving them of one of the few long holidays in the working year. Not that anyone could afford to let their apprentices and the like have the full three weeks of the fair completely free, of course, but most employers tolerated a certain relaxation of standards over the course of the fair. He himself, when he had been a runner, could remember getting two or three days off–days to explore and spend one’s carefully hoarded demmings on strange foods and goods from the kingdoms beyond Chenedolle–and vying for errands that would send him near the fairgrounds. But this year, it looked as though the average apprentice was getting none of that.

Without consciously meaning to, his roundabout course had brought him into the center of the fairground, where the cookstalls were set up. The air was heavy with the smell of Silklands spices, almost drowning the heavy scent of mutton stew and the constant tang of hot, much‑used oil. He threaded his way past a gang of Leaguers, carters by their clothes, who were monopolizing the stall of a cheerful‑looking brewer, and dodged another stall where a woman in a Silklands headscarf twirled skewers of vegetables over a long brazier. Half a dozen children, the first large group he’d seen, were clustered around a woman selling fried noodles, and another pair was standing gravely in front of a candyseller, choosing from among figures shaped like zodiacal beasts. He checked for a moment, torn between admiration and fear, and then made himself walk on. Heat radiated from the open fires and he was glad to reach the edge of the cooking areas. So, by the look of things, were most people: the spaces between the stalls were wider here, and people stood in groups of twos and threes, talking and eating. Rathe glanced around instinctively, looking for any sign of the astrologers, and to his surprise recognized a slim, dark‑haired woman who stood in the shade of one of the awnings, nibbling on a fried pastry. Cassia LaSier usually preferred to work later in the day, when the pickings were richer–and at the moment she seemed to be concentrating on her meal, one hand cupped to catch anything that fell from the fragile shell–but she might also enjoy the challenge of the noon‑time crowd. Rathe turned toward her, and she looked up sharply, her mouth curving into a wry smile.

“Working the fairground, Rathe? I wouldn’t’ve thought it was your patch.”

Rathe shook his head. “It’s not. I had some errands here.”

“Well, that’s a relief for honest working people,” LaSier answered, and swallowed the last of her pastry.

“Oh, are you working?”

“Not if you are,” she retorted, and Rathe allowed himself a grin.

“Not the fair, anyway.”

“The children?” LaSier’s eyes were suddenly alert. “No luck, then, still?”

“Maybe,” Rathe answered, and shook his head at the sudden eagerness in the woman’s face. “But we’re still having horoscopes done for the missing kids, which should tell you how ‘maybe’ it is.”

“Damn.” LaSier licked grease from her fingers, wiped them discreetly on the hem of her skirt. “Are all the stations doing it?”

“From what Monteia says, yes. Why?”

“We didn’t make a formal complaint to Sighs, of course, so I suppose I can’t complain. Still, it’d be nice if Gavaret had the same chance of being found as the others.”

It would, and it would be more than nice, Rathe thought, it would be the only fair thing to do. The Corthere child might grow into a serious nuisance to the points, but he certainly had the right to live that long. He said, “He’s as entitled as anyone, but he’d have to know his stars pretty closely for it to be much help.”

“But he did,” LaSier said, and corrected herself. “He does. And they were good for our line of work, let me tell you–who’d want an apprentice who was born to be hanged, right?” She shook her head in regret. “No, Gavaret knows his nativity, and he revels in it.”

“Do you know it?” Rathe asked.

LaSier gave him a sidelong glance. “Thought you said you weren’t working.”

“Thought I said yes, on the children.” Rathe sighed. “I can take it for you, off the books, though why I’d want your apprentice found is beyond me.”

“And a damn dull world it would be without us,” LaSier answered. “He was born on Midsummer Eve fourteen years ago, in Dhenin. He crowned at midnight, his mother told him, and was born at the half‑hour stroke.”

Rathe made the note in his tablets. Midsummer was a major day; any half‑competent astrologer–anyone who owned an ephemeris, for that matter–could calculate the full nativity from what LaSier had told him. “Born under Tyrseis,” he said aloud, “and the Gargoyle. How appropriate.”

LaSier grinned. “And not born to hang.”

“We don’t hang pickpockets, Cassia,” Rathe said.

“I know.” She looked down, brushed a few crumbs from her bodice. “Well, good luck, Nico. You’ll need it.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“Oh, yes. Good luck with that, too,” she answered, and turned away. Rathe watched her go, the slim figure with its waterfall of black hair soon lost in the crowd. It was rare enough for one of the ’Serry’s inhabitants to wish any pointsman well, and he was grateful for the gesture. He glanced again at the notation in his tablets–one more reason to visit b’Estorr–and replaced them in his pocket. Gavaret Corthere was a child like thousands other southriver, and like so many of them, he would find his livelihood in the ’Serry or the Court, maybe lodge with the points more than once, maybe live to old age, or more likely die at the hand of a rival or the wrong victim. Except that Gavaret Corthere knew his nativity, and those stars marked him as appropriate for an apprenticeship with the Quentiers, a step up in the world, by the ’Serry’s reckoning, at any rate. Rathe had never quite realized before just how similar their family business was to the more conventional guilds. He shrugged to himself. It made sense, in any business: why take on anyone born to fail at this line of work? Though, of course, a person’s desire didn’t always run in tandem with their stars, and the stars didn’t guarantee, they merely indicated… Those were the phrases one learned in dame school, and he shook them away.

A flutter of black caught his eye, and he looked sideways to see a figure in dark robes moving slowly across the central space, occasionally nodding to a passerby. Rathe tensed, ready to call for assistance, then hesitated. The robes might be black, might mark one of the astrologers, but they might also be dark grey, and the man just another university student adding to a limited income. He started after the man, but a whistle sounded, shrill and imperious, and he stopped abruptly as a trash wagon rumbled past, cutting off his view of the stranger and bathing him in its sour stench. He dodged around it, nose wrinkling, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He swore under his breath, scanning the crowd a final time, then turned toward the bright blue pennants that marked the tents where the Temple of Astree was acting as arbiter of the fair. Maybe the arbiters will listen, he thought, even if Claes can’t act. At the very least, they should be warned.

The other temples had set up their booths around Astree’s tents, some under Areton’s shield for changing money, some offering horoscopes, a few, like the Demeans, offering certification of foreign goods. This part of the fair was the busiest yet, and Rathe had to work his way through a solid crowd before he could reach the arbiters’ tents. Their flaps were drawn closed, though muffled voices leaked through the heavy cloth, and a tall woman whose coat bore the wheel‑and‑web badge of Astree was shaking her head at a pair of women who carried a basket. The two women stalked away, obviously angry, and the first woman looked at Rathe. “Can I help you, pointsman? As you can see, we’re–occupied–at the moment…”

“It’s not business,” Rathe said, “or not that kind of business. But I’d like to speak to a senior arbiter, if one’s free.”

The woman touched her badge. “I’m free enough at the moment. Gui Vauquelin.”

“Nicolas Rathe. I’m the Adjunct Point at Point of Hopes.”

“You’re a ways from home,” Vauquelin observed, but her tone was neutral.

“I know.” Rathe took a breath. “These astrologers, the new ones– what do you know about them?”

“Aside from the fact that they’re a pain in the ass?” Vauquelin sighed. “Which I shouldn’t say, but they’ve been more headache than they’re worth. Don’t tell me the points are interested.”

“Maybe,” Rathe said again, and her gaze sharpened.

“The children?”

“We don’t know. There may be a connection.” Quickly, Rathe outlined what he’d found, scrupulous to point out that Claes, whose point this rightfully would be, didn’t think there was anything they could do yet. When he’d finished, Vauquelin shook her head.

“We’ve had trouble with them from the day they arrived. Oh–” She held up a hand. “That’s not fully fair, either. We haven’t had any trouble from them, they seem ordinary enough, except that they’re ostentatious about not owing allegiance to any particular temple. We’ve had our juniors talk to them, officially, and unofficially, we had one of our girls get her stars done, and they seem sound enough. It’s basic, but not outright wrong, so there’s no basis for complaint there. But the Three Nations are up in arms–and I offer thanks daily that that’s not literally true–because they’re taking the students’ business.”

“Couldn’t you do anything on those grounds?”

“The student monopoly is customary, not legal,” Vauquelin answered, and shrugged. “Besides, there are plenty of people here– northriver, I mean–who’d like to see the students taken down a few pegs. I’ve had a woman tell me to my face that these new astrologers have to be better just because they aren’t students.”

Rathe swore again under his breath. He had forgotten, more precisely, he rarely encountered, the old rivalry that pitted the students’ Three Nations against the ordinary folk who had the misfortune to share their neighborhoods. It had been almost five years since the last riots, and he’d hoped that tensions had eased since.

Vauquelin smiled, ruefully. “Which makes it difficult to question these people without seeming to favor the students, and that I will not, cannot, do.”

“But if they are involved–” Rathe broke off, gesturing an apology.

“We are watching them,” Vauquelin said firmly. “And I know your people are doing the same. Yes, they talk to children, but we’ve never seen a child fail to return from talking to them. And it could be coincidence. Children are most at risk, these days, no wonder they want to offer any guidance they can.”

“I suppose,” Rathe said. It was the same thing the astrologers had told Claes’s people, and it was true enough, but still, he wished he could share her detachment. Vauquelin was Astree’s arbiter, had to be scrupulously balanced in her judgment–but it was hard to be blamed oneself, and see a more likely suspect embraced by at least the northriver populace.

Vauquelin looked at him as though she’d read the thought. “Don’t mistake me, Adjunct Point. If we see anything to make us at all suspicious, we’ll let you and yours know.”

Rathe nodded, embarrassed that she’d read him so accurately. “I know. And I appreciate it, really.” He turned away, his stride lengthening as he headed across the fair toward University Point.

b’Estorr was not at the university. Rathe stood for a moment at the foot of the stairway, staring at the doorkeeper, then shook himself hard. “When will he be back?” he asked, and the old woman shrugged.

“By first sunset, I expect, pointsman.”

She started to close the upper half of her door, but Rathe caught it, forced a smile. “Will you tell him–no, can I leave a note?”

The old woman’s eyebrows rose, but after a moment’s search she found a slate and half a broken chalk pencil. Rathe scrawled a quick note, the crude point squeaking over the stone–need to talk to you, will be back tonight, nico–and handed it across. “It’s important that he get this,” he said, without much hope, and the old woman sniffed, and shut the door without comment. Rathe sighed, and headed back across the Hopes‑point Bridge.

It was almost the end of his shift, but he stopped by the station anyway, read over the daybook before he hung up jerkin and truncheon and headed back to his lodgings. It lacked an hour to the first sunset; the sensible thing to do, he told himself, was to eat a decent dinner and put his thoughts in order before he went back to the university.

He rented three rooms–almost half the floor–on the second floor of what had once been a rich merchant’s or petty noble’s house, and shared what had been the courtyard gardens with the half a dozen other households that lived in the warren of rooms. The gardens were, usually, a luxury at this time of year, but now he winced as he passed his plot, straggling and unwatered, and hoped that the goats that the weaver kept in the former stable would eat the worst of the weeds before he was utterly disgraced. The air in the stairwell was close, and he winced again as he opened the door of his room. He had left the shutters closed and latched; the air was hot and still, tasting of dust and something gone rotten in the vegetable basket. He swore, loudly this time, and flung open the shutters, then stirred the stove until he found the last embers under the banked ash and lit a stick of incense. He set that in the holder in the center of the Hearthmistress’s circular altar, and then glared at the stove. No amount of banking would keep those few embers going overnight, but he didn’t relish the idea of building up the fire in this heat. Nor did he particularly enjoy the thought of fumbling with flint and tinder once he’d gotten back from the university, but that was his only alternative. And I cannot, he decided, face a fire just now. He set his tinderbox and a candle in a good, wide‑saucered stand on the table by the door, and then caught up the end of a loaf of bread and went back down to the garden.

The well at its center was still good, still supplied the entire structure with water, and he hauled up the bucket, the cup attached to its handle clattering musically against the wooden sides. He drank, then poured the rest of the bucket into the standing trough, for the gods, and went back to where a stone bench stood against the wall beside the base of the stairs. It was still warm, but he could feel the first touch of the evening breeze, and the winter‑sun was almost directly overhead. He sighed, then began methodically to eat the bread, thinking about the missing children. The Corthere boy was, by all accounts, no different from the rest, except in his profession. He’d disappeared without warning, without a word, and his nativity contained nothing immediately remarkable. Being born on the stroke of midnight was a little unusual, but not completely out of the ordinary. He stopped then, considering. Corthere knew his stars to the minute, assuming the town clocks in Dhenin were accurate–and town clocks were, the city regents paid good money to be sure of it, just because people took their nativities from them. That was why the clock‑night had been so bad, had shaken the city into something like good behavior for the last week. And Herisse Robion knew hers to the quarter hour, as did the missing brewers–as did every single child who’d been reported missing to Point of Hopes. They all knew their birth stars to the quarter hour or better.

Rathe sat up straight, his dinner forgotten. One or two, and especially the children of guildfolk, he would have expected that, but all of them? Most southriver women worked too hard for birth to be much more than an interruption in the business of existence; they noted the times as best they could, but when you had only the person helping with the birth–and her not a trained midwife, more often than not, just a sister or a neighbor–small wonder times were inexact. There were the exceptions, notable days like the earthquake, and there were enough clocktowers so that with care a woman could note the time, but still, for so many–for all of them–to know their nativities so precisely… it had to mean something, was too strange to be mere coincidence.

He looked again at the sky, guessing the time to first sunset, and a voice said from the side gate, “Unbelievable. First at Wicked’s, and now here? I don’t know if I can stand the shock.”

Rathe smiled, almost in spite of himself, and Jhirassi closed the gate behind him, came across the beaten dirt to join him. “I have some news for you–good news,” Jhirassi added hastily. “I was going to tease you with it, but I don’t think that would be playing fair. The clerk’s child you asked me about, he’s with Savatier. Frightened witless when he realized his mother thought he’d gone the way of the others, but there. He’s not bad, for a boy. And Savatier thinks he could make something of himself.” He sighed. “Just what we all need, more competition.”

“Keeps you young,” Rathe said, automatically, a slight frown forming between his brows. There had been something odd about Albe Cytel’s nativity–there wasn’t one, he remembered suddenly. For some reason, premature labor, or just ordinary carelessness, Cytel’s mother had not managed to note the time of her son’s birth, and that was the child who was not truly missing.

“What’s wrong?” Jhirassi asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“Nothing, I don’t think. Gavi, I want to talk to him–Albe. Can you take me to him?”

“I just got home,” Jhirassi protested, but sighed, seeing Rathe’s intent expression. “Oh, very well. I don’t suppose you can afford to buy me dinner in return?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Jhirassi said, sadly. “All right, I’ll take you to Savatier. Maybe I’ll buy dinner.”

Rathe followed him through the knotted streets where Point of Hopes joined Point of Dreams, and then out into the broader squares where the better theaters stood. Savatier’s was a good house, fully roofed, but at the moment the front doors were closed and locked. Jhirassi ignored that, and led the way to a side door that gave onto a narrow hall. It ended in a tangle of ropes that controlled the stage machinery, and Rathe followed gingerly as Jhirassi wove his way through them. There was a narrow staircase beyond that, and Jhirassi went up it, to tap on a red painted door.

“The counting‑house,” he said, succinctly, and the door opened. A stocky woman–Savatier, Rathe assumed–stood looking out at them, barefoot, a sweating metal cup in one hand.

“Gavi? What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but this is Nicolas Rathe–he’s adjunct point at Point of Hopes, and a friend of mine, too. He wants to talk to Albe.”

Savatier leaned heavily against the door frame. “We’re not stealing children, Adjunct Point, the boy came here of his own free will, theater‑mad, and not without talent.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what business is it of Point of Hopes, anyway?”

“You’re Dreams’ business, Savatier,” Rathe agreed, “and I don’t think you’re stealing children. But I do need to talk to the boy. He may have some information.”

“About these disappearances?” Savatier asked.

“Yes.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then sighed deeply. “All right. Gavi, he’s down in the yard with the rest.” She looked back at Rathe. “A new script we’re rehearsing, and it’s not coming together. And if bes’Hallen can’t make it work…” She shook her head, as much at herself as at them. “Go on then,” she said, and closed the door firmly in their faces.

Rathe looked at Jhirassi, who smiled, and started back down the stairs. “And if it’s the piece I think it is, it’s not going to get any better. We passed on it.”

He led the way back through the backstage and then a narrow door into a small courtyard. There were perhaps a dozen actors there, women and men about evenly mixed, some leaning against the high walls, a group of three huddled over a tattered‑looking sheaf of paper.

There were a few apprentices as well, and Rathe guessed that the youngest, a fair‑haired, ruddy‑skinned boy, was the missing Albe Cytel. As the door opened, one of the women detached herself from the group, and lifted a hand to Jhirassi. She was a striking woman, hair worn loose under a Silklander scarf, and Rathe recognized her as Anjesine bes’Hallen. He had seen her several times before on stage, usually as tragic queens, and he wondered if she would be able to make this impossible play work. She looked determined enough for it, anyway.

“Gavi, joy, I thought you were settled with Mattie,” she said, and Jhirassi sighed.

“Anj, this is Adjunct Point Nicolas Rathe, from Point of Hopes. He’s also my downstairs neighbor, so I’ll vouch for him. He’d like to talk to Albe.”

The boy moved closer to the actress, and bes’Hallen put a hand on his shoulder. Rathe remembered the gesture from one of last year’s successful plays, only, since the playwright had been Chresta Aconin, better known as Aconite, he had to think the original intent had been ironic.

“His mother will just have to send someone from Dreams if she wants him back,” bes’Hallen said. “We’re not letting him go with just anyone, pointsman, not under the circumstances–no offense, Gav, but you know what they’re saying about the points.”

“Oh, for the dogs’ sake,” Gavi snapped, “that only plays well on a really large stage.”

Rathe blinked–that was not the tack he’d expected Jhirassi to take–but after a heartbeat, bes’Hallen grinned, and let her hand fall from Cytel’s shoulder. “Oh, it plays better in the small spaces than you might think, dear, if you weren’t afraid of a little honest emotion. But, really, we can’t–”

“Nico just wants to talk to him–I don’t even know if he’s told Dreams or not–”

“I haven’t,” Rathe said. “I will, but I haven’t had the time.”

“I’ll chaperone,” Jhirassi finished. “If that will make you happier.” bes’Hallen lifted an eyebrow at that–another practiced gesture– but nudged the boy forward. “All right. Go with Gavi, dear, and don’t worry. You’re welcome here. Savatier has said so, and so have I.”

“Let’s go in,” Jhirassi said. ‘It’s more private.”

Rathe stood aside to let the boy follow Jhirassi, and then went with them into the crowded backstage. Savatier’s troupe clearly spent a decent sum on stage settings: there were at least a dozen rolled canvases stacked against the wall, and there was real furniture scattered about the space. Jhirassi chose one of the chairs, shook it to make sure it would hold his weight, and sat with grace.

“Sit down, Albe–find a stool, for Oriane’s sake.” He looked at Rathe. “You’d think you were going to eat him for dinner.”

Rathe sighed. “Albe, I’m not here to bring you back to your mother–you heard bes’Hallen, I’m from Point of Hopes, and this is Point of Dreams’ affair. But I do need to ask you some questions.” He paused, looking at the boy’s wary face. “It may help find the other children, or I wouldn’t be bothering.”

The boy nodded slowly. “All right.”

“First,” Rathe said, “do you know your nativity?”

Cytel scowled. “Yes, well, sort of. Within the hour anyway.” He seemed to see Jhirassi’s surprise, and burst out, “It’s not my fault, I was born early, the midwife wasn’t very good. But, no, I don’t have a real good nativity.”

Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief. So far, the pattern was holding true, at least in the cases he’d dealt with. “Now, did you go to the fair, or the First Fair, before you–came–to Savatier’s?”

Cytel blinked, but nodded. “Yes.”

“By yourself, or with other people?”

Cytel shrugged one shoulder. “Maseigne Foucquet gave a dozen of us an early afternoon so we could go. Palissy–she’s the senior clerk‑journeyman–she went with us.”

Rathe nodded. “And once there, I’m assuming you did the usual things. Did you get your stars read?”

The boy looked embarrassed again, and Rathe willed him not to become mulish. “I was thinking about it, yes, because I don’t want to go to the judiciary, and I do want to be an actor, and I wanted to see what my stars said about that.” He scowled. “Even my mother admits they’re not right for the law.”

Rathe held his breath. A negative answer wouldn’t disprove any of his theories, but if the boy had spoken to one of the hedge‑astrologers… “But you didn’t?” he asked, when Cytel seemed unwilling to continue. “Get them read, I mean?”

“Is it important?”

“Yes,” Rathe said, and only just controlled the intensity in his voice. “It’s important.”

Cytel shrugged again. “Well, I did, only not at the temples. They’re expensive, and I didn’t have much money with me. There was an astrologer, one of the new ones, who offered to read them for me. He said I looked like I had a career ahead of me.” His lips curled slightly.

“Which is pretty safe to say, I suppose. But when I told him my stars, he told me it’d be hard to give me a proper reading because I didn’t have the details–like I didn’t know that–but he only charged me half a demming so I can’t complain.”

“So he didn’t do a reading,” Rathe said.

“I told you, he did sort of a one, but it wasn’t very detailed. About what you’d expect, I guess.”

“Did he give you any kind of charm, say anything about trouble coming?” Rathe asked.

“Oh.” Cytel looked startled, reached into his pockets. “Yes, he said times were going to be hard for people in my sign, and I should take care–he gave me a sigil, just a piece of wax, but I think I’ve lost it.”

“That’s all right,” Rathe said. “But if you should find it–send it to me, or to any pointsman. Don’t keep it.”

Cytel’s eyes widened. “You don’t think–”

“I don’t know that it’s anything,” Rathe said, firmly, “but this is not the time to take chances.”

“I won’t,” Cytel answered.

“Good. Thanks for your help.” Rathe sighed, thinking of Foucquet and his responsibilities there. It seemed a shame to send the boy back when he was obviously happy here, but he shoved the thought away. “I’ll have to tell Maseigne Foucquet where you are. And she will tell your mother. But it looks as though Savatier wants you here.”

“She’s never met my mother,” Cytel said.

“I’ll put in a word with Maseigne,” Rathe said, “but I can’t promise anything. But I will talk to her.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, with doubting courtesy. He pushed himself to his feet, and, at Rathe’s nod, hurried back toward the courtyard.

“Did you get what you want?” Jhirassi asked, and stood, stretching.

Rathe spread his hands, trying to contain his excitement. “I don’t know. I don’t even know for sure what I’m looking for. But–yes, I think so. It’s what I hoped he’d say.”

Jhirassi lifted his eyebrows, but visibly decided not to pursue the question. “Well, then. Shall we get dinner? I’m starving, myself.”

“You go ahead,” Rathe answered. “I have business at the university.”

“Your friend from Wicked’s?” Jhirassi asked.

“Yes.”

“Do say hello to him for me, would you? And if he doesn’t remember who I am, I don’t want to hear about it, Nico. Lie.”

“Oh, he’ll remember. Istre doesn’t forget people–” Rathe saw the other draw himself up in mock anger, and added hastily. “And I doubt anyone who’s ever met you has forgotten you.”

“Better,” Jhirassi said. “All right, then, go on, and here I was going to buy you dinner from Wicked’s. You won’t get better at the university, you know.”

“I know,” Rathe agreed, and let himself out the side door.

By the time he reached the university precinct, the sun was well down, and the winter‑sun’s cool light threw pale shadows across the grassy yard. A gang of students, all male, and mostly Ile’norders by their accents, were arguing loudly on the steps of one of the dormitories; from an upper window, the delicate notes of a cittern floated down, sour now where the player missed her fingering, and a trio of gargoyles tumbled quarreling across the path in front of him. It was all appallingly ordinary, all signs of the clock‑night erased, as though the troubles that had hit the rest of Astreiant had bypassed the university completely, and for an instant he could understand northriver folk’s anger at the students. But then he passed one of the outside gates, and saw the bright tassels of protective charms dangling from the posts. There was a guard, too, a big man, leather‑jerkined, sitting unobtrusively in the shadow of the nearest building, and Rathe shook his head. The university knew, and was taking precautions.

b’Estorr had left word he was expected, and the old woman swung open her door before he could even ask. Rathe climbed the long flight of stairs, lit by hanging oil lamps against the winter‑sun’s twilight, and found b’Estorr’s door ajar. He caught his breath, and in the same instant dismissed his fear. No one would rob a magist, especially not on his own home ground. He tapped on the frame, and pushed open the door. The room was dim, only a single lamp lit on the worktable. b’Estorr himself was sitting in one of the window seats, a tablet tilted to the pale light, looked up with a smile at Rathe’s appearance.

“Good, you’re here.”

Rathe closed the door behind him, and flicked the latch into place. “Is it because your stuff is hard to fence that you leave the door wide open?” As he spoke, there was a familiar eddy of cold air, like the trailing of fingertips across the nape of his neck. They were the real reasons for b’Estorr’s confidence, of course; the palpable presence of the ghosts would discourage all but the most hardened thieves, and those would know better than to give a ghost the chance to reveal their identities.

b’Estorr grinned. “Oh, I daresay there are shops around here that would buy a used orrery or an astrolabe, and no questions asked.” He folded his tablets, and crossed to the table to light the candles that stood in a six‑armed candelabrum. The warm light spread, filling the center of the room, but Rathe could still feel the cool presence of the ghosts. It was stronger at night, when the shadows seemed to give visible shape to the odd breezes, and he had to make an effort not to peer into corners.

“Have you eaten?”

b’Estorr asked, and gestured to the remains of a pie that stood on the table. There was a dish of strawberries as well, and cone‑sugar and a grater, and Rathe felt his mouth water.

“No, I haven’t, but you don’t have to keep feeding me.”

“You might as well eat when you can,” b’Estorr answered, and poured a glass of wine without being asked. Rathe took it, glad of its delicate tang, and accepted a wedge of the pie as well. He had eaten at the fair, a fried pie snatched in haste, and there had been the bread at his own lodgings, but this, cold cheese and onions, was far better than anything he’d had in days.

“Anything more on the clocks?” Rathe asked, his mouth full, and b’Estorr’s eyebrows twitched.

“Not really. There are no records of anything similar happening at starchange, though of course, the records aren’t great for the last time the Starsmith was in a shared sign–for one thing, clocks were very rare then.”

“That was, what, six hundred years ago?” Rathe asked. Before Chenedolle had become one kingdom, before Astreiant itself was more than a minor fief of a petty not‑yet‑palatine.

“About that,” b’Estorr answered. “You should know, though, that there’s a minority view that holds that it was someone playing with powers they shouldn’t.”

“Gods above,” Rathe said, involuntarily, and b’Estorr gave him a sour smile.

“I doubt it’s that–the sheer scale of the power is just too great– but the masters and scholars are looking sidelong at each other, and at all the tricksters among the students. It’s a mess, Nico.”

“Better yours than mine,” Rathe answered.

“Thank you. Is there any news of the children?” the necromancer went on, and Rathe nodded, swallowing hastily.

“Maybe, but it’s more than we’ve had yet. There are two things, really, and I need your help with both of them.” He reached into his pocket, brought out his purse and carefully unknotted the strings. He poured its contents onto the tabletop, the wax disk he’d gotten from Ollre dark among the mix of coins and tokens and a pair of flawed dice. He handed the disk to b’Estorr and swept the rest of it back into the purse, saying, “Trijntje Ollre–she’s Herisse Robion’s leman, they’re both apprentice butchers–she tells me they had their stars read by one of these hedge‑astrologers, and he gave her this.”

b’Estorr picked it up curiously, held it in the sphere of brightest light from the candles. “A pretty poor piece of work it is, too. It’s supposed to be sort of a generic ‘from‑harm’–you know, the sort of things mothers give their babies before they go off to dame school– but it’s not very well made. All the signs are generic, and it wouldn’t be much more effective than throwing coins in a wishing bowl.” He shook his head, and handed it back. “You say it’s from one of those new astrologers? I can’t say I’m surprised. They can’t be that well trained.”

“So it’s not harmful,” Rathe said.

b’Estorr shook his head again. “Not likely. It’s not helpful, either, and if the girl paid money for it, well…”

Rathe waved that away. “What would you say if I told you I’d found another child–obviously not one of the missing–who’d gotten a charm from another one of these astrologers?”

“I’d be–intrigued,” b’Estorr said. “Can I see it?”

Rathe shook his head regretfully. “The boy didn’t have it, said he’d lost it, but from the sound of it, it was pretty much the same as this one. What makes it really interesting, though, is that half the kids who’ve gone missing from Point of Hopes had their stars read before they vanished, and probably by one of the hedge‑astrologers.”

“You’re right,” b’Estorr said. “That’s very interesting.” He lifted the charm again, holding it to the light. “Mind you,” he went on, reluctantly, “it could just be coincidence–these aren’t very effective, and maybe they just didn’t work.”

“It has to mean something,” Rathe said. “We don’t have anything else to go on.” He took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing.”

“Oh?” b’Estorr gave him an odd look, and set the charm down again. “I wonder if it’s the same thing we’ve been noticing, with these nativities.”

Rathe bared teeth in an angry smile. “It could be. And there’s one in particular that clinches it for me. When I was at the fair this afternoon, I ran into a woman I know, a pickpocket, part of a dynasty, really, working out of the old Caravansary. They’d lost one of their apprentices, told me about it a couple weeks back.”

“I thought the ’Serry was in Point of Sighs,” b’Estorr said.

“It is.” Rathe shrugged. “What were they going to do, go to Sighs and say, please help us, one of our apprentice pickpockets is missing?”

“But you’ve asked around,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe nodded.

“And when I ran into Cassia, I mentioned the horoscopes, and she said it was a shame Gavaret–that’s the boy–wasn’t getting the same chance as the rest of the kids. I didn’t think there’d be a chance of getting a nativity on him, and I said so, but she had it. And it’s very detailed, Istre, close to the minute.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his tablet and read from the dark wax. “Born on Midsummer Eve fourteen years ago in Dhenin. The mother said he crowned as the town clock struck midnight and was born at the half hour. You don’t get much better than that, not even in nobles’ houses. And all of our missing kids, every last one of them, have nativities just as precisely noted. It’s not natural, and it’s got to mean something.”

b’Estorr was nodding even before he’d finished. “It’s not just your kids, Nico. We–those of us here who’ve been doing the horoscopes for the stations–we’ve all noticed it. All of the children, eighty‑four of them, for Dis’s sake, know their births to better than a quarter hour. Your pickpocket–he’s just one more.” He leaned back. “Of course, we haven’t found anything else in common, but we are looking.”

“There’s another oddity here, too,” Rathe said quietly. “The boy who’d lost his charm, he’s northriver born–son of a judiciary clerk, in fact. But he doesn’t know his birth stars, only to the hour. And he’s not missing, even though he did talk to one of these astrologers, though I haven’t got a shred of real evidence that they’re involved.”

“Can’t you do something?” b’Estorr asked. “Ban them from the fair–hells, can’t you arrest them on suspicion? I’d think the city would be delighted to see that happen.”

Rathe shook his head. “The arbiters control the fair, and they say they can’t ban them because people think of them as a good thing, and a good alternative to the Three Nations, for that matter.”

“Ah.” b’Estorr sat back in his chair, frowning.

“And as for arresting them, gods, I’d like nothing better,” Rathe went on. “We don’t have the authority.”

“If you don’t, who does?” b’Estorr snapped, and Rathe held up his hand.

“Bear with me, will you? It’s complicated. The points are relatively new here, we started out with the writ to keep the peace, and the rest, everything else we do, has developed from that.”

“Including tracking down lost property–and children?” b’Estorr asked.

“It’s all a matter of the queen’s peace, isn’t it?” Rathe answered. “The theory being that if a woman’s household and her property aren’t safe, then she’s more likely to break the peace trying to preserve them–which I’ll admit is a good argument. But that’s where our authority comes from, not anything else. Right now, yeah, we spend most of our time trying to figure out who’s done what to whom, and even why, but we don’t really have the queen’s warrant for that. And if we tried to arrest the hedge‑astrologers, well, you’ve seen the broadsheets. People would cry we were blaming them to save ourselves, and the judiciary would probably uphold them as a matter of the queen’s peace.”

“So where does that leave you?”

b’Estorr asked, after a moment.

Rathe sighed. “Confused. Why would astrologers be stealing children, anyway?”

“Stealing children who know their nativities to better than a quarter hour,” b’Estorr corrected, frowning again. “We’ve been trying to see what these nativities have in common, but maybe we’re going at it backwards.” He looked up sharply, the blue eyes suddenly vivid. “Maybe the astrologers already know the link, and they’re picking out the children accordingly.”

“Which would explain why only the ones who know their stars closely are missing,” Rathe agreed, “but it doesn’t tell us why they’re wanted.”

“No.”

b’Estorr lifted one shoulder. “Finding that’s just a matter of time and effort, though, sorting through books. Look, thousands of magistical procedures require the worker to have a specific horoscope–it’s like any job, only more so, and we all trade off, depending on when we were born, do a favor here, get a favor there.” He broke off, shaking his head at his own distraction. “But there aren’t that many for which you’d want children–for most of them, in fact, children would be all wrong. And the sheer number involved is unusual. That’s got to help narrow it down.”

“If you say so,” Rathe said, dubiously. He looked down at the charm again, thinking of what Monteia would say when he told her about this, and then remembered something else she had told him that morning. “There may be another problem, Istre. There haven’t been any real disappearances over the past few days, not since the twentieth of the Gargoyle. We were thinking it was good news, but now I’m not so sure.”

“You’re thinking they–whoever they are–have gotten everyone they need,” b’Estorr said. He shook his head. “You’d think someone would have noticed someone trying to hide eighty children somewhere.”

“Unless they were taken out of the city,” Rathe answered. “And they must’ve been, someone would’ve seen them. The city’s been looking too hard not to.”

“Well, then, you’d think someone would notice anyone trying to herd eighty‑four, no, eighty‑five with your pickpocket, eighty‑five children anywhere, it has to be harder than trying to hide them,” b’Estorr muttered.

“They must have been moved in small groups,” Rathe said, and stopped. Even so, the only people who could hope to hide, or travel with, large numbers of children would be people who were expected to travel, and that meant another trip to the fair. He had friends among the caravaners, could ask them what they’d heard. He sighed then, thinking of the one hedge‑astrologer he’d seen. “The astrologers are still around, though who knows for how long.” He stopped then, staring at the books that filled one tall case and overflowed onto the table beside it. The candlelight trembled on the rubbed gilt of the bindings, drew smudged highlights from the heavy leather. If this were an ordinary crime, he thought, something southriver, stolen goods, say, or pimping, we’d send someone to buy from them, see what happened. Could I do that here? I’d have to send a runner, none of the points at Hopes could pass for apprentice‑age, and that’s bad enough–unless Istre could provide some sort of protection? He said, slowly, “Istre, is there anyway you, or someone here, could protect a child from being stolen?”

“If we could,” b’Estorr said, sourly, “don’t you think we’d’ve done it?”

“I mean, knowing they’re looking for something–”

“Without knowing what,” b’Estorr said, “there’s damn all I can do.” He looked at the pointsman. “Why?”

Rathe made a face. “I told you, we’d have to catch them actually doing something before we can claim the point on them. I was thinking about offering them some bait. If any of our runners know their stars well enough, or even if they don’t, maybe we could fake a nativity for them, we could send them to the fair, see what the astrologers do about them.” He saw b’Estorr’s startled look, and looked disgusted with himself. “Yeah, I know, it’d be dangerous. I’d take everyone I could from Point of Hopes–hells, I’ll borrow from Fairs, if Claes’ll let me–and make damn sure the kids never get out of our sight. But it’s something to do, before they all disappear back to wherever they took the kids.”

b’Estorr was silent for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “It might work–but don’t try faking nativities, to do it right takes time, and unless you do it very carefully, they’ll know something’s off. It’s a risk, of course, but what are the odds they’ll have the right conjunction?” He leaned back in his chair again, stretching to reach a sheaf of scribbled papers. “Right now, I’d say don’t use anyone who has Areton in the Anvil–that’s the one thing I’ve seen more of than I’d expect. Of course, that means about as much as saying most of them have sun or moon in a mutable sign, anything or nothing.”

Rathe nodded, and scratched the prohibition into his tablet. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

b’Estorr shook his head, his pale hair gleaming in the candlelight. “I wish there were, but, as I told you, there isn’t a pattern. Just–have them be very careful. Anyway, you say you’ll be watching them?”

“Oh, yes,” Rathe said, grimly. And if none of our kids know their stars well enough, someone from Dreams or Sighs will, he added silently. And I’ll make very sure they come home safe again. He stood and stretched, hearing the muscles crack along his spine. “Thanks for dinner, Istre, but I’d better go now, if I want to get home before second sunset.”

“I’ll let you know if I–we–figure out anything,” b’Estorr said, and smiled. “Whatever the hour.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said again, and let himself out into the dimly lit stairway. It wasn’t much, he thought, but it was more than he’d had before. Monteia wouldn’t like it–hells, he thought, I’m not sure I like it–but it stands a chance of working. He lengthened his stride, heading through the shadowed streets toward the Hopes‑point Bridge. And I’m very much afraid it’s a chance we’ll have to take.

9

« ^ »

the winter‑sun had passed the zenith, was declining toward the housetops across the wide road. Eslingen eyed it cautiously, wishing there were more clocks in Point of Hearts, guessed that he and Denizard had been waiting for more than an hour. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly nice tavern, the service deft and discreet–Point of Hearts was living up to its reputation as the neighborhood for assignations–and the wine excellent, but still, he thought, whoever it is we’re waiting for should have been here by now.

A shadow fell across the table, and he looked up to see Denizard returning from the open doorway. She was frowning, her fingers tapping against the bowl of her wine glass, and one of the waiters hurried to her side.

“Is everything all right, madame?”

Denizard forced a smile, nodded. “Fine, thanks.” She glanced at the table, littered now with emptied plates. “You can bring us another serving of the cakes, however.”

“At once, madame.” The waiter bowed, and hurried away.

Denizard made a face, and reseated herself, settling her skirts neatly around her.

“No sign of–?” Eslingen, asked, and left the sentence delicately unfinished.

The magist sighed. “No. And if he’s not here by now, I doubt he’s coming.”

Eslingen waited, but no more information seemed to be forthcoming. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Can you tell me, I mean? I’m generally more useful when I have some idea of the circumstances I’m dealing with.”

Despite his best efforts, the words came out more sharply than he’d intended, and Denizard gave him a hard glance. “You’re not indispensable, however, Eslingen.”

Eslingen held up his hands. “Agreed. But, until you dispense with me…” He gave her his best smile, and, to his surprise, the magist smiled back reluctantly.

“True. And Hanse said I should use my discretion.” She glanced around again, and Eslingen looked with her. The tavern was hardly crowded, most of the drinkers clustered at the far side of the wide room by the unlit fireplace. A man and a woman, the woman in a wide‑brimmed hat and hood that effectively hid her face, sat at a corner table, leaning close, their plates forgotten. Conspirators or clandestine lovers, Eslingen guessed, and not much interested in anything except each other.

“It’s the Ajanine property,” Denizard said. She kept her voice low, but didn’t whisper. “Hanse–and Madame Allyns, but mostly Hanse; he takes the risk for her–has owned this land for four years now, and we’ve never had any trouble, but this year…” She shook her head again. “This year, we haven’t seen our gold, or had word from the so‑called landame. The mine is seigneurial, the landame has full control of the takings. So she pays her debt in gold, and we–Hanse has the funds he needs to finance his caravans and caravels. But this year, Maseigne de Mailhac hasn’t done her part.”

Which explained a great deal, Eslingen thought. It explained Rouvalles’s impatience, and Caiazzo’s temper, and probably even the old woman in the Court. He said aloud, “You can’t mean we’re waiting for the gold. Not just the two of us.”

“I thought you were good, soldier,” Denizard answered.

“No one’s that good.”

Denizard grinned. “At least you’re honest. We’re waiting for one of Hanse’s men, he sent him north a good month ago, and he should have been back some days since.” She shook her head, the smile fading. “There’s something very wrong at Mailhac, Eslingen, that’s for sure. And I’m very much afraid Hanse is going to have to send one of us to deal with the situation.”

Eslingen nodded, but said nothing. Denizard sighed again, and pushed herself away from the table, went to the door again to peer out into the soft twilight. Eslingen watched her go, turning the stem of his wine glass in his hand, and wondered what he should do with this knowledge. He had promised Rathe word of anything strange about Caiazzo’s business, and part ownership of an Ajanine gold mine–an Ajanine gold mine located of necessity on noble land–was certainly out of the ordinary. Except, he added, with an inward grin, maybe for Hanselin Caiazzo. He had known from Rathe’s own words that Caiazzo’s dealings weren’t all legal, but he was only just beginning to understand the scope of the longdistance trader’s operations, legitimate as well as not. Perhaps an Ajanine manor wasn’t so far out of Caiazzo’s usual range as he’d thought.

He leaned back as the waiter returned with the dish of cakes, replacing the previous dishes with quick deference. He liked Caiazzo’s service, liked the sober elegance of the house and his own place in it, suspected he would be aping the cut of Caiazzo’s coat for years to come. He didn’t want to give it up–and why should he, especially for Rathe, whom he’d known less than a solar month?–and he’d be lucky if the job was all he lost if he betrayed Caiazzo to the points. He remembered the old woman in her empty shop at the heart of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and shivered, trying to blame it on the evening air. If she found out he’d betrayed Caiazzo, he’d be fighting off her bravos for the rest of the year, and think himself lucky to escape to the border fighting. Besides, illegal Caiazzo’s dealings might be– were, he corrected himself, unmistakably outside Chenedolle’s laws– but they had nothing whatsoever to do with the missing children. That was all he’d promised Rathe; unless and until he found any indication Caiazzo was dabbling in that, he would keep Caiazzo’s business strictly to himself.

As Rathe had expected, Monteia didn’t like the idea of using the runners to force the hedge‑astrologers into the open. She shook her head when he had finished, and leaned back against the window frame, her long face very sober.

“It’s a long shot, Nico, a very long shot,” she said at last. “I think you’re right, this has to be the reason these kids are being taken, but to risk our runners…” She shook her head, her voice trailing off into silence.

“Can you think of a better way of stopping them?” Rathe asked, and Monteia shook her head again.

“Not offhand, no. But I want to try. I owe them that much, Nico.” She drew herself up, planted her elbows on the table. “I’m going to draft a letter to all the points, and to Claes in particular–that might get his attention better than just sending you to talk to him.”

Rathe made a face, but admitted that Monteia was probably right. Claes was ready to be annoyed with Hopes over his presence in the fair the day before; better to follow protocol than to risk angering him just when they would need him most.

“On the other hand,” Monteia went on, “there’s one thing you said that we can follow up on, and we haven’t yet. If the kids aren’t in the city, then where are they?”

“They have to have been taken away,” Rathe said. “We’d’ve found them otherwise.”

Monteia nodded. “I agree. And I know you’ve got friends in the caravans.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rathe said. “I did Monferriol a favor once.”

“Then he can do you one,” Monteia said. “Give a shout for Andry and Houssaye, will you?”

Rathe did as he was told, and a moment later the pointsmen appeared in the doorway, looking puzzled.

“Come on in,” Monteia said, “and close the door. I’ve got work for you.”

The two filed in, wedging themselves into the space between Rathe’s chair and the wall, and Houssaye shut the door carefully behind him.

Monteia nodded. “All right. Nico, you’ll take the caravans at the fair, since you know Monferriol. Andry, I want you and Houssaye to take the river, Exemption Docks to the Chain. We’re looking for any way that these child‑thieves could have taken the kids out of the city– anything out of the ordinary, someone leaving too soon or too late, hiding his cargo, anything at all.”

The pointsmen exchanged glances, and then Andry said, cautiously, “We’ve done a lot of that already, Chief. And so far, nobody’s noticed anything.”

“Well, do it again,” Monteia answered. She hesitated, then said, almost reluctantly, “We may have something to go on. Nico and his necromancer friend have found something all the kids have in common, though the gods alone know why it matters. All of them knew their stars to better than the quarter hour. You can pass that on as you see fit–it may calm some people down–but be careful with it.”

Andry nodded, his face thoughtful, and Houssaye said, slowly, “I don’t think the river‑folk are involved, Chief. I’ve spoken to friends of mine in Hearts and Dreams, and they say they’ve been keeping a close watch on the Chain. Nobody’s gone upriver without being searched.”

That was not good news, Rathe thought. The Sier was a major highway for trade, but if the upriver traffic was being searched, then that left only the downriver, and that led to the sea and the Silklands. He shivered in spite of himself at the thought of the missing children being taken out of Chenedolle entirely, and saw from Andry’s expression that the same thought was in his mind as well.

“Look anyway,” Monteia said. “Gods, if they were taken to sea–” She broke off again, not wanting to articulate the thought, but the three men nodded. She didn’t need to articulate it: they had no authority outside Astreiant, but at least anywhere in Chenedolle they could appeal to the royal authority. If the children were outside the kingdom, the gods only knew whether the local rulers would listen to them. And, worst of all, least to be spoken, there was the chance that the children had simply been taken to sea and abandoned to the waves. In ancient times, Oriane’s worship had demanded those sacrifices; Rathe crossed his fingers, praying that no one had decided to revive those customs.

“Our best chance is probably the caravans or the horsemarket at the Little Fair,” Monteia said briskly, and Rathe shook away his fears. “Nico, I’m sorry to be asking you to handle it alone, but it’s more discreet that way. I don’t want to antagonize Fairs if I can avoid it.”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll be careful,” he said and Monteia nodded.

“Right. Be off with you, then.”

Rathe made his way to the fair by the Manufactory Bridge, skirting the fairgrounds proper until he reached the quarter where the caravaners camped. It was busy, as usual; he had to wait while an incoming train, a good two dozen packhorses, all heavily laden, plus attendants, made their way up the main street and were turned into a waiting corral. He followed them toward the stables, walking carefully, and felt a sudden pang of uncertainty. The arriving caravan was obviously one of the ones working the shorter routes–to Cazaril in the south, say, or across to the Chadroni gap. They came in almost daily throughout the fair, and most of them would stay a few days beyond the official closing, to ensure they sold all their goods. The ones working the longer routes, however, would almost certainly leave earlier, well before the end of the fair, especially if they had to take a northern route. And Monferriol was a northern traveller. Bonfortune send I haven’t missed him, Rathe thought, and in the same instant saw a familiar blue and yellow pennant flying over one of the tents set up outside the stables. Monferriol worked for a consortium of small traders, had a knack for taking his principals’ goods safely through the Chadroni Gap, across Chadron itself, and into the Vestara beyond, keeping just ahead of the worst weather until he reached Al’manon‑of‑the‑Snows. He wintered there, and returning to Astreiant with the first thaws, bringing the first shipments of the northern goods, wools, uncured leathers, wine, and all the rest. Of necessity, his timing was precise, and his awareness of his surroundings exquisitely tuned: he would know if anyone had left ahead of him, and where they were going, and why.

He turned toward the stables, stopped the first hostler he saw who carried Monferriol’s yellow and blue ribbons. “Is Monferriol about?”

The woman looked up at him, took in the jerkin and truncheon, and sighed. “Oh, gods, did he forget to pay his damned bond again? I wish he’d stop playing these games with you lot, the rest of us have work to do.”

Rathe shook his head. “I’m not from Fairs’ Point, I’m from Point of Hopes–and I’m a friend of Jevis’s, just wanted to say hello.”

The hostler pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak of dust along one cheekbone. “I think you’ll find him in the factors’ tent, pointsman.”

“If he’s busy–”

She looked at him, her mouth twisting into a gap‑toothed grin. “Do you know a single factor who’s up at this hour, or at least here? I don’t, and I don’t think I’d want to. No, he’s just gloating over the route again, the bastard. You know where it is? Right, the fancy one.” She turned back to the corral even as she spoke, and Rathe turned toward the factors’ tent.

It was elaborate, he thought, but then, the consortium probably had to make more of a display than established traders like Caiazzo or older consortia like the Talhafers. And it was bright, crimson canvas– not much faded, yet–flying a bright yellow pennant with Monferriol’s blue ferret rampant in a circle. He could hear a toneless, rumbling humming through the walls, and pulled the flap aside.

“Jevis? Planning new tortures for your people?”

“Gods above, boy, don’t scare me like that, I thought you were the competition,” Monferriol bellowed, and Rathe saw that, indeed, he did have a knife in his hand. Rathe’s expert eye gauged it as just within the city’s legal limits. It might be a little longer, but not enough to make it worth a pointsman’s while to question it.

“Is business getting that cutthroat?” he asked, and Monferriol dropped back onto his high stool, snorting. He was a huge man, tall and heavy‑set, hair and beard an untidy hedge.

“Isn’t it always? That bastard Caiazzo’s got the eastern route sewed up, and a damned good caravan‑master he has too, but he can’t touch me in the north, for all he keeps trying.”

“That’s something to be satisfied with, surely,” Rathe said, mildly. He knew perfectly well that Monferriol and his consortium had been trying to make inroads into the eastern route for the last few years.

“It’s something to keep me awake nights,” Monferriol answered, and looked back at the maps spread out on the table beside him. “Though why I should lie awake when none of my principals do, I bloody well don’t know.”

“It’s their money and they trust you?” Rathe guessed, and Monferriol made a face.

“More to the point, it’s my blood and my reputation on the line, every time we cross the blighted Gap. Godless people, the Chadroni.” He looked down at the maps, shaking his head. “It figures Caiazzo would have one for his master.”

“Then why do it?” Rathe asked. He should get to his own business, he knew, but the sheer scale of Monferriol’s affairs–and ego–always fascinated him.

“Why? Gods, boy, because I can. Because I’m the best there is at managing a caravan through the Gap and Chadron and the Vestara. Why in all hells are you a pointsman? Because you’re good at it, and if you didn’t do it, someone else would, and get all the glory–or else muck it up and leave you fuming at them for a pack of incompetents.”

And that was true enough, Rathe reflected, and not what he’d expected to hear. He saw an almanac open beside the map, and nodded to it. “What are the temples forecasting for this winter?”

Monferriol stuck out his lower lip as he looked down at the little book. “Heavy snows in the Gap, they’re saying, the worst in memory. Of course, last year they predicted a mild winter, and we all know how accurate that was.”

Rathe grinned. The previous winter had been unusually bad, with snow before Midwinter in Astreiant itself.

“So,” Monferriol said, and swung around so that his back was to the table. “What can I do for you, Nico?”

“I need your–advice, your expert knowledge,” Rathe said. “It’s about the children.”

“Oh, that. That’s a bad business. What are you lot doing about it?”

“What we can,” Rathe answered. “What I want to know from you is whether you’ve noticed anything odd among the caravans this fair.”

“We’re an odd lot,” Monferriol answered, but Rathe thought he looked wary. “What did you have in mind?”

“Has anyone changed their usual plans, left earlier than expected, not come in till late, anything?”

Monferriol’s face screwed up in thought. He was acting, Rathe thought suddenly, and bit back his sudden anger. Before either man could speak, however, the flap was pulled back again. “Gods above,” Monferriol roared, and Rathe thought there was as much relief as anger in his tone. “What is this, a waystation? Oh, it’s you, Rouvalles. What do you want.”

The newcomer lifted an eyebrow, but said, equably enough, “I’ve come about those extra horses you wanted. I can spare you two, but you’ll pay.”

“I always do when I deal with the godless Chadroni,” Monferriol muttered.

The other man–Rouvalles–lifted a shoulder in a shrug. He was almost as tall as Monferriol, his long hair drawn back with a strip of braided leather that had probably come from a broken harness. “They’re good horses and you know it.”

“Better than those last screws you sold me?”

“Those screws are pure Vestaran blood, Jevis, but if you don’t want them you don’t, and there’s no point in my forcing them on you.” Rouvalles glanced at Rathe, nodded politely. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“How in the name of all the gods, and poor Bonfortune above all, does Caiazzo ever turn a profit with you?” Monferriol demanded, rolling his eyes to the tent’s peak. “You won’t bargain, you won’t even allow the possibility of haggling–”

“I don’t have time to haggle,” Rouvalles said, cutting through the tirade with what sounded like the ease of long practice. “I’m already two weeks late, as you damn well know. You can have the horses or not, it makes no difference to me.”

“Money came through finally, did it?” Monferriol asked, and Rouvalles shrugged.

“As you also know.”

“So you’re Caiazzo’s caravan‑master,” Rathe interjected. He hoped he sounded casual, but doubted it.

Rouvalles glanced at him, the smile ready enough, but the pale eyes cool and assessing. “You know Hanselin, then–oh, I see. Pointsman.” He grinned suddenly, and the humor looked genuine. “Then I guess you would know him. Yes, I’m his caravan‑master, and no, I’m not spiriting any children out of Astreiant. You can check my camp if you like, but you wouldn’t find any children there in any case, they’re useless on a long route like mine.”

“Fairs’ Point already spoke to you, then,” Rathe said, apologetically, and was surprised when Rouvalles shook his head, one dirty gold curl escaping from the tied leather.

“No. Hanse’s new knife, in actual fact, which should count in Hanse’s favor. Have you been looking in his direction, pointsman? It wouldn’t be like him, you know.”

“I do know,” Rathe agreed. “You said you’re late leaving the city. You haven’t noticed anyone who’s left early, or in a hurry, or just been acting odd?”

Rouvalles shook his head again. “Not that I’ve noticed.” He looked at Monferriol. “So, Jevis, you want the horses?”

“I want the damn horses, yes.”

“All right, then, I’ll have them brought round once you send the money. How many children are you missing, pointsman?”

Monferriol slid off his stood. “Oh, very funny, Rouvalles, indeed. Would you get out?”

“No, I’m curious.” Rouvalles lifted a hand, and Monferriol subsided, muttering. Gesture and response seemed automatic: the Chadroni was almost aristocratic, for a caravaner, Rathe thought, and stilled his own instinctive rebellion. “How many?”

“Throughout the city, eighty‑five. Why?” He fixed his eyes on Rouvalles, and the Chadroni looked away.

“You should probably ask Jevis why he’s buying horses so late in the season.”

“You bastard,” Monferriol flared, and Rouvalles glared at him.

“I’ve heard the same story from half a dozen people, and if you lot won’t go to the points you brag of in every other city in the world– well, by all the gods, I will.”

“Jevis?” Rathe looked at Monferriol, and the big man threw up his hands.

“There’s no law against selling horses, for Bonfortune’s sake. And there’s no reason to think this had anything to do with the children.”

“Except,” Rouvalles said, “that this pointsman is asking about anything out of the ordinary. And by Tyrseis, this is just that.”

Rathe looked from one to the other. “One of you can start from the beginning and explain. Jevis?”

Monferriol looked distinctly abashed. “It’s nothing, really–almost certainly. But, oh, a week or two ago, maybe seven, eight days, a man came to me and wanted to buy a pair of draft horses. Suitable for pulling a baggage wagon–hells, I thought he was a damn mercenary, there are enough of them around these days. But he offered me half again what the beasts were worth, and when I hesitated–I thought I’d heard him wrong–he upped the price again. So I sold them, and even at his prices–” He jerked his head at Rouvalles. “–I’ll still make a profit.” He stopped then, glaring first at Rouvalles and then at the pointsman.

Rathe shook his head. “Interesting, but I don’t see–”

Rouvalles stirred, and Monferriol said hastily, “The thing is, the same thing’s happened to a dozen of us, a man coming and wanting to buy draft horses. And offering too good a price to turn him down. It hasn’t been the same man, always, but still, well, it got some of us wondering. They’re not traders, that’s for sure, but beyond that, who knows? We didn’t know if we should go to the points or not. Nico, it might have been something ordinary.”

Rathe nodded, absently, his mind racing. A dozen traders, selling one or two horses each–that would easily be enough to transport eighty‑five children. The only question was, where had they been taken? He said, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who this person was?”

Monferriol shook his head. “I told you, I thought he was a mercenary, the successful kind. He dressed like an upper servant, mind you, nice coat, nice manners.”

“What did he look like?” Rathe asked, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when the big man shrugged.

“Ordinary. I’m sorry, boy, he was–well, middling everything. You know the sort, sort of wood‑colored.”

Rathe grinned in spite of himself, in spite of the situation. He knew exactly the sort of man Monferriol was describing, brown‑haired, brown‑skinned, brown‑eyed, utterly unremarkable features–the points took dozens of them for thieving every year, and released half of them for lack of a victim to swear to them. “What about you?” he said to Rouvalles, and the Chadroni shook his head.

“All I know is what I’ve heard from Jevis and some others. I don’t use draft horses, you can’t take carts over the land‑bridge.”

Rathe sighed–that would have been too much good luck–and looked back at Monferriol. “Jevis, I’m going to tell you this once, and I want you to do it for me. Consider it the favor you owe me.”

“We’ll see,” Monferriol said, but nodded.

“Go to Fairs’ Point with this,” Rathe said. “Get together everybody who’s sold to these people, and go to Guillot Claes, he’s the chief at Fairs’, and tell him what you’ve told me. They’ve probably left the city, but it’s worth trying to find them, and this is Fairs’ business, not mine.”

“You couldn’t keep us company,” Monferriol said, without real hope, and Rathe shook his head.

“It would look better if it was just you.”

“Right.” Monferriol made a face. “Bonfortune help me, but I’ll do it.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and included Rouvalles in his nod.

The Chadroni smiled, the expression a little melancholy. “It’s a bad business, this,” he said. “Not to mention bad forbusiness. I hope you find them.” He looked back at Monferriol. “Send the money, and I’ll send the horses. And sooner would be better than later, I’m going to be busy the next few days.”

“You’ll get your money,” Monferriol growled. Rouvalles waved a hand, acknowledgement and farewell, and ducked back out the tent flap. Monferriol looked at Rathe. “I would’ve gone to the points sooner, Nico, but–hells, I didn’t realize, none of us did, just how many horses were being bought this way.”

“Go now,” Rathe said, gently. “Claes will be grateful, I’m sure of that. It’s one of the first solid things we’ve had.”

“I hope you catch the bastards,” Monferriol answered. “Hanging’s too good for them.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Rathe answered, and followed Rouvalles out of the tent. And that was more than he’d thought they’d be able to do yesterday, he thought, as he made his way back toward Point of Hopes, but still not enough.

Monteia was waiting in the station’s main room, fingers tapping impatiently on the edge of the worktable. She rose as he came in, saying, “Well?”

“More news, Chief,” he answered. “Monferriol says that some people–not traders, not anything he recognized–have been buying draft horses from various of the caravaners. A lot of horses, Chief, enough to pull enough wagons to carry eighty‑five children.”

Monteia went very still. “Any idea of who, or where they went?”

Rathe shook his head. “I told Jevis–Monferriol–to take himself and the others over to Fairs’ Point, let them work on it. But I think we know how they’re being moved now.”

“And damn all good it does us,” Monteia muttered. “We know two hows, how they’re choosing the kids and some of how they’re moving them, but that doesn’t get us anything useful.”

“Not yet,” Rathe answered, and hoped it was true.

Monteia sighed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said this morning. I still don’t like it, but I can’t think of anything better. Let’s get the runners in here, and see if any of them are willing to be bait.”

Rathe flinched–put that baldly, the idea seemed to have even less merit–but went to the door and looked out. The youngest of the runners, a child from the Brewers’ Court who looked even younger than his ten years, was sitting on the edge of the empty horse trough, and Rathe beckoned to him. “Laci! Find the rest of the runners, will you, and ask them to come in here, please.”

“Are we in trouble?” The boy looked warily at him, and Rathe felt his smile turn sickly.

“No.” Not unless we make some bad mistakes, he added silently, and Astree send we don’t. “The chief has a job for some of you, that’s all.”

“All right.” The boy turned away, and Rathe called after him.

“As soon as possible, please.”

Laci lifted a hand in answer, and darted away. Rathe stood for a moment, looking at the now‑empty yard, and then went back into the station. To his surprise, however, Laci was back in less than a quarter of an hour, and half a dozen of the other runners were with him.

“This was all I could find, Nico,” Laci announced. “Is that all right?”

“That’s fine,” Rathe answered. He stood back, letting the little group file past him into the station, and saw Monteia shake her head.

“In the workroom, please,” she said aloud, and the runners edged in, whispering and murmuring among themselves. Rathe followed them in, and closed the door behind them. He knew all of them, of course: Laci; raw‑boned Jacme, who’d been kicked out of his own house and slept behind the bar at the Cazaril Grey; willowy Biatris, who would get her apprenticeship next year if the station itself had to pay her fees; Surgi, dark and stocky, born in the Rivermarket docks; Fasquelle de Galhac, who had a brain despite the pretensions of her name; stolid Lennar with his crooked nose; and finally Asheri, his favorite of this year’s group. She was standing a little apart from the rest, her thin face very grave, and he wondered if something was wrong. Then Monteia had seated herself behind the table, gestured for the runners to make themselves comfortable.

“As you may or may not have heard, we’ve found something all the missing lads have in common,” she began bluntly. “They all knew their stars to a quarter hour or better, and a lot of them, maybe all of them, had their stars read by one of these new astrologers we’ve been hearing about. Which gives us an obvious option.”

Biatris was already nodding, her thumbs hooked into the belt she wore beneath her sleeveless bodice. Asheri tipped her head to one side but made no other move, while Surgi and Lennar exchanged nervous glances. Monteia gave them all a jaundiced look.

“I’ll say from the start that I’m not particularly happy with this idea, but it could work, and it’s vital that we catch these bastards.” She took a deep breath. “What we need is someone of the right age–your ages–who knows her stars close enough to go and get a reading done. We’ll be watching you, of course, myself and Nico and Houssaye and Salineis, but there’s a chance something could go wrong. So think about that before you answer.”

Surgi and Lennar exchanged looks again, and Lennar said, “I’d do it–”

“–in a minute,” Surgi agreed.

“–but I don’t know my stars that well,” Lennar finished. “And neither does Surgi. Couldn’t we pretend?”

“I asked about that at the university,” Rathe said. “Istre–a friend of mine who’s a necromancer–said that they’d be able to tell.”

“Oh.” Surgi’s shoulders sagged visibly, but then he brightened. “We could go with everybody, help make sure the astrologers don’t steal them.”

“We’ll see,” Monteia said. “All right. Do any of you know your stars to the quarter hour?”

There was a little silence then, and Asheri said, “I do. Better than that, actually, I was born on the hour.”

Biatris nodded. “I know mine to just about the quarter.”

Monteia nodded again. “And would you be willing to do this– knowing it could be dangerous?”

There was another silence, longer this time, and then Biatris shrugged. “If it might help, yeah, sure.”

Asheri looked at her shoes, and Rathe felt unreasonably guilty. She didn’t want to be a pointswoman, he knew that well enough–her real love was needlework, and one of the reasons she worked as a runner was to save the fees she needed to join the Embroiderers’ Guild. He tilted his head, trying to see her face, and was relieved to see it merely thoughtful, neither afraid nor angry. She looked up then, and nodded. “All right. I’m willing.”

“I think we should all go,” Lennar said, and Jacme nodded. He was the oldest of the group, seemed older, Rathe knew, because he’d been on his own so long.

“I agree.” He grinned, showing the gap at the side of his mouth where a tooth had been knocked out. “Even with Nico and everybody keeping an eye on us, they’ll have to stay back to keep from upsetting these astrologers, and hells, it’d have to be harder to steal just one from among a group.”

“It’s been done,” Rathe said, but looked at Monteia, and nodded. “I think he’s right, Chief.”

“I agree.” Monteia reached under the worktable, pulled out the station’s strongbox, and fished under her bodice for the key. She unlocked the heavy chest, and took put a bag of coins. “What did you say they charged, Nico?”

“Half a demming, or so most of the lads who didn’t get taken said,” Rathe answered, and Monteia grunted.

“Better give you a few more than that,” she said, and counted out three demmings for each of the runners. “If you don’t spend it, keep it. And there’ll be a seilling apiece when we all get back.”

A seilling was decent money, and Mathe saw several of the runners exchange glances, suddenly sobered. If Monteia was willing to pay that much, they were obviously thinking, then it must be serious. Good, he thought, and said aloud, “One thing more. These astrologers are also offering charms against the current troubles. If he offers you one, take it, but give it to one of us as soon as you can, all right? We can take it to the university.”

Biatris and Asheri nodded.

“All right,” Monteia said. “Stay together as much as you can without looking suspicious–Biatris, you and Asheri stay tight, that’ll make it easier to watch you. Everyone understand?” The runners nodded. “Right, then. Let’s go to the fair.”

It didn’t take long to collect the rest of the duty pointsmen and women, and to abandon the semiuniform of jerkin and truncheon. Rathe trailed behind the little knot of children as they passed the edge of the fair precinct, aware of Houssaye strolling a little behind him, parasol balanced on his shoulder. At the midafternoon, things were a little less busy than usual; a number of the stalls had fewer workers in evidence, and Rathe could see merchants snatching a hurried meal in the back of others. At least it would be easier to watch the kids than it would have been in the full crowds, he thought, as long as the astrologers do their part.

They made their way across the full width of the fairground without result, though Laci stopped to spend some of his coins on stick candy and a cup of thick, sweet Silklands tea. At the northern edge, where the linen‑sellers had their booths, the group of runners paused, and Rathe stepped back into the shade of an awning, pretending to examine the bolts of coarse cloth.

“That’s good for shirts, sir,” the woman behind the counter said. “Wears like iron, and only an aster a yard. You won’t get a better shirt for two seillings.”

Rathe nodded, not really listening. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the runners arguing about something, Biatris and Asheri pointing back toward the center of the fair, Lennar pointing toward the distant corrals. Rathe frowned–what were they thinking of, to split the group?–and then he saw the way that Laci was fidgeting. Even as he realized what was happening, Jacme caught the younger boy by the hand and started off at speed toward the corrals and the latrines beyond. Rathe swore under his breath, and turned away from the stall, looking around for one of the other pointsmen. Before he could do anything, however, he saw Salineis, conspicuous in a broad‑brimmed hat, take off after them. He allowed himself a sigh of relief–at least someone would be watching them, even if they weren’t in the most likely group–and turned to follow the others.

They had gotten a little ahead of him, were just turning into the row of stalls that sold needles and fine thread. Asheri’s doing, Rathe thought, and did his best not to hurry after them. She took her time making her way along the rows of stalls, obviously drawn in by the displays: silk and linen and even cotton thread in every thickness and every color of the rainbow; packets of pins wrapped in bright dyed paper; polishing glasses, dark and light; needles and needle‑cases and shears in every size from the length of a finger to heavy iron things nearly as long as a woman’s forearm. Biatris stayed close to her side, though from the glazed look on her face, she would rather have been somewhere else, but the rest of the runners had drawn ahead of them, and at last Fasquelle stopped, turned back to stare at them.

“Come on, will you?” Her clear voice floated above the noise of the fair, audible along the length of the row.

Biatris lifted a hand, and then touched Asheri’s shoulder. The younger girl sighed, and moved reluctantly away from the array of threads. Rathe grinned, sympathizing with both sides, and the expression froze on his face as he saw a man in a black robe turn into the row of stalls. He seemed ordinary enough, the shabby scholar’s robe half open over a plain dark suit, his round face a little pink from the heat, but Rathe felt his spine tingle. The man spoke to the first group of runners, and Rathe saw Surgi shake his head. The astrologer shrugged, smiling, and moved on. Asheri had seen him, too, and as he drew abreast, she stepped into his path. She said something–asking for a reading, Rathe knew, and didn’t know if he was impressed or appalled by her bravery–and jerked her head toward Biatris, who moved up to join her. The astrologer looked from one to the other, nodding, and then motioned for them to follow him. He led them back the way they’d come, and Rathe looked away, pretended to be examining a length of embroidered ribbon, as they passed him. He counted to twenty, then shook his head at the stall‑keeper, and trailed after the black‑robed figure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Houssaye’s parasol, and then Monteia’s oxblood skirt and bodice suit. If the astrologer tried anything, they would be ready.

The astrologer paused then, and gestured for the girls to precede him down an alley that ran between two of the larger stalls. Asheri hesitated for a fraction of a second, but Biatris stepped firmly on, and the younger girl followed, the astrologer in his black robe trailing after them both. Rathe swore under his breath, and looked around wildly. Monteia was already moving to put herself at the far end of the alley, and Houssaye and Andry were in place as well. The sight was steadying, and Rathe made himself walk casually past the alley‑mouth. He could do nothing more than glance in, not without rousing suspicion, but in that instant he caught a glimpse of the two girls standing fascinated, eyes on the orrery held by the astrologer. He was adjusting one of the rings that gave the planetary positions, and seemed to be explaining something at the same time. And then Rathe was past, and made himself stop at the nearest stall, trying to pretend to study the display of needles.

“Andry’s gone round the other end with the chief,” Houssaye said, softly, and leaned over the other man’s shoulder. His parasol was neatly folded now, Rathe saw, ready for action.

“Good,” Rathe answered. “Is there any way of getting closer?”

Houssaye shook his head, his face reflecting the same frustration Rathe was feeling. “Not without being seen. Gods–” He broke off then, shaking his head, and Rathe laid a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no other way in or out,” he said, with more confidence than he felt. “So we wait.”

It seemed an interminable time before the girls reappeared, walking solemnly on either side of the astrologer. Both looked thoughtful, and Rathe found himself holding his breath. If the astrologer has already placed some geas on them–but that was supposed to be impossible, or at best extremely difficult without the proper tools and carefully chosen stars, he reminded himself. The astrologer said something to the girls, and then turned away, heading toward the center of the fair.

Rathe nudged Houssaye. “Follow him,” he said, and himself moved up to join the runners. The rest of the runners hurried over, too, and Rathe gathered them into a tight group.

“Are you all right?” he said, to Asheri and Biatris, and both girls nodded.

“It wasn’t anything, really,” Biatris said, and Rathe held up his hand.

“We’ll talk when we get back to the station. Where’s Jacme and Laci?”

“Laci had to piss,” Fasquelle answered, and Salineis loomed over her shoulder.

“They’re with me, Nico. The chief says we should get back to the station. She’ll meet us there.”

Rathe nodded. “We’ll take a boat,” he said, and added silently, and I’ll pay for it myself if the station won’t.

It took a few minutes to find a boat that would take the entire group upstream, but eventually they found a small barge and Rathe herded everyone aboard. Despite the current, it didn’t take long to reach the landing at the Rivermarket, and Rathe led them quickly back through the streets to the station house. To his surprise, Monteia was there ahead of them, sitting scowling at the main desk. Her frown eased a little as she saw them, and she gestured for the runners to find seats in the clutter of the main room.

“Sal, shut the door. Nico, where’s Houssaye?”

“I told him to follow the astrologer,” Rathe answered, and Monteia nodded.

“Good luck to him, then. All right, what happened?”

Biatris and Asheri exchanged glances, and the older girl said, “Not a whole lot, really. Asheri asked if he read stars, and what he’d charge to read ours. And he said it’d be a demming for both of us, and asked what our stars were. I told him mine, and he said that, since I knew mine so well, he could give me a proper reading, with his orrery. So we went between a couple of stalls where it was quiet, and he did. He didn’t say much, though, not much more than I could’ve gotten from a broadsheet.”

“I told him mine, too,” Asheri said, “and he gave me a hard time about them, kept on about was I sure that was right.” She made a face. “I think he could tell I was southriver born, and wanted to make sure I wasn’t lying. But I asked him if he thought I would ever be able to join the Embroiderers’ Guild, and he did a reading for that. He had a really fancy orrery, though.”

“I thought it looked pretty battered,” Biatris objected, and Asheri nodded.

“It was, but it was–well, more complicated than a lot of ones I’ve seen. It had a lot more rings to it.” She shrugged. “Anyway, then he warned us to be very careful, that the trouble was almost over, but that we couldn’t relax yet. And that was the end of it.”

“Did he give you anything?” Rathe asked.

“Oh, gods.” Biatris reached into the pocket under her skirt. “He said it was a charm against the current troubles.” She produced a disk of dark wax, marked with the same sort of symbols Rathe had seen on the other charms. He took it from her, turning it over in his hand, and looked at Asheri.

“Did you get one, too?”

She was nodding already, held out a second wax disk. “It’s funny, I thought it looked a little different–” She broke off, eyes widening, and Rathe held the two disks in the light from the window.

“They are different,” Monteia said, and came to look over Rathe’s shoulder.

He nodded, turning the disks in the light. Asheri’s was a different color, more green than black, though still very dark, and the symbols embossed on its surface seemed to be arranged in a different order. “I think Istre should see these right away,” he said, and heard the shadow of fear in his own voice.

Monteia nodded. “I agree.” She looked at the runners. “And I think you should stay here, the lot of you, at least until we know what’s happening.”

Rathe pocketed the charms. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, and hurried out into the afternoon heat.

b’Estorr was not in his rooms, but a grey‑gowned student volunteered that she thought the necromancer was at the library. Rathe thanked her, and made his way back across the wide yard to the massive building that housed the university’s library. It looked as formidable as many fortresses, thick walls and narrow windows, and the narrow lobby was cold even in the summer heat, the stones hoarding the chill. Statues of Sofia and Donis and Oriane and the Starsmith stood in orderly ranks above the barred doors that led to the library proper, staring past the mere mortals who walked below them. The proctor on duty, tall and painfully thin, shook her head when Rathe asked to be admitted.

“I’m sorry, we can’t let just anyone in–”

“It’s an emergency,” Rathe said. And one partly of my making. He killed that thought, and fixed the woman with a stare. “Can you send for him?”

She hesitated, then nodded, and reached under her table for a bell. She rang it, and a few minutes later one of the heavy doors creaked open, admitting a student as round as the proctor was thin.

“Would you fetch Magist b’Estorr, please?” the proctor asked. “This–”

“Tell him Nicolas Rathe.”

The proctor nodded. “Tell him Master Rathe is here, and that it’s an emergency.”

The student’s eyes widened, but she faded back through the door without a murmur. Rathe fought the instinct to pace, made himself stand still, counting the signs carved across the tops of the doorways, until at last the central door flew open again.

“Nico! What’s happened?” b’Estorr hurried toward him, his dark grey gown flying loose from his shoulders.

“I sent the runners to the fair,” Rathe said. “And Asheri came back with a charm that’s different.”

b’Estorr drew breath sharply. “Let me see.”

Rathe held the disks out wordlessly, and the necromancer took them from him, held them side by side in the dim light.

“It’s active,” he said at last. Rathe flinched, and b’Estorr shook his head. “No need to panic, not yet, but I’d like to take a closer look at them. My place?”

“Fine,” Rathe said, and retraced his path through the yard. If I’ve put Asheri in danger, he thought, gods, what will I do? I thought–you thought the danger would come from the astrologers, he told himself, and you were wrong. Now you have to make it right.

In b’Estorr’s rooms, the necromancer flung the shutters wide, letting the doubled afternoon sunlight into the room. He set the disks on the table, side by side in the sunlight, and Rathe caught his breath again. In the strong light, the difference in color was very clear, Asheri’s more green than black, and the different pattern of the symbols was starkly obvious. b’Estorr barely glanced at them, however, but went to the case of books and pulled out a battered volume. He flipped through it, glancing occasionally at the disks, and finally set it aside, shaking his head.

“I don’t recognize the markings, except generally, and they’re not in Autixier. The closest thing–” He reached for the book again, opened it to a drawing of a square charm. Rathe looked at it, and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Istre…”

The necromancer went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The closest one listed is that, and that’s kind of, well, archaic. It’s meant to bind one’s possessions–”

“It’s to track her,” Rathe said with sudden conviction. “Gods, Istre, I’ve practically handed her to them.”

b’Estorr nodded slowly, still staring at the charms. “You could be– I think you are right,” he said. “It could act as a marker, help someone find her later.”

And that would make sense, Rathe thought. The astrologers to identify the children, someone else to steal them away, later, when they thought they were safe, could be taken unawares. He shook the fear away. “I took it from her within an hour of the reading–she gave it to me. Can they track her without the charm?”

“I don’t know,” b’Estorr answered. “This is very powerful–more powerful than I would have expected. She should change her clothes, at the very least not wear them again until this is resolved. It might be better to burn them.”

“Sweet Tyrseis,” Rathe said. Asheri would be hard put to afford a second set of clothes; he and Monteia between them might be able to provide something, but it would be expensive. If Houssaye could follow the astrologer, of course, track him back to his lair, that might do something, but there was no guarantee that the pointsman would succeed. Rathe shook his head. “Istre, I thought the real danger would be from the astrologers themselves, not something like this. How in all the hells can we protect her?”

b’Estorr lifted the charm again, studying the markings. “That she gave it to you, and you gave it to me–that should help. And then, as I said, get rid of the clothes she was wearing. Burning would be best, but I know what clothing costs.”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll tell her that, certainly.”

“And she should be very careful.” b’Estorr looked up, shaking his head. “Which she and you know already, I know. I wish there were more I could do, Nico.”

“You’ve done a lot,” Rathe answered. He forced a smile. “Now we know a little more of how they’re being stolen, and how they’re being chosen–though, as Monteia says, the hows don’t get us anywhere right now.”

“Whoever’s doing this,” b’Estorr said, “must be very powerful.”

“Magistically or politically?” Rathe asked.

“Either.” b’Estorr gave him an apologetic look. “Not that you didn’t know that, too, but this charm is a pretty piece of work–not at all like the others–and it must cost money to field this many astrologers.”

Rathe nodded. “I just wish that narrowed the possibilities.”

He took a low‑flyer back to Point of Hopes, wincing at the fee but desperately afraid that Asheri or the others might have left before he could reach them with his warning. As he paid off the driver at the main gate, he could see the knot of runners still gathered in the stable doorway. The younger ones, Laci and Surgi and Lennar, were playing at jacks, while Fasquelle jeered at them from the edge of the trough. Asheri was there, too, setting stitches in a square of linen. It was a practice piece, Rathe knew, against the day she could afford a place in the embroiderers’, and he could taste the fear again at the back of his mouth.

“Asheri,” he said, and she looked up, automatically folding the cloth over her work. “I need to talk to you.”

“All right,” she said, sounding doubtful, and followed him into the station.

Monteia looked up as they arrived, and Rathe saw, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, that Houssaye was with her.

“No luck?” he asked, and the other pointsman shook his head.

“He went back toward the caravans, but I lost him there. They seem to have a gift for vanishing. I’m sorry, Nico.”

Rathe drew breath, and Monteia said firmly, “You did the best you could. What did you find out from the university, Nico?”

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Rathe answered. He looked at Asheri. “Asheri, I’m sorry I ever got you into this. The charm he gave you, it’s some kind of a marker. I think you’re in serious danger.”

“A marker?” Monteia echoed, and Rathe looked back at her.

“That’s what Istre said. Something to help someone find a child they want to steal.”

“Gods,” the chief point murmured, and Rathe saw her hand move in a propitiating gesture. “What do we do?”

“I gave you the marker,” Asheri said, her voice suddenly high and thin. “I don’t have it anymore, surely that makes it all right.”

“It helps,” Rathe answered. “But Istre said you should also change your clothes. He said you ought to burn these, or at least put them away, don’t wear them until we’ve caught these people.”

“I can’t burn them,” Asheri said. “I don’t have anything else half this good, not that fits me anymore.”

Monteia said, “We may be able to do something about that, Ash, since you’re losing the use of them on station business. But if b’Estorr says you shouldn’t wear them, I’d do what he says.” She looked at Rathe. “In the meantime, I’m sending to Fairs with what we have. That’s enough to make Claes arrest these bastards, and if we can catch one, maybe we can get more information out of them.”

Rathe nodded, some of the fear easing. Monteia was right about that, and Claes would act quickly enough, given this evidence. And if the hedge‑astrologers were dodging pointsmen, surely they’d be too busy to steal another child. “I’ll walk you home, Asheri,” he said aloud. “You can change there.”

The girl made a face, but nodded. “All right. But I’m not burning them. I made this shirt myself. And the cap.”

“Then put them away,” Monteia said. “And I want to see you here tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Asheri said, and Rathe touched her shoulder, turning her toward the door.

“We should be able to stop them, now that we know what’s happening,” he said, and hoped it was true.

10

« ^ »

eslingen squatted beside the chest that held his weapons, considering the pair of pistols Caiazzo had redeemed from the Aretoneia. He distrusted midnight meetings, liked them even less when the messenger had failed to appear twice already, and a pistol might provide some measure of surprise, if there was trouble. He glanced at the half‑open window. On the other hand, it was a damp night, and they were going by river, which increased the chance of misfire; besides, he added, with an inward smile as he shut the chest, a pistol shot inevitably attracted attention, and he’d had entirely too much of that lately. Caiazzo probably wouldn’t thank him, either, for inviting interference in his business. He stood, and belted sword and dagger at his waist, adjusting the open seam of the coat’s skirt so that it left the sword hilt free, and glanced in the long mirror that hung beside the clothes press. The full skirts hid most of the weapon, only the hilt visible at his hip, and it was dark metal and leather, unobtrusive against the dark blue fabric.

“Are you ready, Eslingen?”

He turned, to see Denizard standing in the open door. She had put aside her scholar’s gown for a black riding suit, shorter skirt, and a longer, almost mannish coat that buttoned high on the throat, hiding her linen. She carried a broad‑brimmed hat as well, also black, and a longish knife–probably right at the legal limit–on one hip.

She saw where he was looking and smiled, gestured to his own blade. “I assume the bond’s paid on that?”

“Caiazzo paid it,” Eslingen answered, and she nodded.

“Be sure you bring the seal.”

Eslingen touched his pocket, feeling the paper crackle under his hand. “I have it, believe me.”

“Well, with a pointsman for a friend, you should be all right. Or you would be if it were another pointsman.”

Eslingen tilted his head curiously. This was the first time anyone had mentioned Rathe since the day he’d been hired. “Stickler, is he?”

“You mean you didn’t notice?” Denizard answered. “And stiff‑necked about it.” She glanced over his shoulder, checking the light. “Come on.”

Caiazzo was waiting in the great hall, talking, low‑voiced, to his steward. He nodded to the man as he saw the others approaching, and the steward bowed and backed away. Caiazzo looked at them, and nodded. “Good. I’m not expecting trouble, mind, but it’s always well to be prepared.”

“Any word?” Denizard asked, and the trader shook his head.

“Not since last night.”

Last night’s message had been a smudged slate, barely legible, delivered by a brewer’s boy, that did nothing more than set a new time and place for the rendezvous. There had been no explanation of why the messenger had missed the previous meetings, or any apology– which could just be the limits of the medium, Eslingen thought, but in times like these, I don’t think I’d like to count on it. He said, “Then maybe we should expect trouble.”

Caiazzo shot him a glance. “I trust my people, Eslingen, don’t forget it.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Eslingen answered, and the trader grunted.

“Your point. But there’ll be three of us, plus the boat’s crew. That should be ample.”

“You’re coming, Hanse?” Denizard asked, and the trader frowned at her.

“Yes. I’m getting a little tired of doing nothing, Aice.” His tone brooked no argument. The magist sighed, and nodded. Caiazzo smiled, his good humor restored. “Let’s be off, then.”

Caiazzo’s boat was waiting at the public dock at the end of the street, its crew, a steersman and a quartet of rowers, hunched over a dice game, their backs turned to the other, unattached boatmen, who ignored them just as studiously. The steersman looked up at Caiazzo’s approach, and nudged his people. They sprang to their places, dice forgotten, and Caiazzo stepped easily down into the blunt‑nosed craft. Eslingen followed more carefully–he was still not fully happy with boats–and Denizard stepped in after him, seating herself on the stern benches.

“Point of Hearts,” Caiazzo said, to the steersman. “The public landing just east of the Chain.”

The steersman nodded, and gestured for the bowman to loose the mooring rope. The barge lurched as the current caught it, and Eslingen sat with more haste than dignity. It lurched again, then steadied as the oarsmen found their stroke, and the soldier allowed himself to relax. Caiazzo was watching him, and smiled, his teeth showing very white in the winter‑sun’s silvered light.

“Not fond of water, Eslingen?”

The soldier shrugged, not knowing what answer the other wanted, but couldn’t help remembering the astrologer’s warning. He’d been right about the change of employment; Eslingen could only hope he’d be less right about travel by water. Caiazzo looked away again, fixing his eyes on the shimmer of light where the winter‑sun was reflected from the current. Eslingen followed the look but could see nothing out of the ordinary, just the sparkle of silver on black water. The winter‑sun itself was low in the sky, would set in a little more than an hour, and the brilliant pinpoint hung just above the roofs of the Hopes‑point Bridge. And then they were in the bridge’s shadow, the light cut off abruptly, and Eslingen caught himself looking hard for the bridge pillars. He found them quickly enough, the water foaming white around them, and the steersman leaned on the tiller, guiding the boat into the relative calm between them. Eslingen allowed himself a sigh, and Caiazzo looked at Denizard.

“I’m not convinced, Aice, that there’s going to be much profit in this little jaunt. It may not be scientific, magist, but I’ve got a sick bad feeling about it.”

“I know,” Denizard said quietly. “So do I.”

To Eslingen’s surprise, Caiazzo laughed again. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I expected you to contradict me, Aice, or at least tell me not to anticipate trouble. The last thing I needed was for a magist to confirm my fears.”

“Well, that’s all they are at the moment–the stars are chancy, but not actively bad,” Denizard answered. “But I’d be lying if I said I was comfortable. And night meetings are never my favorite.”

“The midday ones can be just as dangerous,” Caiazzo murmured, and lapsed into a pensive silence. Denizard sighed, and folded her hands in the sleeves of her coat. Eslingen glanced from one to the other, and wondered if they were also remembering the old woman in her shop at the heart of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives. That had been broad daylight, and he’d been glad to leave alive. He jumped as water splashed over the gunwale, and then told himself not to be foolish. The boatmen knew their business, and besides, they were none of them born to drown.

They were turning in toward the bank now, the boat rocking hard as the oarsmen fought the current, and Eslingen braced himself against the side of the boat, twisting to look toward the shore. The houses of Point of Hearts stood tall against the dark sky, lights showing here and there in open doorways and unshuttered windows, and he thought he heard a snatch of music carried on the sudden breeze. But then it was gone, and the boat was sliding up to the low landing.

“Wait here unless I call,” Caiazzo said to the steersman, and the man touched his cap in answer. The trader nodded and levered himself out of the boat without looking back. Eslingen made a face, distrusting the other man’s mood, and hurried to follow.

“Where to?” he asked, and Caiazzo turned as Denizard pulled herself up onto the low wharf.

“Little Chain Market,” Caiazzo said. “It’s not far.”

“But very empty, this time of night,” Denizard said.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Caiazzo snapped. “Why do you think I brought the pair of you?”

“Let’s hope we’re enough,” the magist answered, and Caiazzo showed teeth in answer.

“It’s what I pay you for.”

Eslingen’s mouth tightened–he hated that sort of challenge–but there was no point in protesting. Instead, he loosened his sword in its scabbard, the click of the metal loud in the quiet, and fell into step at Caiazzo’s right. The magist flanked him on the left, her eyes wary.

It wasn’t far to the Little Chain Market, as Caiazzo had said–but the street curved sharply, cutting off their view of the river. Eslingen made a face at that: they’d get no help from the boat’s crew, unless they shouted, and that might be too late. Caiazzo stopped at the edge of the open square, staring across the empty cobbles. The market was closed, the stalls shuttered and locked, shop wagons drawn neatly into corners; the winter‑sun had dropped below the line of the rooftops, and the shadows were deep in the corners. Eslingen scanned the darkness warily, but nothing moved among the closed stalls.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now we wait,” Caiazzo said, glancing around. “And hope he shows this time.”

Eslingen grimaced again, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could distinguish one patch of shadow from another now, could make out the shapes of the trestles piled in the mouth of an alley, but there was still nothing moving in the market. He heard something then, a faint sound, like feet scrabbling against the loose stones of the river streets. It could be a river rat, but he moved between it and Caiazzo anyway, cocking his head to listen. Caiazzo moved up beside him, and Eslingen glanced at him, wanting to warn him back, but the trader lifted a hand, enjoining silence. Then Eslingen heard it, too, a wordless sigh with a nasty, liquid note to it. He swore under his breath, and Caiazzo snapped, “Quiet.”

The shuffling came again, this time more clearly human footsteps, dragging on the stones, and Caiazzo turned toward them. “Who’s there?”

“For the love of Tyrseis, sieur, help me.”

Caiazzo’s eyes flickered to Denizard, who nodded.

“It’s Malivai,” she said, and it was Caiazzo’s turn to swear.

“Help me,” he said, and started toward the source of the sound. Eslingen went after him, his hand on his sword hilt.

Malivai–it had to be the messenger, a nondescript shape in a battered riding coat–was leaning against the arch of a doorway, one hand pressed tight against his ribs, the other braced against the stones. Caiazzo took his weight easily, for all the two men were of a height, and eased the man down onto the tongue of a wagon.

“Gods, Malivai, what’s happened?” He was busy already, loosening the messenger’s coat, one hand probing beneath the heavy linen.

“I’d gotten to Dhenin, almost to the city itself, I thought I was clear, but then they found me again.” Malivai caught his breath as the probing hand touched something, and Caiazzo drew his hand away. Eslingen could see blood on the fingertips and made himself look away, across the empty market. There was no sign of whoever had attacked Malivai, but he doubted that would last much longer. Almost without thinking, he drew his sword, the blade catching the last faint light from the winter‑sun.

“That’s old,” Caiazzo said. “When?”

“Three days ago.” Malivai winced again. “I told you, I’d made it to Dhenin, thought I’d lost them, but then they found me again. I got away, but one of them got off a pistol shot, that’s what you see there, and they’ve been close on my trail ever since. That’s why I couldn’t make the last meeting. I couldn’t get clear of them.”

Caiazzo nodded. “But you lost them.”

Malivai shook his head, dark braids falling across his face. “I had lost them, I wouldn’t’ve come here else, but when I tried to pass the Chain, they jumped me again. I got free, but that–” He touched his side, flinching. “–opened again. But you have to know. De Mailhac’s betrayed you.”

“Has she, now,” Caiazzo said softly, but before he could say anything more, Eslingen heard the sound of soft boots against stone.

“Sir,” he began, and Denizard broke in sharply.

“People coming, Hanse.”

Eslingen could hear the sound of swords now, and reached left‑handed for his knife. “And not to open up shop, either. They’re carrying steel, and they don’t care who knows it.”

“They probably also don’t give a damn about legal limits,” Caiazzo said. He was smiling, a toothy, feral grin that made the hackles rise on Eslingen’s neck. He had served with officers who’d had that look before; they were the sort who got one killed, or covered in glory. “I don’t see that we have a choice, do you?”

“The boat,” Denizard said, and Caiazzo shook his head.

“There isn’t time, not with Malivai.” He stooped, brought the messenger bodily to his feet, taking most of the other man’s weight on his own shoulders. He drew his own long knife with his free hand, and edged Malivai toward the mouth of the street that led to the public landing. “How many were there, Mal?”

“Three, I think, maybe four.” Malivai’s voice was weaker than before, and Eslingen risked a glance over his shoulder. The messenger was leaning heavily on Caiazzo, who was bent sideways by his weight. They’d never make it back to the boat before the pursuers appeared, Eslingen knew, and stepped between them and the footsteps that were getting steadily louder. Denizard moved to join him, her own blade drawn, and Eslingen glanced sideways at her, hoping she knew some magist’s tricks to even the odds.

A figure stepped out of the mouth of the street that led west to the Chain, and was quickly followed by two more. They all carried drawn swords, but their faces were muffled by heavy scarves, drawn close in spite of the lingering summer warmth. Eslingen shook his head, studying them, and lifted his sword. It wasn’t bad odds, even with a wounded man to protect, and the bravos were obviously concerned with keeping their identities hidden–as well they might, attacking honest people in the streets. It was nice, for once, to have the law on his side, but why was there never a pointsman around when he needed one? He killed the giddy thought, born of the anticipation of battle, and lifted sword and dagger.

The first bravo rushed him, sword raised for a chopping blow. Eslingen ducked under the attack, and drove his dagger into the man’s stomach. There was leather under the linen coat, and the blade slid sideways but caught on a lacing and tore into the man’s side. In the same moment, Eslingen brought his sword across, hilt first, and slammed it into the bravo’s face. The man dropped without a word, and Eslingen spun to face the second man, parrying awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Denizard and the third man exchanging thrusts, but his own opponent feinted deftly left and struck right, and the tip of his blade ripped Eslingen’s sleeve before the soldier could dodge away. Eslingen parried the next attack with his sword, and, as the man lunged again, trying to catch that blade, aimed his dagger for the bravo’s throat. It was an awkward blow, but the bravo’s own momentum drove him forward onto the blade, and Eslingen twisted away, freeing himself and his blade, the bravo’s blood hot on his hand. He turned toward Denizard, and saw her step into the second man’s attack, lifting her knee into his groin. He staggered back, blade swinging wildly, and Caiazzo shouted, “Ferran, to me!”

That was enough for Denizard’s attacker, who dropped his blade and ran. Eslingen crouched beside the dead man, wiping his hand on the skirt of the dead man’s coat, and then searched quickly through his pockets. He found a purse, and pocketed it, but there was nothing else. He shook his head–he had been hoping to find tablets, a slate, a paper, something–and turned to the other man, but Denizard was there before him.

“This one’s dead, too,” she said, and Caiazzo smiled, not pleasantly.

“Good. Anything on him?”

Denizard shook her head. “Just his purse, and from the weight of it, he wasn’t paid in advance.”

“Or this one was the banker,” Eslingen said, and held out the purse he’d taken. “There’s coin here.”

“Interesting,” Caiazzo said. “Bring it, let’s see what we were worth.” The boatmen appeared then, breathing hard, and Caiazzo swung to face them. “Ferran, help me with Malivai.”

Eslingen wiped sword and dagger on the dead man’s coat, and resheathed it, his fingers still sticky with the other’s blood. Caiazzo, still supporting Malivai, turned toward the boat, and Denizard fell into step behind him.

“How bad is it?” she asked, and the trader shook his head.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said, and the steersman came to help him, taking part of Malivai’s weight. The oarsmen followed, stolid, not looking at the dead bodies still littering the cobbles, and Eslingen trailed behind them back to the boat, wondering just what he’d gotten himself into this time. Two men dead, and another hurt–even Caiazzo would have a hard time buying his way out of this one. And I, Eslingen thought, don’t have his kind of influence to buy off my second dead man in as many weeks. He glanced at Caiazzo, but the trader’s face was closed and angry, and he decided to keep his questions for later. Together, Caiazzo and Ferran helped Malivai down into the boat, settling him against the cushions, and Caiazzo bent again over the injured man. Denizard stepped down into the boat as the oarsmen prepared to cast off, and Eslingen hesitated on the bank. For an instant, he was tempted to run, to step back into the shadows and turn and run as far and as fast as he could, until he was well out of sight and on the road north again. Then the magist looked up at him, her face curious, and Eslingen shook the thought away. It wouldn’t work, for one thing, he thought; and, for another, I’ve given my word here. And, most of all, I want to know what’s going on. He climbed into the boat and seated himself beside Denizard, letting his hand trail in the cool water, washing the blood away.

The landing by Caiazzo’s house was mercifully empty, and the boatmen vanished with the second sunset. Even so, Caiazzo and Ferran kept Malivai more or less upright on the short walk to the house– hiding an injured man from any prying neighbors’ eyes, Eslingen knew–and the trader only seemed to relax again when the doors closed behind him.

“Help Malivai upstairs,” he said to Ferran, and the steersman hesitated. “Aice will show you the way.”

Denizard nodded and started up the stairs. Ferran followed, almost carrying the messenger, who sagged visibly in his grip, and the senior steward appeared in shirt and breeches to help them. Caiazzo looked back at Eslingen. “Get yourself cleaned up, and join us. I’ll want you there.”

Eslingen nodded, for the first time really seeing the rip in his sleeve. The shirt was ripped as well: both would be difficult to mend, and expensive to replace. He sighed, and headed down the hall to the servants’ stair.

Candle and stand were waiting just inside his door, and he lit the taper from the lamp that burned constantly at the end of the hall before going back into his room. He shrugged out of his coat, swearing at the length of the tear–it ran from the edge of the cuff halfway up the shoulder on the outside of the arm, impossible to disguise–and swore again when he saw his shirt. It, too, was badly torn, and probably beyond saving. He crumpled it into a ball, and only then realized that the bravo’s sword had touched him as well. A long scratch ran along his forearm, showing a few drops of blood already drying. He scowled at that, and fumbled in his clothes chest for a clean rag. He had no desire to ruin a second shirt with bloodstains.

There was a knock at the door then, and he lifted his head. “Come in.”

One of the maidservants–Thouvenin, her name was, Anjevi Thouvenin, Eslingen remembered, and mustered a tired grin–stood in the half‑open doorway, a steaming basin in her hand. “The steward said you’d want to wash.”

She’d brought a length of bandage, too, Eslingen saw, and he took that gratefully, used it to clean the blood from the scratch. With her help, he laid a strip of cloth over the bit that was still bleeding and tied it in place, then eased himself into a clean shirt. He used the rest of the water to wash his face and hands–the right still felt sticky–and then shrugged himself into his second‑best coat. “Do you know where Caiazzo is?” he asked, and the woman grinned.

“The other end of the hall. Don’t worry, you’ll see the lights.”

She was as good as her word. At the far end of the house, a door stood open, spilling a wedge of candlelight across the floor. As Eslingen approached, he could hear voices, and then the steward came out, wiping his hands on an apron.

“Oh, Eslingen, good. He wants you.”

“I dare say,” Eslingen muttered, and stepped through the door. The room smelled of boiling herbs, a scent he recognized from the army physicians’ tents, and he wasn’t surprised to see a small pot simmering on the lit stove. Malivai lay in the great bed, propped up on pillows, a wide length of bandage wrapping his ribs. Above it, the skin was bruised and sore‑looking, and Eslingen winced in sympathy. Caiazzo, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up at the soldier’s approach, but went on talking.

“–not as bad as we thought. Damn it, Mal, you’ve no right scaring us like that. Eslingen here just joined my household, what’s he going to think of me?”

The man in the bed managed a smile, but he looked exhausted. Caiazzo glanced back at Eslingen. “Nothing’s punctured, just a long cut along the bone, and it looks clean enough. Of course, if they were Ajanine, we don’t really need to worry about poison, that’s a Chadroni trick.”

“If they were Ajanine,” Eslingen said, “they wouldn’t have run.” He sounded more sour than he’d meant, and Caiazzo fixed him with a stare.

“And I dare say you would know.”

“The wine’s hot, Hanse,” Denizard said, from the stove, and Caiazzo looked away.

“Bring a cup, then, please.” He waited while the magist ladled a cup full of the steaming liquid–it smelled of wine and sugar and herbs and something vaguely bitter, probably one of the esoterics– and then helped Malivai take a cautious sip. “Better?”

“Some,” the messenger answered, but Eslingen thought his voice sounded stronger.

“All right, then.” Caiazzo glanced over his shoulder, beckoned to the others. “What’s going on with de Mailhac?”

Malivai took a deep breath and then flinched, his face tightening in pain. Caiazzo fed him another sip of the wine, visibly curbing his impatience.

“Take your time.”

Malivai nodded. “She–there’s a magist at Mailhac, but not of your kind, Aicelin. He seems to have de Mailhac and her people under his command.”

Denizard looked startled at that. “There was no magist there when I was.”

“You’ve been there?” Eslingen asked, involuntarily. “This year, I mean?”

“At the end of Lepidas,” Denizard answered, and shook her head. “And I didn’t see a magist there then.”

“Well, there’s one there now,” Malivai said. “And de Mailhac does what she’s told.”

Caiazzo frowned. “Why? And how did he manage that?” The messenger’s eyes slid to Eslingen, and the trader sighed. “Eslingen– Philip Eslingen–is my knife, and he probably saved your life tonight. You can speak freely.”

“It’s the mine,” Malivai said. “He–all I could get was that he promised to increase the takings from the mine, and she agreed to it. And he’s been there ever since. And as best I can see, Hanse, it’s him who calls the tune.”

“And if he promised to increase the taking,” Caiazzo said, “why haven’t I seen an ounce of it this summer?”

Malivai shook his head. “He’s not letting it leave the estate. They– he’s keeping it, but he’s not spending it, and I never saw any of it, no one did. The mine’s guarded now, never like it used to be. I’m sorry, Hanse.”

“For what?” Caiazzo said. “Start from the beginning, Mal.”

“Sorry,” Malivai said again. He took a cautious breath. “I got to the estate on the thirteenth of Sedeion, didn’t go to the house, like you told me, but went to the stables, they’re usually hiring there. Only this year they’re not, the head hostler said, for all I could see they were short‑handed. When I asked him about that, he said they’d spent too much on their time at court, and couldn’t afford extra hands–”

“Court?” Caiazzo said, and Denizard shook her head.

“De Mailhac hasn’t been in Astreiant, I’d stake my life on that.”

“The Spring Balance,” Malivai said. “The queen was on progress then, de Mailhac joined the court there.” He took another slow breath. Caiazzo reached for the wine, but the messenger waved it away. “I’ll sleep if I have much more, I have to finish first. So I asked if anyone else on the estate was hiring, said I wanted to be near my leman in Anedelle, and that I’d been able to summer on the estate before–I’ve kin there, they’ll speak for me. And I think he would have hired me, but one of the stewards came out, and when he heard who I was, told me to get off the Mailhac lands. So I went down to Anedelle then, and asked what was going on at Mailhac, and nobody seemed to know, except that there was a magist there who had de Mailhac under his thumb. Nobody likes him in the household–he’s had the maseigne selling off her goods and he’s banned all clocks from the house, which is a grand nuisance to all concerned.” He smiled then, the expression crooked on his worn face. “Then a man tried to knife me while I slept, and I’ve been one step ahead of them ever since.”

“Banned clocks?” Denizard said. “Why?”

Malivai made an abortive gesture that might have become a shrug. “Some project of his, they think, but no one knows.”

Denizard shook her head. “What sort of magist is he? Did you get a name, or whose badge he wears?”

“I never got a name–I don’t think any of them knew–but he doesn’t wear a badge,” Malivai answered. “All I know is, in Anedelle they say he has de Mailhac completely cowed–she dances to his tune–and he seems to have control of the mine.”

Caiazzo muttered something profane, fingers tightening on the wine cup. With an effort, he put it aside before he crushed it, and stood up. “All right, Mal, sleep. You should, given what I put in the wine. Philip, Aice, come with me.”

He led them to his workroom, where someone had already lit a branch of candles. Almost absently, Denizard lit a second branch of six, and Eslingen watched the shadows chase each other across the face of the clock. It was a little past two, two hours past the second sundown, and he could feel the weight of the hours on the back of his neck.

“We have to tell someone, Hanse,” Denizard said, and set the last candle in its place.

“Oh, really?” Caiazzo stopped pacing long enough to glare at her, resumed his stride in an instant. “And whom do you propose we tell? Tell what, for Bonfortune’s sake? Officially, I don’t own this estate, Aice, it’s petty treason for a commoner.”

Denizard leaned forward, planting both hands on the table. “Gold, Hanse, is the queen’s metal, it and the royal house were born under the same stars. And right now, with the star change imminent, that link is going to be stronger than ever.”

“I handle gold every day of my life–well, these last ten years,” Caiazzo objected. “And I’m common as they come. That hasn’t made any difference.”

“That’s coin gold,” Denizard said. “It’s not pure gold, they add other metals to it in the refining, precisely to keep it safe. But what comes out of the mine is pure, and it can become aurichalcum if you handle it right. That’s queen’s gold, Hanse, and they call it that for a reason. The tie between them, the queen and her metal, it’s too strong. And that’s too dangerous to just ignore.” She smiled then, not without a certain sour humor. “And after the clock‑night, I find banning clocks a very unsettling thing, don’t you?”

“You can’t think this magist had anything to do with that,” Caiazzo said.

“I don’t know how,” Denizard admitted, “but I do know this is dangerous.”

“And betraying ownership of an Ile’nord–hells, an Ajanine– estate isn’t dangerous?” Caiazzo’s voice was less certain than his words. He stopped at the far end of the room, scowling at the cold stove. Eslingen stared at him, wondering what to do. Malivai’s news was too strange, too important not to let Rathe know about it, especially if Denizard was right about the gold, and there was a link between it and the queen, and the clocks and the magist. Caiazzo would not be happy– Caiazzo would be murderous, an inner voice corrected, and reasonably enough so. You promised him your loyalty–and I promised to tell Rathe if I ran into anything unusual, too, he told himself. It may not have anything to do with the kids, but it is important. It’s too strange not to be important. He slanted another glance at Caiazzo, who still stood silent, staring into the shadowed corner beyond the stove. It would be a shame to lose his respect, Eslingen thought, not just for the revenge the trader was certain to try to exact, but because he liked the man…

Denizard’s voice broke through his reverie. “It’s become political, Hanse. And that’s a game you don’t play.”

Caiazzo dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stood there for a long moment, unmoving, then lowered them and turned back into the light. For an instant, he looked older than Eslingen would have thought possible. “All right,” he said, softly. “All right. Eslingen–in the morning, I want you to go to Rathe–since he got you this job, maybe he’ll give you a break on this one. Go to Rathe, tell him about this night’s business.”

“All of it?” Eslingen asked, startled–this was the last thing he’d expected from Caiazzo–and the trader nodded.

“Well, as much as you have to, which, knowing Rathe, will be most of it. It was clearly self‑defense there in the square, and on my orders, so neither you nor I need to worry about that, but somebody’s bound to be asking questions about those bodies.” Caiazzo nodded slowly, as much to himself as to the others. “Yes, tell him what’s been happening–my people set upon in the streets, my business interfered with. That should keep him busy. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help put a stop to whatever is going on with de Mailhac.”

Rathe woke to the sound of knocking, gentle but persistent, and lay for a moment in the cool dawn light trying to place its source. It was someone at his door, he realized at last, and dragged himself out of his bed, groping for shirt and breeches. The knocking was still going on, a steady beat, not quite loud enough to wake the neighbors, but insistent. Rathe shivered, still only half awake, and reached for the knife that he had left hanging in its scabbard over the back of the chair.

“Who is it?” he called, and crossed to the door.

“It’s Istre, Nico.”

Rathe lifted the bar, and pulled open the heavy door. The magist looked as dishevelled as Rathe could ever remember seeing him, shadows heavy under his eyes, magist’s robe discarded for a coat that didn’t quite seem to fit across the shoulders. He hadn’t shaved, either, though the fair stubble was hardly noticeable at first glance, and Rathe stepped back automatically. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve found it, Nico. I know what the children are being used for.”

Rathe took a deep breath, feeling as though he’d been hit in the gut. “What?” he said, and b’Estorr stepped past him, reaching into his pocket to produced a small drawstring purse. He untied the strings, and poured a small triangle out onto the tabletop, where it lay gleaming in the early sunlight. Rathe stared at it for a moment. “Istre…”

b’Estorr nodded. “It’s gold, Nico. Actually, it’s coin aurichalcum. An impure form of true aurichalcum, more pure than most ordinary coins, but not nearly as pure as the real thing. Magists use it in their work.”

He picked up the little wedge and handed it across. Rathe took it gingerly, turning it over in his fingers. The shortest end was curved, and there were letters running along that curve, as well as what looked like part of an embossed design in the center. He looked up sharply. “This looks like part of a coin.”

b’Estorr nodded again. “It is. That’s where most of us get it, from great crowns.”

“Gods, I’ve never seen one,” Rathe said, and looked at the wedge of metal with even more respect. The great crown was the largest of Chenedolle’s coins, each one worth a hundred pillars–more than many people saw in their lifetime. “But what does this have to do with the children?”

b’Estorr dropped into the nearest chair. “Aurichalcum is gold, common gold, that’s been mined in a particular process. Everyone knows that much, but not many people outside the university know how. The process itself is what makes it magistically active, and that process requires people, special people. To turn raw gold into aurichalcum, each step of the process must be performed by pure beings who have the proper zodiacal relationship to their task–which, in practice, means children or carefully trained and watched celibates, each of whom is chosen for the job according to her or his birth signs.”

Rathe sank down on a stool opposite b’Estorr, set the piece of aurichalcum back on the table. “Children,” he whispered. “Gods, but why? Who would be doing such a thing?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. It’s crazy, it makes no sense to me at all, but that’s what everything points to. It’s the only thing these children could work together on. Someone has stolen them to process aurichalcum.”

Rathe looked from the wedge of gold, bright in the rising sun, to b’Estorr. “If magists use it…”

b’Estorr spread his hands. “I know, Nico, I know, and I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think why, or who. Gods know, we’re all limited by the sheer cost of coin aurichalcum, but that’s nothing compared to the effort to process the stuff. It’s false economy. And utterly mad.”

“Stealing children’s pretty mad, Istre,” Rathe said, and the necromancer made a face. “Whoever’s doing this is pretty crazy anyway. If the motive is crazy, well, it kind of fits, doesn’t it?”

“So all we have to do,” b’Estorr said dryly, “is find a gold mine. As I recall, there are gold mines aplenty in the Silklands, and in the Ile’nord, the western hills of Chenedolle, in southern Chadron, and in the Payshault, all of which are within reasonable striking distance of Astreiant.”

Rathe shook his head. “No, it has to be someplace that has good roads–they were buying draft horses, not pack animals.” If it was them, of course, a little voice added, but he shoved the thought away. It had to have been the astrologers who were buying the horses, or their allies; they couldn’t afford for it not to be.

b’Estorr nodded. “All right, that probably rules out the Silklands. Anyone sensible would go by water. But the rest–how can you choose?”

“I know,” Rathe said. “Does this connect with the clocks, Istre?”

“It could,” b’Estorr answered. “Aurichalcum–especially the purer forms–well, it’s not just politically potent. I suppose it would be possible to use it to turn the clocks, but why…”

He let his voice trail off, and Rathe nodded in morose agreement. There was a little silence, the only sound the rumble of an early wagon on the street below. The air that came through the half‑open window was damp, and smelled of the distant river; Rathe cocked his head, and thought he could hear the chime of the tower clock at the head of the Hopes‑point Bridge. “There haven’t been any new disappearances in days,” he said at last. “Does this mean they have all the kids they need?”

b’Estorr shrugged, got restlessly to his feet, and then stopped, the movement suspended, as though he’d simply needed to move and was now at a loss for something to do. “They could have. From the nativities I’ve seen, for the children who are missing, yes, I think most of the process is covered. But I don’t know, Nico, I wish before Aidones that I did.” He sighed heavily. “So what do we do now?”

Rathe threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I’ll go to Monteia–hells, I’ll go to the surintendant, and I’ll tell them this, and we’ll all look at each other, and say, wonderful, what now? Aside from anything else, we don’t have the right to pursue it, not outside the city, so we’d have to work with the local nobles, but since we don’t even know where the children are–” He broke off, shaking his head, aware of the futility of his anger. b’Estorr had given him more information than they had been able to gather over the past few weeks, but it still wasn’t enough. “I feel like a bastard asking this, after all you’ve done, but is there anything more you can do? Anything more you can tell us?”

b’Estorr crossed to the window, pushed the shutter open, and leaned out into the morning air. “When was the last disappearance?”

Rathe shook his head. “I’m not sure–five days ago, I think. I can check with the station. Does that matter?”

b’Estorr turned back to face him. “I don’t know. And I hate having to keep saying that. But it might help. I can do some more research, see if anything shows itself–I’ll certainly consult my colleagues. They’ll need to know about it for the clocks, anyway.”