“Yes, Adjunct Point.”
They had something, then, something solid. Rathe rubbed his chin, considering, then said, “Wait here. I’ll have to send for him.”
He ducked back into the yard, and beckoned to Ladoi, who was hovering by the gate. “Take a note for me,” he said, and fumbled in his purse for a scrap of paper. He scribbled a note on it, folded it, and handed it to the runner along with a couple of seillings. “I want you to go to Fairs’ Point—take a low-flyer, the time matters—and find Lieutenant Eslingen. Give him this and tell him to meet me at the deadhouse. Tell him it’s important.”
Ladoi’s eyes widened almost comically—this was the stuff of bad plays—but he nodded. “Right away, Adjunct Point,” he said, and darted off. Rathe turned back to the side gate.
“All right,” he said, to the waiting runner. “Let’s go.”
Despite the horse’s apparent age, they reached the deadhouse in good time, and a journeyman brought Rathe back to the same workroom where Fanier and b’Estorr had done their first experiments. The necromancer was nowhere in sight, but Fanier was frowning over a sheet of scribbled notes, and looked up as the door opened, setting his spectacles on top of his head.
“Oh, good. Istre’s just gone to fetch an ephemeris. Is your black dog coming?”
“He’s at the races,” Rathe answered. “I’ve sent for him.”
“That’s good. He may have something to say about this.” Fanier put his glasses on his nose again, and scowled at the paper.
“Care to tell me what it’s about?” Rathe asked.
“We’ve got one solid answer,” Fanier said, “and quite a few interesting suppositions. But I’d rather wait till the others get here. There’s tea on the stove if you want some. Perfectly wholesome stuff.”
Rathe grinned, but poured himself a cup, and settled on the bench to wait. To his surprise, Eslingen appeared before b’Estorr, looking both slightly disheveled and entirely pleased with himself, and Rathe poured him a cup of tea. “Good day at the races?”
“Sunflower won,” Eslingen answered. “That puts him through to the next race in the ladder, the last before the final, and I turned back the purse. Naimi thinks he’s got a chance of winning that one, too, given the dogs that are left to run. We had a break when a couple of the favorites stumbled.”
Rathe nodded, a new thought running through his mind. “How many of the owners and trainers turn back their prizes, do you think?”
“A fair number. It’s a reasonable bet, at least at this point in the season.”
The workroom door opened before Rathe could pursue the question, and b’Estorr let himself into the room. “Sorry. I had to go all the way back to the University to find a copy.”
“Alchemists don’t use ephemerides?” Rathe asked, and Fanier snorted.
“We do, but not that kind. It’s a little—fine-grained—for our work.”
b’Estorr set the volume on the worktable with an audible thud. “It may, I admit, be overkill, but I want to be sure I’m reading the planets around the winter-sun correctly, and DeBryck is the only one who gives the tables on a daily basis.”
“The outer planets just don’t move that fast,” Fanier muttered.
“Relative to each other,” b’Estorr said. It had the sound of an on-going argument, and Rathe pulled himself up off the bench.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning, and tell me why you wanted us here?”
He was looking at Fanier, but the alchemist shook his head. “It’s Istre’s idea, not mine.”
“Istre?”
“Ah.” The necromancer looked faintly embarrassed. “Well. I had an idea about how the silver was being moved—assuming, of course, that the intention of what’s been happening is to move silver from one place to another by magistry, and that what I observed in Beier’s rooms was in fact the residue of such an operation—”
“Istre,” Rathe said.
“I’ve worked out how I think it’s being done,” b’Estorr said. “That’s what Fanier’s looking at.”
“And, for what it’s worth, I agree with Istre,” the alchemist interjected.
“It partly depends on the angles between Oriane and Sofia, and Oriane and the winter-sun,” b’Estorr went on, “and it certainly helps that Oriane and the winter-sun are in conjunction—that’s what I wanted to get from DeBryck, some idea of what the tolerances are. But—to make a complicated matter somewhat less so—someone has worked out a way to use the stars as they currently stand to send large amounts of silver from one place to another.”
Rathe stood still for a moment, his thoughts whirling. “Do you know where they’re sending it? And do you have any idea who? And—you said this took an enormous amount of energy. How are they raising it?”
“The races,” Eslingen said, and Rathe stopped abruptly.
“Of course. The crowds, the focus, the cheering—”
“The riot,” Eslingen said.
“And that.” Rathe nodded. “Damn it, I’d like to know what Fairs’ has found out about who started it.”
“I think you’re right,” b’Estorr said. “The riot would be better than the races themselves—the focus is singular, rather than spread across a group of races.”
“But if that’s the case,” Rathe said, “I know what they’re after. The last day of the races, the strongroom at Fairs’ Point will be stuffed with all the purse money, ready to be paid out—because everyone wants to see the flash of coin—not to mention all the bonds ready to be reclaimed.”
“I agree,” b’Estorr said. He shook his head. “And, unfortunately, I don’t have the answers to any of your other questions. I don’t know where it’s being sent, and I most certainly don’t see any indication of who’s behind it.”
Rathe swore. “Has to be someone who knows magistry, though.”
“Or someone who can use it,” b’Estorr said.
“You’re thinking that’s what she hired Beier for,” Eslingen said. “To create this conjuration. And then killed him when he got somehow out of hand.”
Rathe swore again. “Caiazzo.”
“He’d never—” Eslingen began, and Rathe shook his head.
“No, he’s definitely not the man, but—he hired Beier per usual to write his pamphlets, and Beier begged him for an extension, said he had another matter in hand that wasn’t quite finished. It’s not proof, but it’s suggestive.”
The others nodded in slow agreement, and b’Estorr said, “You’d need someone with an education, I think. This isn’t a simple conjuration.”
“How much education?” Rathe asked.
“Education’s the wrong word,” Fanier said. “Familiarity, more like, or comfort.”
“Well, I suppose, but if anything goes wrong,” b’Estorr began, and Rathe interrupted.
“Could I do it? Without Beier holding my hand?”
“I don’t know,” b’Estorr said, and Fanier shrugged.
“You’d have to be very, very careful, and it would take twice as long as it ought.”
“This seems to be coming off very neatly each time it’s tried,” Eslingen said, and it was Rathe’s turn to nod.
“Someone who’s been to University, then?”
“Or someone whose trade or art depends on magistry,” Fanier said.
“That narrows it down a bit,” Eslingen said.
Not as much as one would like, Rathe thought, but swallowed the words. “It’s a help. But we need something more to go on.”
“We might be able to give you that,” Fanier said slowly. “We’ve had some thoughts, Istre and I.”
“It’s a complicated bit of magistry,” b’Estorr said, “and it takes a lot of power, which means it leaves a trail. You heard it, Eslingen, when we were in Beier’s room. There’s an echo, and it lingers. I think we might be able to make a sort of compass to follow that trace.”
“You mean you could use it to track the woman who’s doing this?” Rathe asked. “Or man, I suppose.”
“But if you know where the silver went,” Eslingen said, “they’re bound to come to collect it sometime.”
“I’d rather catch them before they have a chance to take the prize money,” Rathe said. “Sweet Tyrseis, if that goes missing on finals day…” There would be a riot that made the one three days ago look like a student frolic. “Couldn’t you, I don’t know, interrupt the conjuration?”
“I don’t know if we can do that,” b’Estorr said. “Not without causing some thoroughly nasty side effects—and by that I mean explosions and fire.”
Fanier nodded in morose agreement. “You saw what happened with one coin when we put it on the fire instead of letting the spell run its course. Imagine that with a strongroom full of silver.”
Rathe swore again. No, that was no solution, and that left him little option. “Can you trace the silver that’s already gone missing?”
“We can try,” b’Estorr said. “But even if we come up with something that would let us do it, we’d have to cross the trail, so to speak. We know where Beier died, but we also know where that silver went.”
“Straight into him,” Eslingen muttered.
“I know where some of the thefts took place,” Rathe began. Except he didn’t, not really. He knew that money had been taken from strongboxes, but most of those strongboxes belonged to book-writers, which meant that they were on the move. And the few shopkeepers with fixed addresses were firmly in Fairs’ Point, as far out of his reach as if they’d been in Chadron. “But probably not closely enough to help us. Istre, I’d take it kindly if you and Fanier would do whatever you can to make that—compass, you called it?”
b’Estorr nodded. “Of course we will.”
“And in the meantime…” Rathe shook his head, not liking his choices. “I need to talk to Trijn.”
Chapter Twelve
Trijn heard him out over a pipe and a pint of autumn ale, and sat frowning for a while after he’d finished. “So you think this unknown person is after the silver kept at Fairs’ Point for the races? But you don’t have any idea who she might be.”
“That’s the sum of it,” Rathe answered. “And because of both those things, I think we need to warn Fairs straightaway. But Voillemin won’t take it from me.”
“What makes you think he’ll take it from me?” Trijn’s pipe had gone out, and she busied herself relighting it. “Claes would, give him his due, but Voillemin—he knows I didn’t think much of him when he was here, and he’ll see your hand in it.”
“Not that he’s wrong,” Rathe said, with a sigh.
“Just so.” Trijn gave a thin smile. “All right, Nico, if this were your case—if it were happening here, rather than Fairs, all the gods forbid—how would you proceed?”
Rathe paused. He’d given the matter some thought on the walk back from the deadhouse, but the ideas seemed even thinner now that he had to put them into words. “In an ideal world, with nothing else demanding much attention? Get b’Estorr and Fanier to put together several of these compasses they’re talking about, and then send some of the juniors out to quarter the area where the thefts took place, see if they can’t pick up a trace of the missing silver.”
“Because you can’t know exactly where a book-writer lost her money,” Trijn said, nodding. “And given that there’s the races to worry about?”
“I’d still try it. Start with the shops, maybe, since a few of them lost coin. If that didn’t pick up the trail—” Rathe stopped, shrugging. “I’d need to talk more to b’Estorr, but I’d try moving the silver. Spread it out over a few different places, preferably in other parts of the city—we don’t know what the range of this conjuration is, or how many caches of coin it can target at one time.”
“Not possible on Finals Day,” Trijn said.
“I know.” The owners and trainers expected to be paid in coin, bags of it that they could hoist overhead, and the city looked forward to that demonstration, the visible, tangible reward for the conjunction of luck and effort. He shook his head. “The rest has to be points’ work—who’s got coin who shouldn’t, what Beier’s job was, the one that he put off Caiazzo to finish, anyone who’s acting oddly. Things I don’t know to look for because Fairs’ isn’t my patch. And if that doesn’t turn it up, then—”
“Then there’s going to be hell to pay on Finals Day,” Trijn said. “Surely they’re already doing those things.”
“But they don’t know about the silver,” Rathe said. “Or the compass.”
“You’re sure that will work?”
“b’Estorr thinks it will.”
“And you trust him.”
“With good cause,” Rathe said, and it was Trijn’s turn to sigh.
“True enough.” Trijn fiddled with her tobacco-pouch, twisting the ties between her fingers. “I think we need to take this to the Surintendant. I can’t make Voillemin do it, but Fourie certainly can.”
“If he doesn’t, it’s only going to make things worse,” Rathe said.
“I know it. And to that end, you, Rathe, are not to speak unless they need something clarified. I’d leave you at home if I could, but you understand the details better than I do.”
“A letter?” Rathe suggested, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when Trijn shook her head.
“We have to make them see it—we can’t not warn them,” Trijn answered. “Finals Day is coming…”
Rathe nodded, not happily. If the prize money—and the bonds, and the bettors’ cash—disappeared before it could be paid out—no, that wasn’t something anyone wanted to contemplate. But he had no real desire to take the matter to Fourie, either.
As he’d expected, the Surintendant responded by summoning them all to Temple Point, where he held his own court in a three-story tower built onto the side of the larger points station. It also held the station’s clock, and as Rathe climbed to the second floor in Trijn’s wake, he could feel the steady ticking of its gears.
The meeting room was surprisingly pleasant, curtains drawn back to reveal tall, narrow windows that laid stripes of sunlight across the parquet floor. There were herbs in the pierced holders beside the fireplace, where the remains of the morning’s fire was being allowed to die, and there were enough chairs set at the long table to seat more than the group Rathe would have expected. Fourie sat at the center, severe in black and narrow lace, his thinning hair cropped close to his skull and his hands and face bare of paint. A secretary hovered at his shoulder, murmuring in his ear, and the Surintendant nodded, but broke off to give a narrow smile.
“Chief Point. And Rathe. Be seated, please.” He gestured toward the seats at his left, and Trijn gathered her skirts, sitting straight as a Regent. Before Rathe could take his place beside her, the door opened again, and one of Temple’s runners looked in.
“Acting Chief Point Voillemin, sir. And the Patent Administrator and the Senior Racing Secretary.”
Those were the extra chairs, Rathe realized. At least Fourie was taking it seriously.
“Sit, please,” Fourie said, before any of the newcomers could draw breath to protest, and after only a moment’s hesitation, they settled themselves at the opposite end of the table. “Now, Trijn. You say you have some alarming news to broach.”
“It is alarming.” Trijn folded her hands on the tabletop. “We have reason to believe that the numerous small thefts of silver reported by Fairs’ Point and the murder of Aardre Beier are all connected, and may in fact be leading to a much larger attempted robbery.” She went through the chain of inference point by point, laying out what they’d done, and why, and when she’d finished, the Patent Administrator spread his hands.
“Surely this is madness.”
“And it’s none of Dreams’ business,” Voillemin said, his voice tight. “None of these cases should be on their books at all, they’re all within our jurisd
iction—”
“With respect,” Trijn said, “I told you how we came to each of them. Beier’s woman is our resident, and she came to us with the complaint. And these small thefts were placed in circular, which makes them of general concern.”
“But not to the point of coming into our area,” Voillemin said, “searching rooms within our bounds. Surintendant, you cannot allow this to stand.”
“While I’m prepared to agree that at least some of this is not Dreams’ business,” Fourie said dryly, “I think we have a larger question to worry about, my masters.”
“You can’t be taking this seriously,” Solveert said. “Perhaps—perhaps!—someone has found a way to move small amounts of silver, but the prize money for the races? There’s easily several hundredweight in the strongroom, probably more. You cannot move silver by magistry, not without a great deal of energy, and to move that much—again, I say, it’s madness.”
“You’re very sure of that,” Fourie said.
“I’m a Fellow of the University.” Solveert drew himself up to his full height. “It’s basic magistry.”
“If it’s not Dreams’ business,” Voillemin said, “then they should be told to lay off.”
Rathe drew breath himself at that, met Trijn’s glare, and subsided. She was right, it would do no good for him to argue. He was only here to clarify what he’d found, and only if he was asked.
“And that’s for me to decide, Acting Chief,” Fourie said, his voice still mild.
The Racing Secretary cleared her throat. “It is indeed an alarming story, Chief Point,” she said. “And Acting Chief. Surintendant. But what, precisely, do you suggest we do about it?”
There was a little silence. They could all see the problem—Trijn had laid it out clearly the day before, and Rathe had found no better answer. Voillemin snorted.
“Yes, Rathe, what do you want to do? Stand guard on it yourself? Do you think that’ll do any good when it disappears from under your feet?”
Rathe glared, and Trijn laid one hand flat on the table. “You’re the Acting Chief at Fairs, as you’ve been so quick to remind us. Perhaps you might come up with an idea rather than blaming your betters.”
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