Eslingen blinked, startled—he hadn’t seen her there in the shadows, or the big waiter, Loret, who was tucking a cudgel back under the strings of his apron—and Devynck went on, “I don’t suppose you’d care to make a habit of it? Defusing the trouble, not starting it, that is. I’d pay you or take it off your rent.”
Whatever else happened, Eslingen thought, he had not been expecting an offer of employment, but he wasn’t stupid enough to turn it down, not when he’d already decided to stay in Astreiant for the summer. He nodded slowly. “I’d be interested, sergeant, but I’d rather talk terms in the morning.”
“Good enough,” Devynck said, and turned away. “Your beer’s on the house tonight.”
“Thanks,” Eslingen answered, and allowed himself a wry smile. It was a cheap enough gesture: he wouldn’t be drinking that much now, not if he wanted to impress her. And he did want to impress her, he realized suddenly. He wanted this job, wanted to stay in the city, though he couldn’t entirely have said why. He shook his head, accepting his own foolishness, and started back to his table and Cijntien.
3
« ^ »
the list of missing children reported to all the points station arrived within three days—a measure in and of itself of the seriousness with which all the Points were taking the problem, Rathe thought— and was enough to silence even the most skeptical of the pointsmen. There were eighty-four names on the list, a little less than half of them from the five northriver points—no, Rathe realized, more than half, if you counted Point of Hearts as northriver. Which it was, technically; the district lay on the north bank of the Sier between the North Chain Tower and the Western Reach, but it was southriver in population and temperament. Still, he thought, that was not what any of them had expected. Logically, if children were going missing, either as runaways or because they were taken, they should come from southriver, where there were fewer people of influence to protest their vanishing. Or else, he added silently, turning over the last closely written sheet, I would have expected to hear of someone paying out money for the return of an heiress. And there had been none of that; just the opposite, in fact, merchant parents coming to the points stations to report the loss of daughters and sons, and to demand that the points find their missing offspring. There hadn’t been much of that in Point of Hopes, yet; the majority of their complainants had admitted, however grudgingly, that their children might well have run away—except, of course, for Mailet and the Quentiers.
Rathe sighed, set the list back in its place—Monteia had ordered it pinned in a leather folder chained to the duty desk, to keep the names and descriptions ready to hand—and reached for his daybook, moving into the fall of light from the window to skim through the pages of notes. There had been no sign of Gavaret Cordiere in any of the northriver cells—he had even made a special trip across the river to Fairs’ Point to ask Claes in person, but the man had just shaken his head. Not only hadn’t they arrested any boy matching Cordiere’s description, they hadn’t made point on any pickpockets for nearly four days. And it wasn’t that the pointsmen and women were taking fees, Claes added, with a quick grin; it was more that the pickpockets had stopped working. And that, both men agreed, had to be a bad sign— doubly bad, Claes had said, when you matched it with the new band of astrologers who were working the fairgrounds. The arbiters had declared they could stay, but no one needed any more mysteries just now. Rathe had agreed and left Cordiere’s description in the station, but he wasn’t relishing telling Estel Quentier of his failure.
“Rathe? Have you gotten the Robion girl’s stars yet?”
Rathe looked up to see Monteia standing just outside the wedge of light, a thin, dark-clad shadow against the dark walls. “I was going this afternoon. I wanted to check everything else first.”
“No luck, then.”
Rathe shook his head, barely stopped himself from glancing again through the pages of notes as though he might find something new there. He had been to the local markets, and to every early-opening shop on the Knives Road, as well as searching out the rag-pickers and laundresses who served the street, all without noticeable result. “A woman who does laundry for the Gorgon’s Head says she thinks she saw a girl in green going down Knives toward the Rivermarket, but she can’t remember if it was Demesday or Tonsday that she saw it—or last year, for that matter. And a journeyman sneaking in late thinks he might have seen a girl in green going south, away from the river, but he says freely he was too drunk to remember his mother’s name.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Nothing at the Rivermarket?” Monteia went on.
“Not so far. I’ve been through once myself, no one remembers her, but it was a busy morning. I’ve asked Ganier to keep an ear out, though.” Ganier was the pointswoman who had semiofficial responsibility for the complaints that came from the district’s markets.
Monteia nodded. “On your way back from Mailet’s—or to it, I don’t care—I’d like you to stop in the Old Brown Dog. I hear Aagte Devynck has hired herself a new knife, and I’d like to see what you think of him. And make sure he understands our position on troublemakers.”
Rathe frowned, and Monteia shrugged. “I’m sending Andry to collect his bond, unless you want the fee.”
You know I don’t, Rathe thought, but said only, “Thanks anyway. I’ll talk to him.”
“It’s not like Aagte to hire outside help,” Monteia said, her voice almost musing. “I hope we’re not in for trouble there. Not right now.”
“So do I,” Rathe answered, and slipped his book back into his pocket. He collected his jerkin and truncheon from their place on the wall behind the duty desk, and stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. The winter-sun hung over the eastern housetops, a pale gold dot that dazzled the eye; the true sun, declining into the west, cast darker shadows, so that the street was crosshatched with lines of dark and lighter shade. He threaded his way through the busy crowds, turned onto the Knives Road without really deciding which job to do first. Mailet’s hall was closest; better to get it over with, he told himself, and crossed the street to Mailet’s door.
There were no chopping blocks on the street today, or apprentices showing off for the servant girls, though the shutters were down and he could see customers within. He paused outside the doorway to let a matron pass, a covered basket tucked under her arm, then stepped into the shop. The journeyman Grosejl was working behind the counter, along with a boy apprentice. She looked up sharply at his approach, hope warring with fear in her pale face, and Rathe shook his head.
“No word,” he said, and she gave a visible sigh.
“Enas, finish what you’re doing and run tell Master Mailet that the pointsman’s here.” She forced a smile, painfully too bright, to Rathe’s eyes, and passed a neatly wrapped package across the countertop. “There you are, Marritgen, that’ll be a spider and a half.”
The woman—she had the look of a householder, gravely dressed—fumbled beneath her apron and finally produced a handful of demmings. She counted out five of them, Grosejl watching narrowly, and slid them across the countertop. Grosejl took them, gave a little half bow.
“Thanks, Marritgen. Metenere go with you.”
The woman muttered something in answer, and slipped out through the door. The other customers had vanished, too, and Grosejl made a face.
“They’ll be back,” Rathe said. He was used to the effect he had on even honest folk, but the journeyman shook her head.
“It’s a sad thing, pointsman, when they’re half blaming us for Herisse vanishing. There’s regular customers who won’t come near us, like it was a disease, or something.”
There was nothing Rathe could say to that, and Grosejl seemed to realize it, looked away. “I’m sorry. There’s still nothing?”
“Nothing of use,” Rathe answered, as gently as he could. “We’re still looking.”
“No body, though,” she said, with an attempt at a smile, and Mailet spoke from the doorway.
“I need some more information from you,” Rathe said, and took a tight hold of his temper. “And for what it’s worth, which is quite a lot, in actual fact, we don’t have ghosts, either. Which means they’re probably not dead.”
“They?” Grosejl said.
Mailet grunted. “Hadn’t you heard, girl? We’re not the only ones suffering. There’re children missing all over this city.” He looked at Rathe without particular fondness. “Come on back, if you want to talk. My records are within.”
“Thanks,” Rathe said, and followed him through the narrow door into the main part of the hall. This time, Mailet led him into the counting room, tucked in between the main workroom and the stairs that led to the living quarters on the upper floors. It was a comfortable, well-lit space, with diamond-paned windows that gave onto the narrow garden—not much of a garden, Rathe thought, just a few kitchen herbs and a ragged-looking stand of save-all, but then, a dozen apprentices would tend to beat down all but the most determinedly defended plants. There were candles as thick as a woman’s ankle on sturdy tripod dishes, unlit now but ready for the failing light, and an abacus and a counting board lay on the main table. A ledger was propped on the slanting lectern, and there were more books, heavy plain-bound account books and ledgers, locked in the cabinet beside the door.
“You said you wanted information,” Mailet said, and lowered himself with a grunt into the chair behind the table. An embroidered pillow, incongruously bright, lay against the chair’s back, and the butcher adjusted it with an absent grimace, tucking it into the hollow of his spine. A bad back, Rathe guessed, an occupational hazard, leaning over the chopping blocks all day.
“That’s right,” he said aloud. “My chief wants to know if you have Herisse’s nativity in your records.”
Mailet’s head lifted, more than ever like a baited bull. Rathe met his gaze squarely, and saw the master swallow his temper with a visible effort. “I have it,” he said at last. “I take it this means you don’t have the faintest idea what’s happened.”
“I’ve found two people who might have seen her,” Rathe said, and took tight hold of his own temper in his turn. “But their stories don’t match, and I don’t have a way to test who’s mistaken.”
“Or lying.”
“Or lying,” Rathe agreed. “But I don’t have reason to think that yet, either. We’re not giving up, though.”
“Well, I have some news for you,” Mailet said. “Some oddness that’s come to my ears. My neighbor Follet brought me the word yesterday, I’ve been trying to decide what to do with it. But since you’re here…” He shook himself, went on more briskly. “Follet knows Herisse is missing—everyone does, we passed the word through the guild—and he told me one of his journeymen was out drinking the other night, at the Old Brown Dog. Do you know the place?”
Rathe nodded. “I know it.”
Mailet grunted. “Then you know the woman who runs it, too.”
“Devynck’s not a bad sort,” Rathe said, mildly. “Honest of her kind.”
“Which isn’t saying much,” Mailet retorted. He leaned forward, planting both elbows firmly on the tabletop. “But that’s neither here nor there, pointsman. What is important is what Paas—that’s Follet’s journeyman—heard there. There were two soldiers drinking, Leaguers, and they were talking about the missing children. And one of them was saying, if he couldn’t find a company, how could some half-trained butcher’s brat?”
“He’d heard of the disappearance, then?” Rathe asked, after a moment. It was an interesting remark, and certainly suggestive considering how most of Devynck’s neighbors felt about the League, but hardly solid enough to be called evidence, or even a lead.
“If he had, would I be bothering you with it?” Mailet said. “He couldn’t’ve done, you see, he swore he’d just arrived in the city today.”
“So this Paas confronted him,” Rathe said.
Mailet looked away. “He was drunk, Follet said, the soldier put him out—and neatly, too, I’ll give him that, no violence offered.” He looked up again. “And that, pointsman, is why I didn’t come to you at once. But since you’re here, I thought I might as well tell you. Devynck’s a bad lot, and there are worse who drink in her house.”
“I’ll make inquiries,” Rathe said. And I will, too: convenient, being bound there anyway. It’s not much to go on, but it’s something. I wonder if he’s the new knife Monteia was talking about?
“And you still want Herisse’s nativity,” Mailet said. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the cabinet that held the hall’s books. He fished in his pocket for his keys on their long chain—gold, Rathe noted, from long habit, a good chain worth half a year’s wages for a poor woman—and unlocked the cabinet, then ran his finger along the books’ spines until he found the volume he wanted. He brought it back to the table and reseated himself, folding his hands on top of the cover. “And what do you want it for?”
“We intend to ask an astrologer to cast her horoscope for us,” Rathe answered. “For her on the day she disappeared, and for her current prospects.” Knowledge of the girl’s stars would also be helpful if they had to locate a body, or to identify one long dead, but there was no need to mention those possibilities just yet. Mailet would have thought of them on his own, in any case.
“That’s not likely to do you much good,” Mailet grumbled. Rathe said nothing—he knew that as well as anyone; it was axiomatic in dealing with astrologers that as the focus of the question narrowed the certainties became smaller—and the butcher sighed, and opened the book. He flipped through the pages, scowling now at the lines of ink that were fading already from black to dark brown, finally stopped on a page close to the end. “Here. This is her indenture, her chart’s there at the bottom of the page.”
Rathe pulled out his tablet, and swung the ledger toward him to copy the neat diagram. It was, he admitted silently, almost certain to be an exercise in futility. Most southriver children knew the date and the place of their birth, but were less clear about its time. Not many common women would have the coin to pay someone to keep track precisely, and their midwives would have enough to do, tending the birth itself, and after, to make it unlikely that the time would be noted with the quarter-hour’s accuracy the astrologers preferred. He himself knew his stars to within a half hour, and counted himself lucky at that; most of his friends had known only the approximate hour, nothing more. He incised the circle and its twelve divisions with the ease of long practice—even the poorest dame schools taught one how to construct that figure—and glanced at the drawing in the ledger. The familiar symbols were clear enough, the planets spread fanlike across one side of the wheel, but to his surprise there were numbers sketched beside each of the marks, and along the spokes that marked the divisions of the houses. He looked up.
“It’s very complete. Is it accurate?”
Mailet shrugged. “I suppose—I assume so. She was born on the day of the earthquake in twenty-one, and she told me her mother heard the clock strike five the moment she was born. Her aunt, the one who paid her indenture, had the chart drawn for her as an apprenticeship gift.”
Rathe nodded. He remembered the earthquake himself, the way the towers of the city had staggered; it hadn’t done much damage, but it had terrified everyone, and untuned all the city clocks so that the temple of Hesion had been jammed for a solar month afterward, and the grand resident had built a new tower from the offerings. No one would forget that date, and the astrologers would know the stars’ positions by heart. “This was copied from that chart, the one her aunt bought her?” he asked, and Mailet nodded. “Did she take it with her, or would it be in her room?”
“She carried it around with her like a talisman,” Mailet answered. “You’d think it named her some palatine’s missing heiress.”
Rathe sighed. He would have to hope that whoever copied it into the indenture had
been accurate—or pay to have the chart drawn again, which would be expensive. He drew the symbols one after the other, then copied the numbers, checking often to make sure he had it right. Nothing looked unusual, there were no obvious flaws or traps, and he sighed again and closed the tablets. “Thank you,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet.
“For all the good it does you,” Mailet answered, but his expression softened slightly. “Let us know if you find anything, pointsman. Send to us, day or night.”
“Of course,” Rathe answered, and let himself back into the hall.
The Old Brown Dog lay just off the Knives Road, on the tenuous border between Point of Hopes and Point of Dreams, and neither station was eager to claim it. In practice, it fell to Point of Hopes largely because Monteia was able to deal with Devynck woman to woman. Or something, Rathe added silently, watching a flock of gargoyles lift from a pile of spilled seeds beside a midden barrel. Maybe they’d simply settled on an appropriate fee between them.
The main room was almost empty at midafternoon, only an ancient woman sitting beside the cold hearth, her face so wrinkled and shrunken beneath her neat cap that it was impossible to tell if she were asleep or simply staring into space. A couple of the waiters were playing tromps, the table between them strewn with cards and a handful of copper coins, and a tall man sat in the far corner reading a broadsheet prophecy, feet in good boots propped up on the table in front of him. Good soldier’s boots, Rathe amended, and his gaze sharpened. Devynck liked to hire out-of-work soldiers, and this just might be her new knife. The stranger looked up, as though he’d heard the thought or felt Rathe’s eyes on him, and lowered the broadsheet with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He was handsome, almost beautiful, Rathe thought, with the milk white Leaguer complexion that was so fashionable now, and long almost-black hair. In the light from the garden window, his eyes were very blue, the blue of ink, not sky, and he’d chosen the ribbons on his hat and hair to match the shade. And that, Rathe thought, recalling himself to the job at hand, bespoke a vanity that, while not surprising, was probably not attractive.
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