Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

  “Yesterday afternoon, according to Foucquet, and I would imagine her people keep a keen eye on their apprentices,” Fourie answered.

  Rathe nodded.

  “He had the morning off, it was his regular half-day, which he was supposed to use in studying. When he didn’t show up for the afternoon session, they sent a senior clerk around to his room. He wasn’t there, but nothing of his was missing, either.” Fourie looked up from his notes, and gave a thin smile. “Under the circumstances, they felt it was a points matter.”

  Rathe nodded again. “It sounds like half a dozen cases I know of, two I’m handling personally. Does maseigne know how many cases there are like that in the city right now?”

  “I imagine she does,” Fourie answered. “I daresay that’s why she wants you. It makes no difference, Rathe. The judge-advocate wants you handling this case, and so do I. Can you tell me honestly you don’t want it?”

  Rathe made a face. He owed Foucquet for patronage that had been very useful when he was starting out; more than that, he liked and respected her, and beyond that still, any missing child had claim on him. “No, sir, it’s not that, of course it isn’t. It’s just…” He paused and ran a hand through his hair, wondering just how far he could go. “Gods know, yes, I owe maseigne in any case, and at least she’s not asking me to drop any southriver cases for some clerk’s apprentice—” He had gone too far there, he realized abruptly, and stopped, shaking his head. “Sorry, sir. It’s been a bastard of a day.”

  Fourie inclined his head in austere acceptance of the apology, but said nothing. Rathe watched him warily, not quite daring to ask the question in his mind, and Fourie leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “What’s your theory on it all, Rathe?”

  “I haven’t got one,” Rathe answered. As you well know. None of us have any theories, or at least nothing solid, from the newest runner to the dozen chief points. “With respect, sir, why are you taking this case out of Point of Hearts? I’m not unwilling, but they’re not going to like it, and I can’t say I blame them.”

  Fourie ignored the question. “What about politics?”

  “Politics?” Rathe repeated, and shook his head. “I don’t see it. I mean, I know this is a tricky time, with the starchange and all, but— what do these children have to do with that? They’re not well enough born for blackmail—they don’t have anything in common, as far as I can see.”

  “I know,” Fourie said. “I’m not—fully—sure myself. Maybe nothing. But there are factions seeking to influence Her Majesty’s choice of a successor. Too many things are happening at once for it all to be a coincidence, Rathe.” He leaned forward, as though he had reached a decision. “I want you to check out Caiazzo’s involvement.”

  “Caiazzo?” Rathe leaned back in his chair. Hanselin Caiazzo was—officially, at least—a longdistance trader, an up-and-coming merchant-venturer who had almost escaped the taint of his southriver origins. He was also, and less officially, the paymaster for or master of a good dozen illegal businesses both south and north of the Sier, with interest that ranged from the Court of the Thirty-Two Knives to Point of Graves to the Exemption Docks. No one had yet proved a point on him, and not for want of effort. Customs Point was doing very well from his fees, or so the rumor had it. “I don’t see it… ”

  “Caiazzo has a good many business interests in the north,” Fourie said. “Especially in the Ile’nord.”

  “That’s not illegal.”

  “Not in and of themselves, no,” Fourie agreed. “But when one of the likeliest choices for the succession is Palatine Marselion, for whom Caiazzo has acted on more than one occasion…” He let his voice trail off, suggestively, and Rathe shook his head.

  “I don’t see a connection with the missing children, sir.”

  “Caiazzo’s been known to bankroll unlicensed printers,” Fourie said. “Well known for it, in fact, even if we’ve never proved the point. And astrologers. If Marselion is up to something, what better way to distract the city, and by distracting the city, the queen’s government? If that’s the plan, you have to admit, it’s working. What have all the broadsheets been talking of for the past week? The nobility? The succession? Politics or ordinary predictions at all? No—it’s these missing children.”

  It’s very thin. Rathe bit back the instinctive response, said, more carefully, “Look, politics just isn’t a game Caiazzo’s interested in playing, he never has been. Frankly, sir, the return just isn’t good enough.”

  “Backing the next Queen of Chenedolle is bound to have a sizeable return, Rathe, whether it be in immediate wealth or favor and influence.”

  “Sir, is this really about the children, or is this just a chance to get Caiazzo?”

  The surintendant gave another thin smile. “ ‘Just’ a chance to get Caiazzo, Rathe? The man’s behind at least half the illegal activities in Astreiant. We—you personally—have been after him for, what, three, five years now? If we can get him on treason and trafficking in children, he won’t get free of it.”

  It made a kind of sense, Rathe knew, but couldn’t pretend he was happy with it. He hesitated, searching for a diplomatic way to say what had to be said, then shook his head. “I won’t find evidence that isn’t there, sir.”

  Fourie nodded. “I know. That’s why I picked you for the job.” It was, Rathe supposed, meant as a compliment, however backhanded. “But I want you to look into this—Foucquet’s more important than her rank would suggest, she has a great deal of influence with the judiciary, and so far she hadn’t said who she supports. This apprentice of hers could have been taken to force her hand. Look into it, Rathe, with particular attention to Caiazzo.”

  Rathe stared at him with some frustration. This wasn’t Caiazzo’s style, he’d fenced with the man long enough to know that; Caiazzo stayed away from politics and political business as only a commoner would. And Caiazzo was southriver born and bred, he of all people would know better than to risk stirring up the smouldering angers there. Unless he was a Leveller? Rathe added silently, but dismissed the thought as soon as it was formed. Caiazzo was no Leveller: society suited him very well in its present form, and he’d be the first to say as much. But there was no ignoring the surintendant’s direct order. “Very well, sir,” he said, and made no effort to keep the skepticism from his voice.

  Fourie ignored it, nodded in dismissal. “And keep me informed.”

  Rathe walked back from the Tour to Point of Hopes, grumbling that he had better things to spend his money on. He was tempted to avoid the station entirely, tell Monteia about this new case and the surintendant’s new interpretation of the old one in the morning, but his mother had always said that unpleasant duties were best dealt with as quickly as possible. He sighed, and went on through the courtyard into the station.

  Jans Ranazy was on duty again, and Rathe made a face, quickly concealed. He wasn’t fond of the other man, and knew the feeling was mutual; Monteia had done her best to keep them working apart, but the station staff was too small to make her efforts completely effective. Ranazy’s dinner sat on a tray on top of the daybook, and Rathe grimaced again, recognizing the Cazaril Grey’s horsehead stamped into the cheap pottery. Only Ranazy, of all the points, including Monteia herself, managed to afford to have his dinner brought over from the inn. All the others, fee’d or not, brought cold dinners when they had the night shift, or cooked over the stove. But that didn’t suit Ranazy’s opinion of himself.

  Ranazy looked up then, and smiled, not pleasantly. “Still on duty, Nico?”

  “It’s been a busy afternoon,” Rathe answered. “Is the chief in the office?”

  “She’s out back, in the yard.” Ranazy would clearly have loved to ask more, but Rathe ignored his curiosity, and pushed open the back door of the station.

  The space behind the points stations was, more properly, open ground intended as defensible space, but forty years of civil peace had turned it into a back garden, lightly fenced, and sporting a few haphazardly tended garde
n plots. Monteia was sitting on a bench under a straggling fruit tree in the reddened light of the first sunset, the winter-sun’s shadows pale on the ground around her. She held a lit pipe negligently between her first two fingers, and the air was redolent of the mixed herbs. She looked up as the back door closed.

  “Dare I ask what the sur wanted?”

  “You won’t like it. It seems Judge-Advocate Foucquet has lost one of her clerk’s apprentices. It’s the same as the others. No sign that the boy ran. He just—disappeared, yesterday afternoon. His mother is assize clerk in Point of Hearts.” He took a breath. “And the judge-advocate and the surintendant both want me to take the case on my book.”

  “Oh, that’s just marvelous, Rathe. As if you haven’t enough to do…” Monteia broke off. “And how am I supposed to justify your poaching to Hearts?”

  “It was the sur’s direct order,” Rathe answered. “And aside from that, I do feel as though I owe this to maseigne.” He had kept his tone as respectful as possible, but from the look she gave him, Monteia was not appeased.

  “For a southriver rat, you certainly have a lot of friends in high places.” She picked up a sheaf of papers that had been lying at her feet, weighted with a slate against the nonexistent breeze. “Well, then, since you’re taking on extra work, you can look into these. The whole city’s getting a rash of these unlicensed sheets, and they’re not helping things. About half of them are blatantly political—hells, they’ve backed every possible candidate for the succession, including a couple I’ve never heard of—and the rest of them are passing hints about the children, but they’re none of them operating under a bond license. You can add these to your daybook.”

  Rathe took the papers mechanically. If Monteia’s assessment was correct—and it would be, he had no doubt of that—then Caiazzo could well be connected at least to the printing. He would take these home with him, and tomorrow he would begin the delicate job of tracking down their source. After, he added mentally, after I’ve spoken to Maseigne de Foucquet and found out exactly why she doesn’t want to go to Point of Hearts.

  Along with the papers, he took a batch of nativities Salineis had collected for him out through the station onto the front steps, unwilling to intrude on Monteia’s quiet work in the yard, even more unwilling to remain in the still, hot air of the station—made hotter, if not stiller, he thought, by the presence of Ranazy. He sat down on the broad front step of the station, stretching his legs out with a sigh of relief, and started leafing through the nativities, settling the broadsheets under his hip. A knot of the station’s runners were also playing in front of the building, despite the sun that still beat down hard in the later afternoon. Laci looked up at him from his game of jacks, a smile like the sun glinting off a bright knife blade. Jacme, a rough-boned twelve-year-old who had been thrown out of his home in the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, was sitting in the lower boughs of one of the few trees that survived in the street; Ranazy would scold him out of it, but Rathe just turned a blind eye. He’d seen few enough fruit trees ruined for being a good climbing tree as well. Fasquelle de Galhac was lazily tossing a ball back and forth with Lennar, their constant rivalry temporarily forgotten. Asheri, Rathe’s favorite, sat in her usual place on the edge of the dry trough, her hands for once not busy with any needlework. He smiled at her as he sat down, and she returned the smile, lighting up her thin face. She had, he reflected, a stillness none of the others had, or rather, a capacity for stillness; Rathe had seen her fully as rambunctious as any of the others. A quiet, aloof child would have found no favor with the rest of the runners, and she had learned that quickly, despite her own personality. She was a daredevil by necessity, and a sound one, taking risks that were quickly and carefully calculated. That calculation wasn’t, some of the other points thought, natural in a child of twelve. It was, Rathe thought, an attribute of a sound pointswoman.

  He read through the nativities, poring over them for any similarities, anything at all that he might have missed the times he had read through his and the other points’ notes, knowing it was fruitless, knowing he didn’t make that kind of mistake and even if he did, it was unlikely that every other pointswoman and man in the city would overlook anything that was there. He looked at two he held in his hands— in his left, the nativity of an eight-year-old, in his right, that of a twelve-year-old.

  He realized, with a sick knot in his stomach, that the station’s runners were all in the age range of the children who had gone missing, from Laci, the youngest, to Jacme, the oldest. It was surely just luck that they hadn’t lost any of them yet. He carefully stacked the papers, weighting them with a rock, and cleared his throat. Instantly, their attention was focused on him, on the possibility of a job to be run, of earning a few extra coins. Well, he hated to disappoint them, but…

  “Sorry, no job at the moment, I just want to talk to you. Come on over here,” he invited, and the runners, some eagerly, some warily, joined him by the table, dropping to sit on the ground beneath the tree. Jacme was still in the tree, above his head, and Rathe looked up. “Sorry, Jacme, but I’d like you down here for this, all right?”

  “Right, Nico,” the boy said, cheerfully enough, and dropped to the ground with a solid thud. He sat down next to Asheri. “What’s up?”

  These were streetwise children, for the most part, probably a lot wiser in the ways of the streets than many adults, certainly more so than most of the children who had been stolen. But like most children, they had a sense of invulnerability, despite the fact that their lives had been a great deal harder than that of most of the missing children. “All right,” he said. “You lot know what’s been going on, these disappearances. We’re doing everything we can to find out what’s happened to these kids, and, just as important, find those children who have already disappeared.” He looked at them, their faces grave, but not frightened, not even worried. They were street urchins, southriver rats who faced this kind of threat most days of their lives. “And you’ve probably all heard all the rumors going about, maybe even some we haven’t yet.”

  “Like the ones who say the points are doing it, Nico?” Laci chimed in, and Rathe gave him a sour look that fooled neither one of them.

  “I had heard that one already, yes, thank you, Laci.” He paused, not quite certain how to proceed, wanting to find the words that would reach them, and not simply send them squirming into paroxysms of impatience. “The thing is, the thing you may not have realized, is that all the missing children are between the ages of eight and twelve.” He stopped, and looked at each of them in turn. They understood, he could see that, but still, he had to say it, make it explicit. “So you lot are in the exact age range of the children who have disappeared.” He shrugged. “All I’m saying is, be careful. You know the city better than a lot of people, you see things other people would miss, or would dismiss as unimportant. If you see anything, no matter what you think I might think of it, let me know, or anyone else here.”

  “ ’Cept Ranazy,” Jacme muttered.

  “Yes, well, just do it, all right?”

  There were mumbles of assent, and looks were exchanged that made Rathe frown. “And if you’ve already noticed anything, now might be a good time to tell me.”

  Fasquelle was drawing lines in the dirt; Jacme was shredding some grass that had been struggling to exist. Rathe saw Asheri look at each of them, and then she stood up.

  “I don’t know if anyone else has mentioned it, Nico…” she began, and then frowned, closing her teeth on her lower lip in thought.

  “Mentioned what, Ash?” Rathe asked, quietly, encouragingly, glancing at each of the other runners. They seemed content to let Asheri speak for them.

  “I was waiting for Houssaye the other afternoon at Wicked’s—he wanted me to run some of those nativities back to the station, since he was on his way home—and there were some students there. And they were complaining about these new astrologers working the fair this year.”

  “New astrologers?” Rathe asked, a
nd Asheri nodded.

  “The students were complaining that they’re taking business away from them because they’re doing readings for people for less than the students charge—a half-demming, they say. Which would be ridiculously low,” Asheri added, “since you can barely buy a loaf of bread for that.”

  “They’re not with the university, then.” It was a privilege of the fair for university students to augment their stipends by working the various temple booths, casting horoscopes and doing star readings. They charged what the market would bear—not usually exorbitant, but certainly more than half a demming. “Who are they aligned to?” he asked.

  Lennar burst in eagerly. “No one, Nico—they wear long robes, like a magist, but the robes are black, and they don’t carry any badge or insignia, and they don’t belong to any temple. They say they can offer people charms to protect their children from the child-thieves.”

  And at that, Rathe felt a cold anger within him. Bad enough that parents and guildmasters were worried sick about their children and apprentices, bad enough that the broadsheets were having a field day with it all, blaming any group with less influence than another, but for these hedge-astrologers to prey on these fears for the sake of coin… a half-demming wasn’t much, admittedly, but when you multiplied it by the number of fearful adults—and adolescents—they could be making a very tidy sum. And he had seen one of them, too, he realized, at the Rivermarket. The description was too precise, a magist’s robe with no insignia, and he wished he had known enough to stop the man. That was probably why he had vanished so quickly. He wondered, briefly, if this might not be Caiazzo’s style, Caiazzo’s hand at work, but then he dismissed the thought. Too petty, surely, for a man with the vision and ambitions of Hanselin Caiazzo. Caiazzo thought to rival the old trading house Talhafers within the next several years; it would be a fool’s game to antagonize the temples.

  “What else have you heard about these astrologers?” he asked, and knew that some of his anger came through in his voice, because the runners seemed to draw back. He took a breath. “No, look, I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m angry with, truly. I’m glad you told me about this—if nothing else, they’re probably violating bond laws, and we should look into it. But has anyone heard anything else about them? Seen them? Spoken with any of them?”