As he’d expected, it was a few moments before the necromancer opened his door. He was a tall man, unusually fair for a Chadroni, with straw blond hair and dark blue eyes, and at the moment his fair brows were drawn into a faint puzzled frown. That eased into a smile as he saw Rathe, and he pulled the door open wide.
“Nico. Come in.”
Rathe stepped into the sunlit space, and, as always, felt a faint prickling at the base of his neck, as though the air were cooler than it should be. Ghosts were b’Estorr’s constant companions as well as his strongest tools; even the least sensitive couldn’t help but be at least vaguely aware of their drifting presence. And then he saw a trio of small bones lying on a sheet of parchment on the polished wood of the worktable, and drew a quick breath, trying to swallow his panic. b’Estorr saw where he was looking, and refolded the paper over them.
“Not what you’re thinking.”
“Not my business, then,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded edgy.
“Not the business I think you’ve come to me about,” b’Estorr answered. “Unless you’re interested in historical murders? These are old, it’s been a generation or two at least since they wore flesh.”
“When I have the time,” Rathe answered. “When children aren’t disappearing from Astreiant.” b’Estorr nodded. “I thought that was it. Have you eaten?”
Rathe glanced automatically at the sunstick in the window, saw with some surprise that it was well past noon. “Not since this morning, no.” And that had been a bite or two of bread and cheese at the Old Brown Dog.
“Then why don’t you join me?” b’Estorr said, and leaned out the door to call for a servant without waiting for the other’s answer. When the servant appeared—a girl in a student’s gown, Rathe saw without surprise—b’Estorr gave quick orders for a meal, and closed the door again. “There’s wine in the jug, help yourself.”
Rathe nodded, but made no move. b’Estorr smiled again, and poured himself a glass. It was blown glass, pale blue streaked with an orange pink, not one of the pottery cups Rathe himself used at home, and he wondered if they were university privilege, or like b’Estorr survivors of the court of Chadron. He could not quite, he realized, imagine b’Estorr drinking from pottery.
“So what can I do for you?” b’Estorr asked, and lowered himself into one of the carved chairs, stretching his feet into the patch of sunlight.
Rathe seated himself as well, aware of an eddy of cold air that seemed to shy away from him as he moved. One of b’Estorr’s ghosts? he wondered, and shook the thought away. “As you said, the missing children. I don’t suppose you’ve seen—sorry, touched—any of them, or any unusual ghosts at all, these past three weeks?” b’Estorr shook his head. “I doubt it’s much comfort, but no. I haven’t, and neither has anyone I know.”
“Oh, it’s a comfort, I suppose,” Rathe said. “It’s just not a lot of help.” He winced at what he’d said. “I didn’t mean that, of course—”
“But it would be easier if you had something to work with,” b’Estorr finished. “Don’t worry, I won’t repeat it.”
“Thanks,” Rathe said. He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just that these disappearances are so—absolute. People are talking about children being stolen off the streets, but if it were that, gods, we’d have an easier time of it.” b’Estorr tilted his head. “But they are being stolen, surely.”
“Apparently, but there’s not a woman, or man, who can say they’ve actually seen a child being stolen. And you can be sure there’d be trouble if they did. We nearly had a riot over in Hopes, in the Street of the Apothecaries, no less, when a journeyman tried to drag home one of his apprentices, and people thought he was stealing the child.” Rathe sighed. “No, no one’s stealing them, Istre, at least not in the usual way. They just—disappear. They leave good situations, bad situations, no situations at all. They’re not runaways, that I’m sure of, not with what some of them—hells, most of them, all of them—leave behind. So, they don’t go willingly. But they’re not being seized off the streets. And we don’t know what is happening to them.”
“Some of them are legitimate runaways?” b’Estorr asked.
Rathe nodded. “We’ve found some of those, but it’s harder than ever to tell this year, since of course every parent, guildmaster, or guardian who loses a child would rather think they’ve been taken than that the child would want to run. So I’m getting less honest answers than usual, I think, from some quarters.” Like the surintendant, he added silently. Why he wants me concentrating on Caiazzo when there are plenty of more likely possibilities… but there weren’t any, that was the problem, and he pushed the thought aside. “But the upshot of it all is, Monteia, and I, are checking even the most outlandish possibilities.”
“Which brings you to me?” b’Estorr asked.
The tilt of his eyebrow surprised a grin from Rathe. “Not quite the way that sounded, but yes, sort of. First, is it possible that the children are dead even though no one’s reported touching their ghosts? Could somebody be binding them, or could they have been taken far enough away, and killed there?” b’Estorr was shaking his head, and Rathe stopped abruptly.
“It’s all possible, but not very likely,” the necromancer said. “What do you know about ghosts?”
“What everyone does, I suppose,” Rathe answered. He could smell, quite suddenly, baking bread, but the air that brought that scent was unreasonably cold. “They’re the spirits of the untimely dead, they can remember everything they knew in life except the day they died, and you can’t use their testimony before the judiciary unless two necromancers agree and there’s physical evidence to support their word.”
b’Estorr grinned. “I doubt everybody knows that last.”
Rathe snorted. “They know it by heart in the Court of the Thirty-two Knives. I’ve had bravos caught red-handed—literally—and tell me that.”
This time, b’Estorr laughed aloud. “I can’t imagine it would do much good, under those circumstances.”
“It depends on how large a fee they can manage,” Rathe answered.
“Ah.” b’Estorr’s smile faded. “The thing that matters, Nico, is the whys of all that. A ghost can’t remember the specifics of her or his death because—in effect—the murderer has established a geas over her that prevents her speaking. It’s possible, with effort and preparation—true malice aforethought—to extend that geas either to silence the ghost completely, or, more commonly, to bind her to the precise spot where she was killed. If you do it right, the odds that a necromancer, or even a sensitive, would stumble on that spot are vanishingly low. But I doubt that’s what’s happening. It takes too much time and effort to arrange, and if you’re missing, what, fifty children?”
“Eighty-four,” Rathe answered. “That’s from the entire city.”
b’Estorr’s eyes widened. “Gods, I didn’t realize.” He shook his head. “There is one other possibility, though, that you may need to consider. Have you ever given any thought to the meaning of ‘untimely’ death?”
Rathe looked at him. “I assume it means ‘dead before your time,’ though I daresay you’re going to tell me otherwise.”
“It’s the question of who defines your time,” b’Estorr answered.
Rathe paused. “Your stars?”
“Stars can tell the manner and sometimes the place,” b’Estorr answered. “Not the time. No, the person who defines ‘untimely’ is ultimately the ghost herself. That’s why you’ll see ghosts of people who’ve died of plague or sudden illness, they simply weren’t willing to acknowledge it was time for them to die. That’s also why you don’t see many ghosts of the very old, no matter how they die—and why you don’t see ghosts of those who die in battle or in duel. In each case, those people had accepted the possibility of their death, and accepted it when it happened. Now some people, a very few, even though their deaths would be reckoned timely by any normal measure, simply won’t accept it, and they, too, become ghosts.”
�
��You mean they just say, ‘no, I’m not dead yet,’ and they’re not?” Rathe demanded.
“Not exactly, but close enough. It’s a question of how strong a life force they have, and what incentives they have to live, or, more precisely, not to die.” b’Estorr’s face grew somber, the blue eyes sliding away to fix on something out of sight over Rathe’s left shoulder. “The reverse is also true. There are people who simply don’t know when they should die, or don’t care, and whose deaths, even by bare murder, don’t seem to matter. They don’t become ghosts because they seem to accept that any death, from whatever cause, is fated.”
“Temple priests, and such?” Rathe asked. He couldn’t keep from sounding skeptical, and wasn’t surprised to see b’Estorr’s mouth twist in answer.
“Well, the ones that are contemplative, and there aren’t many of them left, these days. But the main group this covers is children.”
“Oh.” Rathe leaned back in his chair, aware again of the warm breeze drifting in from the yard, carrying with it a strong smell of dust and greenery. b’Estorr’s ghosts seemed to have moved off; he could feel the sunlight creeping across the toes of his boots, heating his feet beneath the leather. It made sense, painfully so: children weren’t experienced, didn’t know what they could and couldn’t expect from the world; they might well accept death as their lot, especially the ones born and bred southriver, where life was cheap… He shook his head, rejecting the thought. “Not all of them,” he said. “They can’t all have, I don’t know, given up? And some of them were old enough to know, and to be angry.” b’Estorr nodded. “I agree. It’s usually the youngest children, anyway, much younger than apprentice-age, that this applies to. And even then, you occasionally run into someone who’s clever enough, strong enough—loved enough, sometimes—to know they shouldn’t be dead.” For an instant, his voice sounded distinctly fond, and Rathe wondered just what dead child he was remembering. And then the moment was gone, and he was back to business. “And in a group this large of older children—I doubt this is what’s happening. But I thought I should at least mention it, even as a remote possibility.”
“Thanks,” Rathe said.
“Thank me when I do something useful,” b’Estorr answered. There was a knock at the door, and he added, “Come in.”
The girl student pushed the door open with a hunched shoulder, her hands busy with a covered tray. At b’Estorr’s nod, she set it on the worktable, and disappeared again. b’Estorr lifted the covers, releasing a fragrance of onions and oil, and Rathe realized with a start that he was hungry.
“Help yourself,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe reached for a spoon and bowl. There was bread as well as the wedge of soft cheese and the bowl of noodles and onions, and he balanced a chunk of each on the edge of his bowl.
“There was one other thing Monteia wanted,” he said, around a mouthful of noodles, and b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.
“I might have known.” His smile robbed the words of any offense.
“Yeah, well, she was wanting to have horoscopes cast for our missing lads, for the days of disappearance when we know them, see if anything useful showed up that way,” Rathe said. “So I was wondering if you could tell me who would be best for the job.”
“I could do it myself, if you’d like,” b’Estorr answered. “Or there’s Cathala, she’s very skilled.”
“I’d rather you did it,” Rathe answered, “and thanks.”
“All I’ll need are the nativities, the best you can get me,” b’Estorr answered. “You must be hard up for information if you’re trying that.”
“We’ve damn all but rumors, and those dangerous ones,” Rathe said. “For us, a lot of suspicion is falling on a Leaguer who runs a tavern on the border with Point of Dreams. And, yes, it’s a soldiers’ haunt, and, yes, a lot of recruiting goes on there. But the people there are adamant that no commander’s going to be taking children at this time of year, when he could have his choice from the royal regiments that were just paid off.”
“There’s a great deal of sense to that,” b’Estorr said.
Rathe nodded. “Certainly, but it’s not what anyone wants to hear. They just want their kids back.” b’Estorr smiled in agreement. “No theories, then?”
“Oh, everyone has a favorite theory, we’ve a glut of them.” Rathe counted them off on his fingers. “The surintendant favors Hanselin Caiazzo, though the gods alone know what he’d do with eighty-four children. The chief at City Point is looking askance at the manufactories, Temple Point has asked all of us southriver to check the brothels—which we’ve done, at least once—and in the meantime most of southriver is blaming northriver merchants. Exactly how, they’re not sure, but they’re positive it’s the rich who are doing it to them somehow. Leveller voices are being heard again. Oh, yes, and they’re not too sure the points aren’t involved, somehow or other.”
“I don’t quite see that,” b’Estorr said.
“At the very least, we’ve been fee’d to look the other way.”
“Oh. Of course.” There was a smile behind the necromancer’s voice, and Rathe smiled in reply.
“So what are the rumors up here, magist? What theories have the students and masters come up with?”
b’Estorr gave him a bland stare. “Do you think we have time to waste on idle gossip?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re not wrong. There’s a lot of talk about the starchange, of course—you’ve probably heard variations on that theme as well. And when you add politics to the mix, people are in a mood to borrow trouble. Among the juniors there’s talk of dark maneuverings by one or more of the potential claimants.” b’Estorr frowned slightly, more pensive than annoyed. “Marselion seems to be high on everyone’s list— why is that, Nico?”
Rathe grinned. He had seen the Palatine Marselion and her train on her last visit to Astreiant, for the Fall Balance and its associated session of the Great Council. She had carried herself like a queen, and snubbed the city—even the northriver merchants, who had been prepared to welcome her—except for her distributions of alms. “She’s been too blatant in her ambition. She thinks it’s sewn up, or she acts like it is, and the people don’t like that.”
“Not that they have much say in the matter.” b’Estorr’s voice held a faint note of distaste, and Rathe’s grin widened fractionally. Chadron was, technically, an elective kingship, which contributed greatly to the death rate among its monarchs.
“Maybe not, but Astreiant is a populist’s city, and her majesty has always made it her business to stay in tune with the mood of her people. You don’t ignore the rumblings.” Rathe paused. “So you lot think it’s political?”
“One way or another, that’s the consensus,” b’Estorr answered. He hesitated. “There’s also been talk of freelance astrologers, that they might be involved, but I’m inclined to write that off as professional jealousy.”
“Oh?” In spite of himself, Rathe found his attention sharpening. “I’ve seen one or two of them, or I think I have. What do you know about them?”
b’Estorr shrugged. “That’s pretty much all, Nico. I understand the Three Nations complained to the arbiters—the students usually make a good bit of money doing readings at the fair, and this, quite simply, cuts into their profits.”
He sounded more amused than anything else, and Rathe nodded. “So your vote is still for politics?”
“I’m not so sure. I think someone’s taking advantage of the uncertainty of the starchange—but stealing children? I can’t imagine why. Or for what purpose.”
Rathe sighed and set the now-empty bowl back on the tray. “No, and that’s the problem. It’s crazy, stealing children, and even as madness, it doesn’t make sense. I have nativities for some of ours, by the way.”
“I’ll get started on it right away.” b’Estorr’s face was wry. “Who knows, something may come of it.”
“Right,” Rathe answered, and knew he sounded even less enthusiastic than the other man. He reached int
o his purse, found the folded sheet of paper, and slid it across the worktable to the magist. “Those are the nativities we have, and the days they disappeared. We made a guess at the time, but that’s all it is.”
b’Estorr unfolded it, skimming the careful notation. “At least these kids knew their stars—to the quarter hour, too. That’s a help.”
“It’s the only luck we’ve had.” Rathe glanced at the sunstick again, and pushed himself to his feet. It was more than time he was getting back to Point of Hopes. “Let me know if you hear anything, even if it’s just a new rumor, would you? Though it’s the last thing I want to hear, I think I need to keep abreast of as much of the popular murmur as possible.”
b’Estorr nodded, already engrossed in the first calculations, and Rathe let himself out into the stairwell.
5
« ^ »
the day was hot already, and it still lacked an hour to noon. Eslingen sat in the garden of the Brown Dog, coat hung neatly on a branch of the fruit tree behind him, and wished that the river breeze reached this far inland. The latest batch of broadsheet prophecies lay on the little table beside him, half read; the one on the top of the stack, a nice piece, better printed than most, invoked transits of the moon and predicted that the missing children would be found unharmed. Eslingen had lifted an eyebrow at that. He hoped it was true, hoped that whoever had cast this horoscope had some insight denied the rest of Astreiant, but couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. The rest of the prophecies blamed anyone and everyone, from the denizens of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives to the owners of the manufactories, and a few of them weren’t bothering even to keep up the pretense of a prediction. One of those made oblique reference to the queen’s childlessness, and suggested that a “northern tree might bear better fruit.” Even Eslingen could translate that—the Palatine Marselion, or her supporters, pushing her candidacy—and he shook his head. Chenedolle’s monarchy had settled its laws of succession long ago: the crown descended by strict primogeniture in the direct line, but if there were no heirs of the body, the monarch named her heir from among her kin, supposedly on the basis of their stars. Marselion was the queen’s cousin, and her closest living relative, but if I were queen, Eslingen thought, I wouldn’t look kindly on these little games. Not with the city in the state it is.
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