Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

  “What in Tyrseis’s name was that?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr shook his head, his fine-boned face troubled.

  “I don’t know. Something—a serious disturbance in the stars, but what…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

  “Damn,” Rathe said. He could hear more voices in the streets now, loud with the same note of excited fear, and lifted his voice to carry to the people behind Wicked. “All right, then, it’s over. Nothing to panic about.”

  “But—” one of the shopgirls began, and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

  Her fellow, braver than the rest, or maybe just less in awe of the points, put her hands on her hips. “The clock’s out of true, pointsman, what are we going to do about that?”

  “The university will have the correct time, and the regents will see that the clocks are reset,” Rathe answered, and tried to project a confidence he didn’t feel. It wasn’t as simple as that, and they all knew it— when the clocks had been unstrung by the earthquake, it had taken days for everything to be sorted out.

  b’Estorr said, his voice pitched to carry, “The Great Clock, at the university—it’s made to keep time through any upheaval. It should be all right. And it’s a good clear night. There’ll be no problem checking the time against the stars.”

  Rathe nodded his thanks, and Wicked heaved herself out of the doorway, came to join them in the center of the yard. “So what in Demis’s name would cause such a turmoil?” she demanded. “I’ve seen a lightning storm do something like it, but that was one clock—”

  “And this is a fine clear night,” Rathe finished for her. “I don’t know, Wicked.”

  “No more do I,” b’Estorr said again, “though I intend to find out.”

  “Would it have anything to do with the children?” Rathe asked, his voice softer now, and b’Estorr spread his hands.

  “I don’t know,” he said again. “I don’t see how, what the connection would be, but I don’t trust coincidence.” Rathe sighed, nodding agreement, and the necromancer looked toward river. “I should be heading back, they’ll want every scholar working on it.”

  “Go,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr hurried past him, stride lengthening as he headed for the bridge. He could smell smoke, and with it the pungent scent of herbs, and guessed that people were already beginning to light balefires in the squares and crossroads, offering the sweet smoke of Demis leaf and lowsfer to appease the gods. That was all to the good, as long as they didn’t go burning anything else, and he looked at Wicked. “I’d better go, too. They’ll be wanting me at Point of Hopes.”

  She nodded, her face grim. “I daresay. But I doubt there’ll be trouble, Nico. This is too—strange, too big for a riot.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Rathe answered, and headed for the station. The streets were crowded, as they’d been after the earthquake, and there were smoky fires in every open space. They were well tended, he saw without surprise, and didn’t know if he was glad or worried to see so many sober, rich-robed guild folk feeding the flames. The neighborhood temples were jammed, and there was a steady stream of people heading for the bridge—heading to the Pantheon and the other temples in the old city, Rathe guessed, and could only be grateful that their fear had taken them that way, rather than in anger.

  The portcullis was down at Point of Hopes, though the postern gate was still open, and two pointsmen in back-and-breast stood outside. They carried calivers, too, Rathe saw: clearly Monteia was taking this seriously. He nodded a greeting, received a sober nod in return, and went on into the station’s yard.

  Monteia was standing in the doorway, talking to a young man whose wine-colored coat bore the badge of the city regents, but she broke off, seeing him, and beckoned him over. “Good, Nico. You’d better hear this, too.”

  The messenger said, “The city and the university will be confirming the correct time tonight in a public ceremony, to start at once. The regents would like all the points stations to proclaim and post the notice.”

  “Does that mean the university clock is all right?” Rathe asked, and the messenger looked at him.

  “So far as I know—well, so far as they can tell. That’s why they’re checking, of course.”

  Rathe nodded, remembering b’Estorr’s assurance, and Monteia said briskly, “I’ve already started getting the word out, Nico, but I’d take it as a favor if you’d attend the ceremony. People tend to trust you, and I don’t want the ones who don’t get there to say that we neglected our duty.”

  “All right,” Rathe said. He wasn’t sorry to have the excuse, after all; it would be a sight worth seeing, but, more than that, he was as eager as anyone to see with his own eyes that the time had been put right. He turned away, but Monteia’s voice stopped him.

  “Nico.”

  “Yes, Chief?” He turned back, to see her holding a wooden case. It had brass feet and a brass-bound door, and only then did he recognize it as the station’s case-clock.

  “See that this gets set right,” Monteia said, and handed it to him.

  Rathe took the box gingerly, appalled at the thought of the fragile gears and delicate springs of the workings, but shook the fear away. The case-clock had been designed for travel; more than that, it had survived at least ten years in the station’s main room. It would easily survive a simple trip to University Point and back. “I’ll take care of it,” he said aloud, and headed back out into the street.

  It seemed as though the news of the ceremony had already reached the neighborhood. The streets, and then the bridge itself, were jammed with bodies, all flowing toward the university precinct. Rathe let himself be carried with the crowd, but at the university gates displayed his truncheon, and was admitted grudgingly into the main courtyard. All the lights had been quenched there, even the mage-fires that usually burned blue above the dormitories’ doorways, and in the darkened center of the yard a group of magists—all high-ranking, senior officials and scholars, by the cut and colors of their robes and hoods—clustered around a long table covered with the tools of their trade. Even at this distance, and in the dark, he could recognize the concentric spheres of the university’s pride and joy, the great orrery, the largest and most exact ever made. He had been in dame school the day it had been unveiled, and all the city’s students had been taken to view it, and then given a week’s holiday, to impress on their memory that they had seen something special. In spite of himself, he took a step forward, and nearly collided with a student in a gargoyle grey gown.

  “Sorry, sir, but no one’s allowed any closer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rathe said. “Tell me, I was sent with a clock, to reset it, where should I go?”

  The student rolled her eyes. “So was everyone, sir. Anywhere will be all right, they’ll call the time once they know it.”

  “Thanks,” Rathe said, and moved away. It was true enough, he saw. A number of the crowd, maybe one in ten, clutched case-clocks or traveling dials, waiting patiently for the scholars to restore the time. Some were servants from the nobles’ houses along the Western Reach, but an equal number were from the city, guildfolk and respectable traders, and Rathe shivered, thinking again of the clocks chiming out of tune, out of order. Astreiant needed its clocks, not just for telling the time of day, but for matching one’s actions to the stars, and there were more and more trades in which that was not just a useful addition, but a necessity. To be without clocks was almost as bad as being without the stars themselves.

  At the center of the yard, the robed scholars were moving through their stately choreography, lifting astrolabes and sighting staffs and other instruments Rathe didn’t recognize. He could hear their voices, too, but couldn’t make out the words, just the sonorous roll of the phrases, punctuated by the occasional sweet tone of a bell. Then at last a pair of scholars—senior magists, resplendent in heavy gowns and gold chains and the heavy hoods that marked ten years of study—lifted the great orrery, and another senior magist solemnly adjusted fir
st one set of rings, and then the next. It seemed to take forever, but then at last she stepped away, and the bell sounded again.

  “Quarter past one,” a voice cried, and the words were taken up and repeated across the courtyard. Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief, and flipped open the clock case to turn the hands himself. He closed it again, ready to head back to Point of Hopes, and heard a familiar voice from among the scholars.

  “Nico!”

  He turned, to see b’Estorr pushing through the crowd toward him. He was wearing his full academic regalia, a blue hood clasped with the Starsmith’s star-and-anvil thrown over his shoulders, but loosened the robe as he approached, revealing a plain shirt and patched breeches.

  “Istre. That settles it, does it?”

  “Everything except why,” b’Estorr answered.

  Rathe sighed, but nodded. “Does anyone have any ideas?”

  “Not really, at least not yet. It may have something to do with the starchange—there are a lot of odd phenomena associated with it, and the Starsmith is closer this passage than last time.”

  b’Estorr shook his head again. “But there’s one thing you should know, even if it’s not public knowledge.”

  “Oh?” Rathe could feel the night air chill on his face.

  “Our clock, the university clock. It struck then, too.”

  “What?” Rathe frowned. “I thought you said it was built to withstand upheavals.”

  “It’s built to stand natural phenomena,” b’Estorr answered. “It’s carefully crafted, well warded—half the gears are cast with aurichalcum, for Dis’s sake—which worries me.”

  “I should think that was an understatement,” Rathe muttered, and, to his surprise, b’Estorr grinned. The mage-lights were returning, casting odd blue highlights in the necromancer’s fair hair.

  “Yes, well, I agree. The masters and scholars are looking into it, of course, but I thought at least one pointsman ought to know.”

  “Thanks.” Rathe shook his head. “I can’t help thinking about the children. I’m not fond of coincidences, Istre.”

  “Neither am I,” b’Estorr answered. “I just don’t see how.” He sighed and worked his shoulders, wincing. “Gods, I’m tired. But at least the clocks can be reset now.”

  “That’s something,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded uncertain. “You’ll let me know if there is a connection?”

  “Of course. If we find anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks,” Rathe said again, and touched the other man’s shoulder, then started back toward Point of Hopes. At the gate to the precinct, he looked back, to see b’Estorr still standing in the mage-light, the gown hanging loose from his shoulders. The necromancer looked tired, and unhappy; Rathe shook his head, hoping it wasn’t an omen, and kept walking.

  7

  « ^ »

  eslingen set his diptych, Areton and Phoebe, on the altar table, and placed the Hearthmistress’s candle in front of it, then turned to survey the room. It was half again as large as his room at the Old Brown Dog, and the furniture was better than anything he’d seen since the glorious three days he and his troop had occupied an abandoned manor house. That hadn’t lasted—they had been driven back again on the fourth day, with casualties—and he shook the thought away as ill-omened, touching first Areton and then Phoebe in propitiation. It had been a good day so far, better than he’d had any right to expect; there was no point in tempting the gods, or the less pleasant fates. The magist, Denizard, had seemed pleased enough by his answers to her questions—and he had been careful to tell the truth in everything, though he’d shaded it a bit when it came to Rathe. But it was absolutely true that he’d known the pointsman for less than two weeks, and that Rathe had been partly responsible for his losing his place at Devynck’s; the fact that, despite everything, he rather liked the man hadn’t entered the conversation, and most certainly he hadn’t mentioned Rathe’s request. The truthstone hadn’t recognized his equivocation—and how could it? he asked silently. Denizard hadn’t known enough to ask the question that would uncover that link, and he had been very careful in his answers. Besides, he was bound to tell Rathe only if the missing children were involved, and Rathe himself didn’t seem to think that was likely. Fooling Caiazzo might be a different matter, even if the man was no magist, but so far the longdistance trader hadn’t returned to the house.

  He glanced around the room again, his own meager belongings looking small and rather shabby by contrast, and hoped he was doing the right thing. At worst, it would be for a week, and at the end of it he’d have two heirats—not much, he thought, but not nothing, either. And, at best, it would be work he could do, and decent pay, and conditions a good deal better than the Old Brown Dog had offered.

  There was a knock at the door, and a woman came in without waiting for his word. She was thin and stern-faced, and carried a tray piled high with covered dishes. “Magist Denizard said you hadn’t eaten,” she said, by way of greeting. “You can set the tray outside when you’re done.”

  “Thank you,” Eslingen said, and gave her his best smile, but she set the tray on the table and disappeared without responding. He raised an eyebrow at the closing door—nothing could have made his status more clear, on trial, not yet of the household—but lifted the covers from the dishes. The food smelled good, onions and wine and the ubiquitous Astreianter noodles, these long and thin and drenched in a sauce of oil and a melange of herbs, and he realized suddenly that he was hungry. He ate eagerly—Caiazzo’s cook was a woman of real talent—but when he’d finished, found himself at something of a loss. For a single bleak moment, he would have given most of his savings to be back at Devynck’s arguing with Adriana over the latest broadsheet, but made himself put that thought firmly aside. That option had been closed to him since he’d shot Paas Huviet—since the moment Devynck had put the pistol into his hand, really, and there was no turning back. He carried the tray to the door, and set it carefully outside, close to the wall.

  As he straightened, he heard a clock strike, and frowned, startled that it was so late. An instant later, a second clock sounded, this one within the house, its two-note chime oddly syncopated against the rhythm of the distant tower clock. Other clocks were striking now, too, and kept sounding, past what was reasonable. He counted eleven, twelve, then thirteen and fourteen, and heard a voice shrill from the end of the hall.

  “What in the name of all the gods—?”

  A second voice—Denizard’s, he thought—answered, “Be quiet, and keep the others quiet, too.” The chiming stopped then, on a last sour note as though a bell had cracked under the steady blows, and the magist went on, “It’s over. Get back to the kitchen and keep everybody calm, there’s no need to panic yet.”

  Eslingen saw the first woman drop a shaky curtsey, and Denizard looked at him. “Good. Come on, Eslingen, Hanse will be wanting us.”

  Eslingen reached behind him for his coat, and the long knife on its narrow belt, and followed the magist down the long hall, shrugging into his clothes as he went. Caiazzo himself was standing at the top of the main stairway, scowling up at the house clock that stood against the wall behind him. The hands, Eslingen saw, declared it to be half past six, and he shivered in spite of himself.

  “What in all hells was that?” the trader demanded, and Denizard spread her hands. She had flung her gown over chemise and skirts, and Eslingen could see the hard line of her stays as the gown swung open. Her grey-streaked hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she shook it back impatiently.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “Not an earthquake, or lightning—”

  “That’s obvious,” Caiazzo snapped.

  “—which means some other sort of natural disturbance,” the magist went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. “The starchange means things are unsettled, but I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

  “Wonderful,” Caiazzo said, and looked up at the clock. “So what do we do now
, magist?”

  Denizard sighed, drawing her gown closed around her. “Reassure your people first, I think. Then send someone to the university, the Great Clock there is unlikely to have gone out of tune, and even if it has, they’ll be able to reset it from the stars. And then—I don’t know, Hanse. Try to find out what happened, I suppose.”

  “And what do you think happened?” Caiazzo asked. His voice was calmer now, and Denizard sighed again.

  “I’m only guessing, mind, my speciality isn’t astrology. But the starchange means that the Starsmith is coming closer and closer to the normal stars, and that means it has more and more influence on them. It’s possible that its approach could upset the clocks—they’re set to the ordinary stars, not the Starsmith.”

  “But if that’s what happened,” Caiazzo said, “why haven’t I heard of anything like this before? The last starchange was in living memory, surely something like this would’ve started stories.”

  “I don’t know,” Denizard said again. “The Starsmith will be moving into the Charioteer, that’s a shared sign, one of the moon’s signs, and it hasn’t done that for, oh, six hundred years. I don’t think even the university has good records for that long ago.”

  Caiazzo muttered something under his breath. Eslingen smelled smoke suddenly, strong and close at hand, and turned instantly to the main door. Before he could reach it, however, it opened, and the stocky man who’d been introduced as the household steward came into the hall.

  “Sir. The neighbors are lighting balefires, and with your permission, I’d like to have our people do the same. And there’s a crier saying that the university is checking the proper time.”