Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

  “Can it wait?” the chief point called back. “We’ve a pack of fools here who started their drinking with the first sunrise.”

  “It’s important,” Rathe said, and waited.

  Claes swore. “It had better be. You, Gasquet, take over here, sort them down into the cells—and I’ll take it very ill if you let them kill each other before they’ve had a chance to sober up.” He gestured for Rathe to precede him into the station’s counting room, and shut the heavy door behind them. Rathe blinked in the sudden quiet, and Claes said, “So. What in Tyrseis’s name is so important?”

  “Monteia said you were worried about these hedge-astrologers,” Rathe said. “The freelances. I’ve talked to the kin of our missing children. One of them, the butcher’s girl, she got a charm from them a few days before she disappeared, and at least three of the others probably consulted them. The others may or may not have talked to them, but I can’t prove they didn’t.”

  Claes was silent for a long moment. “That’s thin, Rathe. Very thin.”

  “It’s more than we’ve had before,” Rathe answered, and the chief point sighed.

  “True. But that was nothing at all.”

  Rathe swallowed hard, banking down his irritation. “Look, I know it’s not much. But four of our lads who probably talked to them—one definitely, and she got a charm from him, which I’m taking to the university to see what the magists make of it—gods, Claes, we can’t afford to ignore it.”

  “And I don’t intend to ignore it,” Claes answered. “I don’t trust them, I don’t know what they’re doing here, and they don’t charge nearly enough not to want something besides their fees. But I can’t act on just this, and you know it.”

  Rathe nodded. “I know. But I did think, the sooner you knew about it, the sooner you—and all of us—could start checking on the other kids, see how many of them talked to these astrologers before they disappeared.”

  Claes grinned. “And you’re right, certainly—and, yes, this was important, I’ll give you that. But I’d like more to go on, Rathe, that’s all.” He waved a hand in dismissal, and Rathe opened the workroom door.

  “I’m working on it,” he said, and made his way back out into the streets of the fair.

  Claes was right, of course. It wasn’t much to go on, and Rathe felt his mood plummet as rapidly as it had improved. And that, he knew, was as unreasonable as his earlier optimism. The connection with the astrologers was still the most solid—the only—link they had between the child-thefts; he couldn’t afford to ignore it, or to build too much on it, at least not yet.

  He made his way back through the fair by a different route, avoiding the printers and the crowds that always filled the leathersellers’ district, and found himself among the smaller booths, where the smaller merchants venturer sold their mix of goods directly. It was crowded here, too—most of the stalls carried less expensive items, trinkets, small packets of spices, silk thread, Chadroni ribbons, beads, the coarse southern glassware, that even an apprentice could afford—but this year there were few enough of them in evidence. There were few children in general—occasionally a northriver child, escorted not just by the usual nurse, but also by an armed man or woman of the household; more often a plain-dressed girl or boy hurrying on some errand, unable to give more than a wistful glance at the gaudy displays—and Rathe was suddenly angry again. This was no way for a child to see the fair, and, especially for the older ones, the ones who worked for their keep, their mistresses’ fears were depriving them of one of the few long holidays in the working year. Not that anyone could afford to let their apprentices and the like have the full three weeks of the fair completely free, of course, but most employers tolerated a certain relaxation of standards over the course of the fair. He himself, when he had been a runner, could remember getting two or three days off—days to explore and spend one’s carefully hoarded demmings on strange foods and goods from the kingdoms beyond Chenedolle—and vying for errands that would send him near the fairgrounds. But this year, it looked as though the average apprentice was getting none of that.

  Without consciously meaning to, his roundabout course had brought him into the center of the fairground, where the cookstalls were set up. The air was heavy with the smell of Silklands spices, almost drowning the heavy scent of mutton stew and the constant tang of hot, much-used oil. He threaded his way past a gang of Leaguers, carters by their clothes, who were monopolizing the stall of a cheerful-looking brewer, and dodged another stall where a woman in a Silklands headscarf twirled skewers of vegetables over a long brazier. Half a dozen children, the first large group he’d seen, were clustered around a woman selling fried noodles, and another pair was standing gravely in front of a candyseller, choosing from among figures shaped like zodiacal beasts. He checked for a moment, torn between admiration and fear, and then made himself walk on. Heat radiated from the open fires and he was glad to reach the edge of the cooking areas. So, by the look of things, were most people: the spaces between the stalls were wider here, and people stood in groups of twos and threes, talking and eating. Rathe glanced around instinctively, looking for any sign of the astrologers, and to his surprise recognized a slim, dark-haired woman who stood in the shade of one of the awnings, nibbling on a fried pastry. Cassia LaSier usually preferred to work later in the day, when the pickings were richer—and at the moment she seemed to be concentrating on her meal, one hand cupped to catch anything that fell from the fragile shell—but she might also enjoy the challenge of the noon-time crowd. Rathe turned toward her, and she looked up sharply, her mouth curving into a wry smile.

  “Working the fairground, Rathe? I wouldn’t’ve thought it was your patch.”

  Rathe shook his head. “It’s not. I had some errands here.”

  “Well, that’s a relief for honest working people,” LaSier answered, and swallowed the last of her pastry.

  “Oh, are you working?”

  “Not if you are,” she retorted, and Rathe allowed himself a grin.

  “Not the fair, anyway.”

  “The children?” LaSier’s eyes were suddenly alert. “No luck, then, still?”

  “Maybe,” Rathe answered, and shook his head at the sudden eagerness in the woman’s face. “But we’re still having horoscopes done for the missing kids, which should tell you how ‘maybe’ it is.”

  “Damn.” LaSier licked grease from her fingers, wiped them discreetly on the hem of her skirt. “Are all the stations doing it?”

  “From what Monteia says, yes. Why?”

  “We didn’t make a formal complaint to Sighs, of course, so I suppose I can’t complain. Still, it’d be nice if Gavaret had the same chance of being found as the others.”

  It would, and it would be more than nice, Rathe thought, it would be the only fair thing to do. The Corthere child might grow into a serious nuisance to the points, but he certainly had the right to live that long. He said, “He’s as entitled as anyone, but he’d have to know his stars pretty closely for it to be much help.”

  “But he did,” LaSier said, and corrected herself. “He does. And they were good for our line of work, let me tell you—who’d want an apprentice who was born to be hanged, right?” She shook her head in regret. “No, Gavaret knows his nativity, and he revels in it.”

  “Do you know it?” Rathe asked.

  LaSier gave him a sidelong glance. “Thought you said you weren’t working.”

  “Thought I said yes, on the children.” Rathe sighed. “I can take it for you, off the books, though why I’d want your apprentice found is beyond me.”

  “And a damn dull world it would be without us,” LaSier answered. “He was born on Midsummer Eve fourteen years ago, in Dhenin. He crowned at midnight, his mother told him, and was born at the half-hour stroke.”

  Rathe made the note in his tablets. Midsummer was a major day; any half-competent astrologer—anyone who owned an ephemeris, for that matter—could calculate the full nativity from what LaSier had told him. “Born under Tyr
seis,” he said aloud, “and the Gargoyle. How appropriate.”

  LaSier grinned. “And not born to hang.”

  “We don’t hang pickpockets, Cassia,” Rathe said.

  “I know.” She looked down, brushed a few crumbs from her bodice. “Well, good luck, Nico. You’ll need it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  “Oh, yes. Good luck with that, too,” she answered, and turned away. Rathe watched her go, the slim figure with its waterfall of black hair soon lost in the crowd. It was rare enough for one of the ’Serry’s inhabitants to wish any pointsman well, and he was grateful for the gesture. He glanced again at the notation in his tablets—one more reason to visit b’Estorr—and replaced them in his pocket. Gavaret Corthere was a child like thousands other southriver, and like so many of them, he would find his livelihood in the ’Serry or the Court, maybe lodge with the points more than once, maybe live to old age, or more likely die at the hand of a rival or the wrong victim. Except that Gavaret Corthere knew his nativity, and those stars marked him as appropriate for an apprenticeship with the Quentiers, a step up in the world, by the ’Serry’s reckoning, at any rate. Rathe had never quite realized before just how similar their family business was to the more conventional guilds. He shrugged to himself. It made sense, in any business: why take on anyone born to fail at this line of work? Though, of course, a person’s desire didn’t always run in tandem with their stars, and the stars didn’t guarantee, they merely indicated… Those were the phrases one learned in dame school, and he shook them away.

  A flutter of black caught his eye, and he looked sideways to see a figure in dark robes moving slowly across the central space, occasionally nodding to a passerby. Rathe tensed, ready to call for assistance, then hesitated. The robes might be black, might mark one of the astrologers, but they might also be dark grey, and the man just another university student adding to a limited income. He started after the man, but a whistle sounded, shrill and imperious, and he stopped abruptly as a trash wagon rumbled past, cutting off his view of the stranger and bathing him in its sour stench. He dodged around it, nose wrinkling, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He swore under his breath, scanning the crowd a final time, then turned toward the bright blue pennants that marked the tents where the Temple of Astree was acting as arbiter of the fair. Maybe the arbiters will listen, he thought, even if Claes can’t act. At the very least, they should be warned.

  The other temples had set up their booths around Astree’s tents, some under Areton’s shield for changing money, some offering horoscopes, a few, like the Demeans, offering certification of foreign goods. This part of the fair was the busiest yet, and Rathe had to work his way through a solid crowd before he could reach the arbiters’ tents. Their flaps were drawn closed, though muffled voices leaked through the heavy cloth, and a tall woman whose coat bore the wheel-and-web badge of Astree was shaking her head at a pair of women who carried a basket. The two women stalked away, obviously angry, and the first woman looked at Rathe. “Can I help you, pointsman? As you can see, we’re—occupied—at the moment…”

  “It’s not business,” Rathe said, “or not that kind of business. But I’d like to speak to a senior arbiter, if one’s free.”

  The woman touched her badge. “I’m free enough at the moment. Gui Vauquelin.”

  “Nicolas Rathe. I’m the Adjunct Point at Point of Hopes.”

  “You’re a ways from home,” Vauquelin observed, but her tone was neutral.

  “I know.” Rathe took a breath. “These astrologers, the new ones— what do you know about them?”

  “Aside from the fact that they’re a pain in the ass?” Vauquelin sighed. “Which I shouldn’t say, but they’ve been more headache than they’re worth. Don’t tell me the points are interested.”

  “Maybe,” Rathe said again, and her gaze sharpened.

  “The children?”

  “We don’t know. There may be a connection.” Quickly, Rathe outlined what he’d found, scrupulous to point out that Claes, whose point this rightfully would be, didn’t think there was anything they could do yet. When he’d finished, Vauquelin shook her head.

  “We’ve had trouble with them from the day they arrived. Oh—” She held up a hand. “That’s not fully fair, either. We haven’t had any trouble from them, they seem ordinary enough, except that they’re ostentatious about not owing allegiance to any particular temple. We’ve had our juniors talk to them, officially, and unofficially, we had one of our girls get her stars done, and they seem sound enough. It’s basic, but not outright wrong, so there’s no basis for complaint there. But the Three Nations are up in arms—and I offer thanks daily that that’s not literally true—because they’re taking the students’ business.”

  “Couldn’t you do anything on those grounds?”

  “The student monopoly is customary, not legal,” Vauquelin answered, and shrugged. “Besides, there are plenty of people here— northriver, I mean—who’d like to see the students taken down a few pegs. I’ve had a woman tell me to my face that these new astrologers have to be better just because they aren’t students.”

  Rathe swore again under his breath. He had forgotten, more precisely, he rarely encountered, the old rivalry that pitted the students’ Three Nations against the ordinary folk who had the misfortune to share their neighborhoods. It had been almost five years since the last riots, and he’d hoped that tensions had eased since.

  Vauquelin smiled, ruefully. “Which makes it difficult to question these people without seeming to favor the students, and that I will not, cannot, do.”

  “But if they are involved—” Rathe broke off, gesturing an apology.

  “We are watching them,” Vauquelin said firmly. “And I know your people are doing the same. Yes, they talk to children, but we’ve never seen a child fail to return from talking to them. And it could be coincidence. Children are most at risk, these days, no wonder they want to offer any guidance they can.”

  “I suppose,” Rathe said. It was the same thing the astrologers had told Claes’s people, and it was true enough, but still, he wished he could share her detachment. Vauquelin was Astree’s arbiter, had to be scrupulously balanced in her judgment—but it was hard to be blamed oneself, and see a more likely suspect embraced by at least the northriver populace.

  Vauquelin looked at him as though she’d read the thought. “Don’t mistake me, Adjunct Point. If we see anything to make us at all suspicious, we’ll let you and yours know.”

  Rathe nodded, embarrassed that she’d read him so accurately. “I know. And I appreciate it, really.” He turned away, his stride lengthening as he headed across the fair toward University Point.

  b’Estorr was not at the university. Rathe stood for a moment at the foot of the stairway, staring at the doorkeeper, then shook himself hard. “When will he be back?” he asked, and the old woman shrugged.

  “By first sunset, I expect, pointsman.”

  She started to close the upper half of her door, but Rathe caught it, forced a smile. “Will you tell him—no, can I leave a note?”

  The old woman’s eyebrows rose, but after a moment’s search she found a slate and half a broken chalk pencil. Rathe scrawled a quick note, the crude point squeaking over the stone—need to talk to you, will be back tonight, nico—and handed it across. “It’s important that he get this,” he said, without much hope, and the old woman sniffed, and shut the door without comment. Rathe sighed, and headed back across the Hopes-point Bridge.

  It was almost the end of his shift, but he stopped by the station anyway, read over the daybook before he hung up jerkin and truncheon and headed back to his lodgings. It lacked an hour to the first sunset; the sensible thing to do, he told himself, was to eat a decent dinner and put his thoughts in order before he went back to the university.

  He rented three rooms—almost half the floor—on the second floor of what had once been a rich merchant’s or petty noble’s house, and shared what had been th
e courtyard gardens with the half a dozen other households that lived in the warren of rooms. The gardens were, usually, a luxury at this time of year, but now he winced as he passed his plot, straggling and unwatered, and hoped that the goats that the weaver kept in the former stable would eat the worst of the weeds before he was utterly disgraced. The air in the stairwell was close, and he winced again as he opened the door of his room. He had left the shutters closed and latched; the air was hot and still, tasting of dust and something gone rotten in the vegetable basket. He swore, loudly this time, and flung open the shutters, then stirred the stove until he found the last embers under the banked ash and lit a stick of incense. He set that in the holder in the center of the Hearthmistress’s circular altar, and then glared at the stove. No amount of banking would keep those few embers going overnight, but he didn’t relish the idea of building up the fire in this heat. Nor did he particularly enjoy the thought of fumbling with flint and tinder once he’d gotten back from the university, but that was his only alternative. And I cannot, he decided, face a fire just now. He set his tinderbox and a candle in a good, wide-saucered stand on the table by the door, and then caught up the end of a loaf of bread and went back down to the garden.

  The well at its center was still good, still supplied the entire structure with water, and he hauled up the bucket, the cup attached to its handle clattering musically against the wooden sides. He drank, then poured the rest of the bucket into the standing trough, for the gods, and went back to where a stone bench stood against the wall beside the base of the stairs. It was still warm, but he could feel the first touch of the evening breeze, and the winter-sun was almost directly overhead. He sighed, then began methodically to eat the bread, thinking about the missing children. The Corthere boy was, by all accounts, no different from the rest, except in his profession. He’d disappeared without warning, without a word, and his nativity contained nothing immediately remarkable. Being born on the stroke of midnight was a little unusual, but not completely out of the ordinary. He stopped then, considering. Corthere knew his stars to the minute, assuming the town clocks in Dhenin were accurate—and town clocks were, the city regents paid good money to be sure of it, just because people took their nativities from them. That was why the clock-night had been so bad, had shaken the city into something like good behavior for the last week. And Herisse Robion knew hers to the quarter hour, as did the missing brewers—as did every single child who’d been reported missing to Point of Hopes. They all knew their birth stars to the quarter hour or better.