Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“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 into 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.

“How can you stand to read that trash?”

Eslingen looked up to see Adriana looking down at him. She had been working in the kitchen all morning, and the stove’s heat had left her red‑faced and sweating; she had unlaced her sleeveless bodice, and pinned up the sleeves of her shift, but it didn’t seem to have done much good.

“I like to see what people are thinking,” he answered, and shoved the jug of small beer toward her. “Can you join me?”

She shook her head, but lifted the pitcher and drank deeply. “I can’t stay, but I had to get out of the kitchen. Sweet Demis, but it’s scalding in there.”

“Pity you can’t serve cold food,” Eslingen said.

“Food served cold has to be cooked first,” Adriana answered. “But tonight should be easier. Most everything will be served cool, thank the gods–and Mother, of course.”

“Not quite the same thing,” Eslingen said, straight‑faced, and the woman grinned.

“Though you’d never know it to listen to her.” She picked up the first broadsheet, scanned it curiously, her brows lifting in amused surprise. “I can’t believe this got licensed.”

“Look again,” Eslingen said, and Adriana swore softly.

“Forged–Tyrseis instead of Sofia.”

Eslingen nodded. “Someone has a sense of humor, I think. I didn’t notice it until I read it and looked twice.”

“Someone’s going to spend a few months in the cells for this one,” Adriana said. “And they’ll have earned it.”

“Assuming the points can catch her,” Eslingen said, “Or him, I suppose.”

“Printing’s a mixed craft,” Adriana answered. “Oh, they’ll call the point on this one easily enough, they’re hard on poor printers, and it’ll make them look a little better, seeing that they can’t catch whoever’s stealing the children–or won’t.”

“You don’t believe that,” Eslingen said, and was startled by his own vehemence. But it was impossible to imagine Rathe standing idly by while his colleagues helped the child‑stealers, even more impossible to imagine him cooperating with them. Of course, he told himself firmly, Rathe wasn’t all pointsmen–wasn’t even a typical one, by all accounts.

Adriana made a face. “No, I don’t, not really. But with everyone pointing the finger at us, it’s hard not to blame someone else.” She sighed. “Gods, I don’t want to get back to work. Let me have another drink of your beer, Philip?”

Eslingen nodded, watched the smooth skin of her neck exposed as she tilted her head to drink. She saw him looking as she lowered the jug, but only smiled, and set it back on the table.

“Thanks. Think of me, slaving away to feed you–”

“Philip!” Devynck’s voice cut through whatever else her daughter would have said. “In here, please, now!”

Eslingen shoved himself upright, wondering if she’d finally decided to make known her feelings about any connection with him, and hurried into the inn. He stopped just inside the garden door, his hand going reflexively to the knife he still carried. Devynck was standing by the bar, hands on her hips, the waiters flanking her like soldiers; A lanky woman in a pointswoman’s jerkin stood facing her, more pointsmen behind her–at least half a dozen of them–and at her side was a small woman Eslingen thought he should recognize. He frowned, unable to place her, uncertain of his status, or Devynck’s, and the innkeeper turned to him.

“Philip. It seems that Chief Point Monteia here has received a formal complaint about the Brown Dog. She feels it her duty to investigate those complaints–” She glanced back at the lanky woman, and added, grudgingly, “not unreasonably, I suppose. She also feels it’s necessary to search the building and grounds.”

Eslingen nodded once, fixing his eyes on the group. The pointswoman–chief point, he corrected himself, Rathe’s superior Monteia–just said, “Mistress Huviet here has lodged a complaint with us, says you’re hiding the girl that’s missing from the Knives Road. We’re obliged to take that seriously.”

“And what business is it of Mistress Huviet’s?” Devynck asked. “I don’t see Bonfais Mailet in here claiming I’ve got his apprentice.”

Monteia gave a thin smile. “Mistress Huviet has kin in the guild, a nephew, I believe, who’s a journeyman, and about whom she’s worried.” The chief point’s voice was tinged with irony, and Devynck snorted.

“Not that Paas?” she demanded, and Monteia nodded. “Then she should hope he’s taken, it’d save her in the long run.”

The little woman drew herself up–rather like a gargoyle, Eslingen thought, or more like a crow, something small, and fierce, and dangerous when roused–and Monteia held up her hand.

“Aagte, that’s not funny at the best of times, and times like these, I’m forced to take it seriously. You’re not helping yourself with remarks like that.”

Devynck made a face, but folded her arms across her breast, visibly refusing to apologize. Monteia’s mouth tightened, as though she’d bitten something bitter. “The complaint has been made, and I will search this tavern with or without your cooperation, Devynck.”

“And what about the rest of the taverns in Point of Hopes–hells, there are three others off the Knives Road alone. Will you be searching them, Chief Point?”

Monteia shook her head. “I’ve no cause, no complaints against them.”

Devynck snorted. “Go on, then. Philip, go with them, don’t let them drink anything they haven’t paid for.”

Monteia grinned at that, a fleeting expression that lit her horselike face with rueful amusement, but Huviet bristled again.

“He’s in it as much as anyone, I told you that. You can’t let him lead the search.”

“I’m leading the search,” Monteia corrected her. “And Aagte– Mistress Devynck–has a right to have one of her people observe.”

Huviet compressed her lips, but Monteia’s tone brooked no argument. The chief point nodded. “All right. We’ll do this orderly, bottom to top, people. And if anything’s broken or missing, it comes doubled out of your salary and fees.” She eyed the group behind her, and seemed to read agreement, nodded again. “Ganier, watch the front, no one in or out. Leivrith, the same for the back.”

Devynck snorted again, and reached for the knot of keys that hung at her belt. “Half your station? I’m flattered.” She handed the keys to Eslingen. “They’re marked. Let them in wherever they want to go, the only secret here is where I get my good beer.”

“Ma’am.” Eslingen looked at Monteia, and the chief point sighed.

“Right, then. We’ll start with the cellars.”

Eslingen found that key easily enough–he’d seen it before, a massive thing, passed from hand to hand as needed–and unlocked the trap where the beer barrels were brought in. Monteia lifted an eyebrow at that, and he wondered for an instant if she knew there was a second, easier entrance from the garden. She said nothing, however, just motioned for one of the pointsmen to raise the trap, and swung herself easily down the ladder. Eslingen followed, reached for the lantern that hung ready on the side of the barrel chute. He fumbled in his pocket for flint and steel, but before he could find it, one of the waiters came hurrying with a lit candle, hand cupped around the flame. One of the pointswomen passed it down to him. He lit the lantern and set it back in its place, throwing fitful shadows. Monteia gave him another look, but said nothing, just stepped back to let her people file past, lighting their own candles as they went. The little woman–Huviet– came last of all, bundling her skirts against the cellar dirt.

“Help yourself,” Eslingen said, and wished instantly he’d chosen a less ambiguous phrase.

“You should know better,” Monteia answered, and nodded to her people. “All right, go to it. Make sure there are no secret rooms–and remember what I said about breakage.”

The cellar was large, and essentially undivided, except for the pillars that held the floor above. Monteia’s people moved through it with efficient speed, shifting the heavy barrels and the racked wines only enough to be sure that nothing was concealed behind them. Huviet followed close behind, peering over their shoulder as each object was moved. With her skirts still bunched up, and the lack of height that made her hop a little to see past the taller pointsmen, she looked like nothing so much as an indignant gargoyle in the uncertain light, but then Eslingen caught a glimpse of her face, and his amusement died. She was absolutely convinced of Devynck’s guilt–of all their guilt, pointsman and Leaguer alike–and she wouldn’t be satisfied until a child was found.

“Nothing here, boss,” one of the pointsmen announced, and Monteia nodded.

“Upstairs.”

Eslingen trailed behind them, the keys jangling in his hand, pausing only to be sure that the lantern was well out. Monteia led her people into the kitchen–Adriana and the cookmaid stood back against the garden wall, arms folded, saying nothing even when one of the pointsmen nearly upset the stew pot–and she herself ran a thin rod into the huge jars of flour. Huviet peered over her shoulder, and into every corner, all the while darting wary glances at Adriana and the scowling maid.

“Nothing here either,” a pointsman announced, and Monteia straightened, one hand going to the small of her back.

“Devynck’s office,” she said. “And then upstairs.”

Monteia herself went through Devynck’s office, though she disdained to touch the locked strongbox that sat beneath the work table. Huviet looked as though she would protest, seeing that, but Monteia fixed her with a cold stare, and the little woman subsided. At the chief point’s gesture, Eslingen led the way into the garden and up the outside stair, then stood back while the pointsmen went into each of the lodgers’ rooms.

“I’ve four people staying with me now,” Devynck said, from the top of the stairs, “all known to me, Monteia, except Eslingen, and he came recommended by a woman I’d trust with my life. So that’s four rooms out of six, and the others are all empty. But see for yourself.”

“We will,” Monteia said, without particular emphasis, and Devynck snorted, and climbed down the stairs again, her shoes loud on the wood. The chief point made a face, and nodded to her people. “All right, get on with it–and remember what I said.”

Eslingen leaned against the wall, the suns’ light hot on his back. At least the other lodgers were away, either at their jobs, or, like Jasanten, at the Temple of Areton, and he made a face at the thought of explaining the searches to some of his more truculent neighbors. Still, he would deal with that later, if anyone noticed. So far, though, the pointsmen had been remarkably tidy in their work. He was just glad Rathe wasn’t among the group, and couldn’t have said precisely why.

He straightened as Huviet started to follow a pointswoman into one of the rooms, and touched Monteia’s shoulder. “Chief Point, I’ve no objection to her going into the untenanted rooms, but that woman has no status here, and I won’t have her in the lodgers’ rooms.” He left the accusation hanging, delicately, and saw Monteia suppress a grin.

“Mistress Huviet, you will have to stay outside.”

Huviet drew herself up. “You keep taking their part, Chief Point. One would think you were on their side.”

“I’m here to act for the city’s laws,” Monteia said. “This search is at your behest, mistress, that’s all you have a right to.”

Huviet looked as though she was going to say something else, but as visibly swallowed her words. She turned on her heel, and moved down the hall, to stand ostentatiously in the doorway of the next room. “Be sure and check the walls for hidden panels.”

Monteia rolled her eyes, then looked at Eslingen. “So you’re the new knife. Rathe spoke to you?”

“Yes.” Eslingen kept his eyes on the city woman, moving on to the doorway of the next room.

“Good.” Monteia nodded. “He speaks well of you, at least on first acquaintance. I hope you’ll keep his advice in mind.”

“Send to Point of Hopes if we have trouble,” he said. Eslingen tilted his head at the pointsmen filling the hallway. “And who do we send to for this, Chief Point?”

Monteia looked at him. “There are a lot of other things I could be doing, Eslingen, things that would close the Brown Dog for good. And that might be simplest right now, seeing that there are plenty of people who’d like to see it closed, just because Devynck’s a Leaguer and a soldier when it’s a bad time to be either.”

Eslingen looked away, acknowledging that she had the right of it. “People are scared,” he said, after a moment, not knowing how to apologize.

“I know it,” Monteia said, flatly, and then shook her head. “I’d have to be deaf not to hear what’s being said, and I’ve been offered coin to be blind, too, for that matter. To close my eyes and not see, what did she call it, events taking their course.”

“Fire?” Eslingen asked, instantly, and as quickly shook his head. “Surely not, not in a neighborhood like this, everything cheek by jowl–”

Monteia gave a twisted smile. “You think like a soldier. I doubt anyone hereabouts would destroy real property, they’ve had to work too hard to get it. But that’s why I’m here, and that’s why I’m offending the hells out of an old friend.”

Eslingen nodded. It was like war, a little, or more like taking a city. You saved what you could through whatever methods were necessary. You didn’t make friends, you usually lost some, but you kept some part of yourself intact. He doubted Monteia would appreciate the analogy, however, said only, “If we get any further trouble, Chief Point, I promise we’ll send to you.”

“Good.”

“We’re finished here, ma’am,” one of the pointsmen said. “Still nothing.”

Monteia nodded briskly. “Right. Downstairs, then.”

Eslingen stood aside with an automatic half bow, and the chief point grinned. “Served with Coindarel, did you? He always was one for a pretty man with good manners.”

“And I was beginning to like you, Chief Point,” Eslingen muttered.

He followed her down into the garden, well aware that Devynck was waiting, hands on hips, beside the fence that marked the edge of the kitchen garden. She fixed him and the chief point with an impartial glare, and said, “Find anyone, Monteia? My keys, Philip.”

Eslingen handed her the knot of metal, and she restored it to its place at her belt, still staring at Monteia.

The chief point shook her head. “No. Nor, for the record, did I expect to, and so I told Mistress Huviet when she made her complaint.”

“They’ve just been moved,” Huviet said. “She had warning, they took the children away before we could get here.”

“Do you have any proof of that?” one of the other pointswomen snapped, and Monteia held up her hand, silencing both of them.

“My people have been in and out of the Old Brown Dog half a dozen times since the children started disappearing–easily half of those since Herisse Robion vanished–and all without warning. There’s been no sign of children, or are you calling me a liar, mistress?” Huviet said nothing, and Monteia nodded in satisfaction. “If anything, Devynck’s been discouraging the local youth from coming here. I will take it very ill if there’s any further disturbance in this neighborhood.”

“It won’t be us who causes a disturbance, Chief Point,” Huviet said, stiffly.

Before Monteia could say anything to that, Loret appeared in the doorway, one hand in the waistband of his breeches where he stashed his cudgel. “Eslingen–”

“Trouble?” Devynck asked, eyes narrowing.

“There’s people here, ma’am, they say they know the points are here, and they want to make sure everything’s all right.”

And I wish I thought that meant they were on our side, Eslingen thought. He said, “I’ll deal with it.”

“Not alone,” Monteia said, and fixed her eyes on Huviet. “If this is your doing, mistress–” She broke off, gestured for Eslingen to precede her into the tavern. To his relief, a pair of pointsmen followed, drawing their truncheons.

The main door was closed and barred, but Eslingen could see blurred shapes moving outside the windows, and could hear the dull buzz of voices. Not angry, not yet, not calling for blood, but the potential was there, clear in the note of the crowd. Monteia’s frown deepened, and she looked at Eslingen. “Go ahead and open it. I’ll talk to them.”

Eslingen’s eyebrows rose at that–he lacked the chief point’s confidence in her powers of persuasion–but, reluctantly, he slid back the bar. Monteia flung the door open, and stepped out into the sunlit street.

“What’s all this, then?”

The pointsmen stepped up to the door, but did not follow her into the street. Looking past them, Eslingen had to admit he admired their restraint. A group of maybe a dozen journeymen, all in butchers’ leather aprons, were gathered outside the door, and beyond them the respectable matrons of the neighborhood had gathered, too, along with a couple of master butchers. They looked less certain of the situation, torn between disapproval of the tavern and disapproval of the journeymen’s protest, but they made no move to haul their juniors home. Scanning their faces, Eslingen thought he recognized the woman whose son he’d sent home, and wondered whose side she would be on.

“Well?” Monteia demanded, and a familiar figure stepped out from among the journeymen.

“Have you taken the child‑thief?” Paas demanded. “Bring her out, let us see her.”

“There are no children here,” Monteia said, and pitched her voice to carry to the edges of the crowd. She ticked her next words off on her fingers, a grand gesture, calculated to impress. “There are no children, no sign that any children were here, no secret rooms, no suspicious anything. Nothing but a woman trying to go about her business like the rest of us. I have been through this building from cellar to attic, and there’s nothing here that shouldn’t be. And unless you, Paas Huviet, have more evidence than your mother did, I’ll thank you to keep your mouth closed. If you didn’t drink too much, you wouldn’t be thrown out of taverns.”

That shot told, Eslingen saw, and hid a grin. Paas hesitated, obviously not appeased, but unable to think of anything to say. In the silence, a bulky man in a butcher’s apron stepped forward. “You give us your word on that, Chief Point? It’s my apprentice who’s missing.”

“Among others,” Monteia said, not ungently. “You have my word, Mailet. The girl’s not here.”

The man nodded, not entirely convinced, but reluctant to challenge her directly. “Very well.” He waded into the crowd of journeymen, caught one by the collar. “You, Eysi, who gave you permission to leave your work? Get on home with you, and don’t disgrace me further.”

The rest of the crowd began to disperse with him, the journeymen in particular looking sheepish and glad to get out from under the chief point’s eye, but one woman held her ground, then walked slowly across the dirty street until she was standing face to face with the chief point. It was the boy’s mother, Eslingen realized, with a sinking feeling, what was her name, Lucenan.

“So what are you going to do about this place, Monteia?” she asked.

“Do about it?”

“A Leaguer tavern, frequented by soldiers, in and out of work– times like these, we don’t need them in our midst.”

“Children have disappeared from every point in Astreiant,” Monteia said. “Closing one tavern’s not going to stop that.”

“I’ve nothing against Leaguers,” Lucenan said, “but these people fill children’s heads with the most amazing nonsense about a soldier’s life. Running after soldiers, who knows what our children might stumble into, even if it’s not the soldiers who are stealing them? It’s a risk having them here.”

Monteia nodded slowly. “I know you, mistress. And your son. He’s of an age where he will go off and explore, and if he’s soldier‑mad, gods know how you’ll stop him, without you tie him to your doorpost. And you’re frightened, and I wish I could say it was without cause. I’m frightened, too–I’ve a son his age myself, and a daughter not much younger. But you know as well as I that Devynck doesn’t encourage him–she sent him home to you, didn’t she, and she’ll probably have to do it again.” She smiled suddenly. “Admit it, Anfelis, you’re mostly annoyed that Devynck’s complained against him.”

Lucenan blinked, on the verge of affront, and then, slowly, smiled. “I’m not best please about that, Ters, no. But that’s not what’s behind this. I am worried–I’m more than worried, I’m frankly terrified. I don’t want to lose Felis.”

“I know,” Monteia said. “All I can tell you is, the child‑thief isn’t here–Felis is probably as safe here as he is at home. Given the complaints between the two of you, the boy will be as well looked after as if he was Aagte’s own.”

That surprised another rueful smile from Lucenan, but she sobered quickly. “It’s the streets in between I’m worried about, as much as anything.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Monteia answered, and the other woman shook her head.

“It’s not enough, Chief Point.” She turned away before Monteia could answer.

“And don’t I know it,” Monteia muttered, and stepped back into the tavern. “Well, you heard that, Eslingen. I don’t think you’ll have a lot to worry about, barring something new. It’s mostly the Huviets who are causing the trouble, and they’re not well loved here.”

“I hope you’re right,” Eslingen answered.

“And if I’m not–hells, if you have any troubles,” Monteia began, and Eslingen finished for her.

“I’ll send to Point of Hopes. I assure you, you’ll be the first to hear.”

Business was slow that night, and Eslingen, watching the sparse gathering from his usual corner, didn’t know whether it was a good or a bad sign. Among the broadsheets he had bought that morning was a plain diviner, listing the planetary positions for the week, with brief comments, the sort of thing senior students at the university cobbled together to raise drinking money, but nevertheless he slipped it out of his cuff and scanned it yet again. It was the night of the new moon–if the astrologer at the fairgrounds had been correct, he was due to change his job soon. He smiled. He suspected that the astrologer’s timing was off: he had a new job, related to his work, already. And in any case, it was the general readings he was interested in. The sun and the moon both lay square to the winter‑sun; the first was normal, defined the time of year, but the second added to the tension between the mundane and the supernatural. He shook his head, thinking of the missing children–one more indication that there was something dreadfully wrong–and scanned the list of aspects again. The moveable stars lay mostly in squares, particularly Areton, ruler of strife and discord, squaring Argent–and there go the merchants’ profits, Eslingen added silently–and the Homestar and Heira. More tension there, for home and society, and with Areton in the Scales and Sickle, there was a real promise of trouble. He made a face, and refolded the paper, tucking it back into the wide cuff of his coat. It was showing signs of wear, and he grimaced again, looked out across the almost‑empty room.

Most of the soldiers were gone, either hired on to one of the companies just to get out of the city, or else they’d taken themselves and their drinking to the friendlier taverns along the Horsegate Road, closer to the camp grounds. And who could blame them? Eslingen thought. But it makes for a lonely night. Jasanten was still there, ensconced at his usual table, but he’d already given Devynck his notice, was planning to move to the Green Bell on the Horsegate as soon as possible. It would be easier recruiting there, he said, but they all knew what he really meant.

The rest of the customers were Leaguers, friends of Devynck’s– the brewer Marrija Vandeale was still there, her group of five, including a well‑grown young man who had to be her son, the largest in the inn. Eslingen shook his head again, and walked over to the bar, more for something to do than because he really wanted another pitcher, even of Vandeale’s best. Adriana came to meet him, faced him across the heavy wood with a crooked grin.

“Not a good night,” Eslingen said, not knowing what else to say, and the woman’s smile widened briefly.

“No. Mother’s furious.” She nodded to the edge of the paper sticking out above the edge of his cuff. “Any good news there?”

“It depends,” Eslingen said, sourly.

“How’s business?” Adriana asked, and matched his tone exactly.

“I wouldn’t ask.”

Adriana glanced over his shoulder at the almost‑empty room. “I hardly need to.” She reached across the counter for his mug. “What about the children, does it say anything about them?”

Eslingen shrugged, and tucked the diviner deeper into his cuff. “Not a lot–as you’d expect, I suppose. Metenere trines the sun–and the moon, for that matter–which they say is a hopeful sign, but it’s inconjunct to the winter‑sun and Sofia, which they say means there are still things to be uncovered before the matter is resolved.”

“That’s safe enough,” Adriana said, and set the refilled mug back in front of him. “Gods, you’d think the magists could do better than that.”

Eslingen nodded, took a sip of beer he didn’t really want. “Or the points. I wonder if they’re consulting the astrologers?”