Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“You’ll have what I give you,” Wicked answered, and pushed herself up from the table. “I’ve lasanon with cheese and herbs that’ll be better with that than a custard pie.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing better than to argue, and the innkeeper turned away. Rathe leaned back in his chair, and reached for the papers folded into his pocket. He pulled them out, eight sheets, each with their neatly inked circles and the symbols of the planets set in their places, looking for some connection, however tenuous, between the eight. Approximate age was all they had in common, certainly not background, and that was what had the city in an uproar. And he didn’t see anything in these papers to change that.

He made a face, and turned them facedown on the scarred table, wishing b’Estorr would arrive. The door was still open to the evening breeze, a southern breeze, warm, but without the river’s damp. He could hear the sounds of the businesses around Wicked’s closing up for the day, tables and carts pulled in, shutters down or across, the clank of iron as locks and chains were snugged home. First sunset was definitely past; over in Point of Dreams, the day‑shows would be well over, and the playhouses sweeping up, getting ready for the night‑show. It had been weeks–a moon‑month, he realized, guiltily–since he had seen a play, even a night‑show farce. The actors who shared the garret above his own lodgings had seemed cold lately; he would have to make amends, when he had the time. And he would need to make time, he realized. They if anyone could help him with Foucquet’s missing apprentice, especially if the boy wasn’t missing at all…

“So how do you like the wine?”

Rathe looked up, and pushed the papers aside. “Don’t know. Haven’t dared try it yet. I thought, being Chadroni, it might come ready mixed with its own poison.” b’Estorr looked thoughtful. “I don’t think it’s from the royal cellars.”

“How’d you know I’d need it?”

“Poison or a drink?” b’Estorr asked, and seated himself opposite the other man.

Rathe gave him a sour look, but conceded the point. “The drink.”

“These days, don’t we all,” b’Estorr answered, and filled both glasses. Rathe took one, lifted it in silent toast, and sipped curiously at the amber liquid. It was good, very good, but not astonishing. He had been in the mood for something astonishing, and he set the glass down again with a vague sense of disappointment. b’Estorr went on, as if he hadn’t noticed, “I heard about the trouble at Devynck’s–I had cause to go to All‑Guilds today, the clerks were talking about nothing else.”

“And blaming the points, I daresay,” Rathe muttered.

“Among others,” b’Estorr answered.

Rathe looked at him. “Strange to say, though, you people are the only ones I haven’t heard suspected.”

“Well, who’d dare?” b’Estorr returned. “I take it you mean magists, and not Chadroni.”

Rathe smiled in spite of himself. “I think that people feel if Chadroni were involved, it wouldn’t be this… disguised. Good straightforward people, the Chadroni, if a little bloodthirsty.”

b’Estorr twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “That’s true enough.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “The only reason they didn’t latch onto me as the guilty party when the old Fre was murdered was that they’d’ve been insulted at the thought of any but their own class murdering the king. In Chenedolle, in any of the League cities– in the Silklands, for Astree’s sake–I’d’ve been dragged off to execution without a second thought. But in Chadron, murder is the province of the high nobility.”

“Fun place to set up a points station,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr nearly choked on his wine. Rathe grinned–that had evened the score for the remark about poison–but sobered quickly. Something he’d said himself hadn’t quite rung true… “But I’m wrong, aren’t I, there’s one group of magists people do suspect.”

b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.

“Those hedge‑astrologers, the freelances, the ones the Three Nations have been complaining about.”

“Magists are generally astrologers,” b’Estorr said, with dignity, “but few astrologers are magists.”

“I’m not sure most people make that distinction.” Rathe frowned suddenly, impatient with the game. “Seriously, Istre, have you heard anything more about them?”

b’Estorr shrugged. “Not much more than before, I’m afraid. They’re still around–and they don’t charge nearly enough for what they’re doing. The students are pissed, of course, and the arbiters have promised to do what they can, but every time they get close to one of them, they seem to fade away.”

“Well, joy of it to me, we need to keep an eye on them, too,” Rathe said.

“I’d have thought that was the arbiters’ business,” b’Estorr said.

“And also ours.” Rathe glanced toward the open door, hearing sudden loud voices, and then relaxed slightly, recognizing the tone if not the speakers. They sounded light, for a change, almost happy, and Rathe realized for the first time just how tense he had become. Then a knot of people–actors all, Rathe knew, and his upstairs neighbor Gavi Jhirassi at their center–burst through the open door.

“They can threaten to close us down, but they know right now there’d be riots if they tried it. And that’s just what Astreiant wants to avoid, so they won’t. And meanwhile, it’s marvelous business for us.”

“Still, it’s a risky piece, Gavi, and Aconin should mind his pen.” That was a rangy woman in a plumed cap, her eyes still smudged with the paint she wore on stage.

Jhirassi made a moue, and his eyes lighted on Rathe. “Nico! Have they actually let you out? We were beginning to think you were working all hours.”

b’Estorr glanced at Rathe, eyes amused. Rathe shook his head. “Gavi’s my upstairs neighbor. And an actor, though I probably don’t need to tell you that. Quite a good one, really.”

“You’re too kind,” Jhirassi said, and leaned on the back of the empty chair.

Rathe sighed. “Gavi Jhirassi, Istre b’Estorr, Istre’s at the university.”

“Not a student,” Jhirassi said. “A master, then?”

“Join us, why don’t you, Gavi?” Rathe said, and the actor spun the chair dexterously away from the table. “I wanted to talk to you anyway, and this saves me a trip to the theaters, since we’re never home the same hours these days.”

Jhirassi nodded. “It has been a while since we’ve seen you, Nico. Not that I can blame you, with what’s been on recently, I mean, really, The Seven Seekers? It’s not particularly subtle, and this staging isn’t particularly inventive. At least Aconin doesn’t write me ingenue parts–” He broke off, looking at Rathe. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Rathe allowed himself a wry smile, and quickly retold Foucquet’s story of her missing clerk‑apprentice. Jhirassi’s face grew more intent as he listened, and for once he didn’t interrupt. When Rathe had finished, he said, “And you’re afraid he’s become one of the missing, obviously, for all you’re saying everything else. Well, we’ve not had any new brats–sorry, children–” The correction was patently insincere. “–hanging about, but you said he might have gone to Savatier’s.” He tipped his head to one side, considering, then shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ll ask there tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Please,” Rathe said.

“And if I find him?”

“Let me know, and I’ll let Foucquet know. She can handle it from there, sort it out with the boy’s mother.”

“If Savatier has him,” Jhirassi said, “if she’s taken him on, he’s likely to be good, Nico. It could be a shame to force him back into the judiciary.”

“I know,” Rathe answered. “But his mother has a right to know if he hasn’t gone missing. Who knows, she might be so delighted to hear he’s with Savatier, and not disappeared, she might let him stay on.” He didn’t sound terribly convincing, and knew it, and so, from the look on the actor’s face, did Jhirassi. The judiciary was a good career, and a rich one, ideal for those who had the proper stars, and that range was broadly defined. Clerkships like the one Albe Cytel had held were as jealously guarded as any guild apprenticeship, and for the same reasons: their holders had an advantage over the hundreds of others who tried to make their living in the trade, and that advantage could be passed from mother to child. Cytel’s mother would be reluctant to lose that, no matter what the boy’s stars said, and there would be ambition and expectation involved as well. Sometimes it was hard to make the parent’s desires give way to sidereal sense. He himself had been lucky, Rathe thought. He might have been an apothecary, or an herbalist, given his parents’ occupations, but it had been clear from his stars that Metenere’s service was not for him, and they had made no protest. He looked again at the sheaf of papers with their scribbled nativities. There had been nothing in common among those children’s stars, or at least nothing that he could see, not even a common like or dislike of their present circumstances.

“I’ll ask at Savatier’s,” Jhirassi said again. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“I appreciate it,” Rathe answered.

Jhirassi nodded, mischief glinting in his eyes, but then common sense reasserted itself. He rose gracefully from the table, smiled at b’Estorr, and crossed to the corner table where the rest of the actors were sitting. Rathe watched him go, but his mind wasn’t on the slim figure.

“That sounds–interesting,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe rolled his eyes.

“In other circumstances, yes. It might almost be amusing, but not just at the moment, thank you. Not with people–respectable guildfolk, mind you–trying to do our jobs for us.”

“Is it true someone was killed last night?” b’Estorr asked.

Rathe nodded. “A journeyman butcher, name of Paas Huviet. He was threatening to attack the inn, and when he wouldn’t heed the warnings, Eslingen–he was Devynck’s knife–shot him dead.” He managed a crooked smile. “Which I don’t think comes under your purview, Istre.”

“I would think not,” the magist agreed. “So what happened to him, the knife, I mean?”

Rathe grimaced. “Oh, gods, that was a mess. We had to call the point on him, if only to keep the rest of the crowd quiet, but of course it was disallowed. It had to be, really, he’d only fired in self‑defense and in defense of real property. But Devynck let him go, since she didn’t want there to be more trouble because of him. So I… I got him a position in Caiazzo’s household.”

b’Estorr stared at Rathe, then laughed. “What possessed you to lodge him with Caiazzo, of all people? I take it you don’t much like this knife–Eslingen, was it?”

Rathe looked faintly embarrassed. “Yeah, that’s his name. And, no, in actual fact, I like him, he’s a good sort, clever–”

“So why, in the Good Counsellor’s name, stick him with Caiazzo?” b’Estorr paused. “Or do I have it turned around?”

Rathe hesitated, but there were few men he trusted more than the Chadroni. And besides, he added silently, I wouldn’t mind having someone tell me I’d done the right thing. “I need someone in Caiazzo’s household,” he said, lowering his voice. “The sur thinks he might be involved with the missing children somehow, but I’ve got my hands too full investigating the disappearances themselves to waste time on something I don’t think is very likely. It seemed a natural conjunction.”

b’Estorr shook his head. “Gods, Nico, remind me never to call in any favors from you, you have the most backhanded way of returning them. He agreed?”

“He agreed. I didn’t exactly hold a knife to his throat, either, Istre,” Rathe said.

“It’s not a bad idea, though,” b’Estorr said, thoughtfully. “As long as Caiazzo doesn’t find out, that is.”

That was something Rathe did not particularly want to think about. He reached for the pieces of paper instead, slid them across the table toward b’Estorr. “Here. These are for you. We’ve managed to gather some more information on the children missing from Hopes–I think you have all the nativities now. I don’t know, maybe if you look at them in line with Herisse’s, or something, maybe the days of their disappearance, you’ll find something we’ve missed.”

b’Estorr set down his glass and spread the papers out on the table, studying each in turn. Rathe watched him, absurdly fearful that he would see some dire pattern just glancing at them, something the points could and should have seen. And that’s just being ridiculous, he told himself firmly, hearing more than an echo of his mother in his mind. But the papers looked pathetic, lives in limbo, reduced to so many numbers and calculations. He wasn’t an astrologer, at least no more so than most people in Astreiant, possessing a rudimentary knowledge of the mathegistry that defined their lives. b’Estorr could read the figures Rathe had given him as easily as Rathe could read the broadsheets, and Rathe wondered what picture the nativities conjured up for the magist. Could he see these children, get a sense for who they were–are, he corrected firmly–what their dreams, hopes, futures might be? He shook his head, at himself this time, and took another swallow of his wine, never taking his eyes from b’Estorr. Finally, the magist rolled up the papers and placed them carefully in his leather pocket case. He smiled a little sheepishly at Rathe.

“Sorry. There’s little enough I can do right now, but I get caught up. It’s interesting, but I’m not seeing any obvious patterns off the top of it. No common positions, bar the gross solar position of the winter‑sun and its satellites for most of them. And of course the Starsmith.”

Rathe nodded. The winter‑sun and its three kindred stars stayed in each of the solar signs for about fourteen years; everyone born within that period shared those signs. The Starsmith took even longer to move through its unique zodiac. “That hardly counts, though, right?”

“Right. And not all of them were born with the winter‑sun in the Anvil, either, some of them are young enough that it was in the first degrees of the Seabull.” b’Estorr shook his head again. “For that matter, they weren’t even all of them born in Astreiant.”

“That we had noticed,” Rathe said. “It’s almost as though there’s less of a pattern than there should be, and where you expect to find one, no matter how meaningless–I expected, we reasonably could have expected, all the kids to have been born here–it’s not there. It’s the kind of negative pattern you couldn’t create if you tried, you’d be bound to slip up somewhere.”

“That’s an interesting thought,” b’Estorr said, and this time it was Rathe who shook his head.

“It could just be frustration speaking. Damn it, there has to be some pattern there, somewhere.”

b’Estorr nodded. “And the absence of pattern would be meaningful, too. Don’t give up hope yet, Nico.”

Rathe smiled ruefully, leaned back in his chair as a waiter appeared with his dinner–the promised lasanon, he saw without surprise, smelling strongly of the garlic and summer herbs layered with the cheese and the strips of noodle dough. Wicked was right, the wine would complement that, or vice versa, and for the first time that evening, felt his mood begin to lift. “I’m not. It’s just–”

“Eat,” b’Estorr said, firmly.

“You sound like my mother,” Rathe complained, but did as he was told. A string of cheese clung to his chin, and he wiped it away, enjoying the rich taste.

“I sound like my mother,” b’Estorr answered, “and they were both right.”

Rathe smiled again, genuine affection this time, and turned his attention to his plate. b’Estorr was right, they were doing all they could, and it was still too early to give up hope.

They pushed the missing children from their minds for the rest of dinner, talking idly of other things. Rathe found himself relaxing at last, though he couldn’t be sure how much of that was the excellent wine. He drained the last swallow left in his glass, and set it carefully back on the table.

“Time I was getting home,” he said aloud, and the chime of a clock merged with his last word. He frowned slightly at that–he hadn’t thought it was that late–and saw the same confusion on b’Estorr’s face.

“That’s odd,” the necromancer began, and a second clock struck, not the quarter hour, as the first had done, but repeatedly, a steady chiming. In the distance, Rathe could hear another clock join in, and then a third and a fourth.

“What in the name of all the gods?” he began, but he was already pushing himself up out of his seat. All across the long room, people were standing, faces pale in the lamplight, and Wicked herself appeared in the kitchen doorway, broad face drawn into a scowl. It sounded like the earthquake, though the ground had never moved, the way all the bells and chimes had sounded, shaken into voice by the tremor, and he shoved his way to the door, and out into the narrow yard.

The chimes were still sounding, and Rathe had lost count of the number, knew only that it was more than twelve, more than there ever should be. The shopgirls were on their feet, too, one with her hand on her belt knife as though she faced a physical threat, another pair shoulder to shoulder, steadying each other against an earthquake that hadn’t happened. The nearest clock was at the end of the Hopes‑point Bridge, and he turned toward it, searching the darkening sky for its white‑painted face and the massive bronze hands. It was hard to see in the winter‑sun’s twilight, but for an instant he thought he saw the hands spinning aimlessly against the pale disk. Then the chimes stopped, as abruptly as they had begun, and the hands settled, frozen, proclaiming the hour to be six. And that was impossible, that time had passed a good six hours ago, or wouldn’t come for another six. Rathe’s mouth thinned, and he looked back toward the tavern to see b’Estorr there, Wicked framed in the door behind him. As though the silence had released some spell, voices rose in the tavern, high, excited, and afraid.

“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 first 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.