Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“She’s not much use to me today,” Grosejl said, rather grimly, and Rathe glanced along the line of girl‑apprentices, wondering which one it was. She wasn’t hard to pick out, after all: even at this distance, Rathe could tell she’d been crying, suspected from the hunch of her shoulder and the way she glared at the pepper under her knife that she was crying still.

“I’d like to talk to Sabadie as well,” he said, and the journeyman hesitated.

“Go on, I’ll take over here,” Mailet said. “Fetch him Trijntje when he’s done with you, and then you can get back to work.”

“Yes, Master,” Grosejl answered, and turned to face the pointsman, jamming her hands into the pockets of her smock beneath her apron. She was a tall woman, Leaguer pale, and her eyes were wary.

“So you’re in charge of the girl‑apprentices?” Rathe asked.

Grosejl nodded. “For my sins.” She grimaced. “They’re not so bad, truly, just–”

“Young?” Rathe asked, and the journeyman nodded.

“And now this has happened. Master Rathe, I don’t know what Master Mailet told you, but I don’t think Herisse ran away.”

“Oh?”

“She liked it here, liked the schooling and the work and the people–she didn’t tell Trijntje she was going, and she’d have done that for certain.”

“Was she Trijntje’s leman?” Rathe asked.

Grosejl hesitated, then nodded. “Master Mailet doesn’t really approve, nor the mistress, so there was nothing said or signed, but everyone knew it. You hardly saw one without the other. If she’d been planning to run away, seek her fortune on the road, they would have gone together.”

Rathe sighed. That was probably true enough–runaways often left in pairs or threes, either sworn lemen or best friends–and it probably also told him the answer to his next question. “You understand I have to ask this,” he began, and Grosejl shook her head.

“No, she wasn’t pregnant. That I can swear to. Mistress Fayor makes sure all the girls take the Baroness every day.”

“But if it didn’t work for her?” Rathe asked. The barren‑herb didn’t work for every woman; that was common knowledge, and one of the reasons the guilds generally turned a blind eye to the passionate friendships between the apprentices of the same gender. Better barren sex than a hoard of children filling the guildhalls.

Grosejl hesitated, then jerked her head toward a child of six or seven who was sweeping seeds into the piles of rubbish at the center of the hall. “That’s my daughter. There’d have been a place for her, and the child, if she was pregnant. More than there would have been with her family.”

“A bad lot?”

Grosejl shrugged. “Useless, more like. I met them once. The mother’s dead, the father drinks, the other two–boys, both of them, younger than her–run wild. I don’t know where they came up with the indenture money. But Herisse was glad to be away from them, that’s for sure.”

Rathe paused, considering what she’d told him. They all seemed very certain that Herisse Robion was no runaway, and from everything they said, he was beginning to believe it, too. And that was not a pleasant thought. There was no reason to kidnap a butcher’s apprentice– or rather, he amended silently, the only reasons were of the worst kind, madmen’s reasons, someone looking for a child, a girl, to rape, to hurt, maybe to kill. He could see in Grosejl’s eyes that she’d thought of the same things, and forced a smile. “There may be a good explanation,” he said, and knew it sounded lame. “Can I talk to Trijntje now?”

“Trijntje!” Grosejl beckoned widely, and the girl Rathe had picked out before put down her knife and came to join them, wiping furtively at her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. “This is Trijntje Ollre, pointsman. She and Herisse were best friends.”

“She was my leman,” Trijntje interjected, with a defiant glance at the older woman. “And something’s happened to her, pointsman. You have to find her. I’ve money saved–”

“I’m looking into it,” Rathe said. “We can talk fees if there’s extra work to be done.” And there won’t be, he vowed silently. I don’t take money from poor apprentices. But he had learned years ago that telling people he didn’t want their money only bred more distrust and uncertainty: what kind of a pointsman was he, how good could he be, if he didn’t take the payments that were a pointsman’s lot? Rathe dismissed that old grievance, and took Trijntje gently through her story, but there was nothing new to be learned. Herisse had gone to bed with the others, and had risen early and gone out, missing breakfast, but had not come back when Mailet opened the hall for work. She had taken neither clothes nor books nor her one decent hat pin, and had said nothing that would make Trijntje or anyone else think she wanted to run away.

“We were planning to run a workshop together,” Trijntje said, and gave a hopeless sniff. “Once we’d made masters.”

That would probably have come to nothing, Rathe knew–he remembered all too well the fierce but fleeting passions of his own adolescence–but he also remembered the genuine pain of those passing fancies. “I–we at Point of Hopes–will be treating this as more than a runaway,” he said. “We’ll do everything we can to find her.”

Trijntje looked at him with reddened eyes and said nothing.

Rathe walked back to Point of Hopes in less than good humor. Trouble involving children was always bad–of course, by law and custom, apprentice‑age was the end of childhood, but at the same time, no one expected apprentices to take on fully adult responsibilities. Herisse had been only in her second year of apprenticeship; she would have had–would have, he corrected himself firmly–six more to go before she could be considered for journeyman. It was still possible that she’d simply run away–maybe run from Trijntje Ollre, if she, Herisse, had grown out of that relationship, and been too softhearted, still too fond, to end it cleanly. Twelve‑year‑olds weren’t noted for their common sense, he could see one running away because she couldn’t find the words to end a friendship… He shook his head then, rejecting the thought before it could comfort him. Trijntje had spoken of their plans as firmly in the present tense, though that could be self‑deception; more to the point, the journeyman Grosejl had treated the relationship as ongoing, and she, if anyone, would have known of an incipient break. He would ask, of course, he had to ask, but he was already fairly confident of Grosejl’s answer. And that left only the worst answer: if Herisse hadn’t run, then someone had taken her. And there were no good reasons–no logical reasons, reasons of profit, the understandable motive of the knives and bravos and thieves who lived in the rookeries of Point of Sighs and Point of Graves–to steal a twelve‑year‑old apprentice butcher.

He took the long way back to the points station, along the Customs Road to Horse‑Copers’ Street, smelling more than ever of the stables in this weather, and dodged a dozen people, mostly women, a couple of men, bargaining for manure at the back gate of Farenz Hunna’s stable‑yard. Horse‑Copers’ Street formed the boundary between Point of Hopes and Point of Sighs, though technically both points stations shared an interest in the old caravanserai that formed a cul‑de‑sac just before the intersection of the Fairs Road and Horse‑Copers’. The ’Serry had long ago ceased to function as a market–or at least as a legal market, Rathe added, with an inward grin–and the seasonal stables that had served the caravaners had been transformed into permanent housing for sneak thieves, low‑class fences, laundry thieves, and an entire dynasty of pickpockets. What the ’Serry didn’t do was trade in blood–they left that to the hardier souls in Point of Graves–and he turned into the enclosed space without wishing for back‑up. But there had been trouble of that kind there once before, a child rapist, not officially dealt with, and he had questions for the people there.

The ’Serry was as crowded as ever, a good dozen children chasing each other barefoot through the beaten dust while their mothers gossiped in the dooryard of the single tavern and the gargoyles clustered on the low roofs, shrieking at each other. Below them, the low doors and windows were open to the warm air, letting in what little light they could. Another group was gathered around the old horse‑pool. Women in worn jerkins and mended skirts sat on the broad stone lip, talking quietly, while a chubby boy, maybe three or four summers old, waded solemnly in the shallow basin, holding the wide legs of his trousers up while he kicked the water into fans of spray that caught the doubled sun like diamonds. Rathe recognized at least one of them, Estel Quentier, big, broad‑bodied–and, if he was any judge, at least six months gone with child–and at the same moment heard a shrill whistle from one of the blank doorways. He didn’t bother to turn, knowing from experience that he would see no one, and saw heads turn all across the ’Serry. He was known–the people of the ’Serry knew most of the senior points by sight–and was not surprised to see several of the women who had been sitting by the fountain rise quickly and disappear into the nearest doorways. More faded back into the tavern, but he pretended not to see, kept walking toward the fountain. Estel Quentier put her hands on her hips, belly straining her bodice, but didn’t move, squinted up at him as he approached.

“And what does Point of Hopes want with us? This is Point of Sighs.”

“Just a question or two, Estel, nothing serious.” He nodded to her belly. “I take it you’re not working this fair season.”

Quentier made a face, but relaxed slightly. She was the oldest of the Quentier daughters, all of whom were pickpockets like their mother and grandmother before them; there was a brother, too, Rathe remembered, or maybe more than one, also in the family business. Estel had been effective mistress of the ’Serry since her mother’s death three years before, and she was a deft pickpocket, but a pregnant woman was both conspicuous and slow. “I’m an honest woman, Nico, I have to work to live.”

“So you’ll sell what they take?” Rathe asked, and smiled.

Quentier smiled back. “I deal in old clothes, found goods, all that sort of thing. I’ve my license from the regents, signed by the metropolitan herself if you want to see it.”

“If I’d come to check licenses,” Rathe said, with perfect truth, “I’d’ve brought a squad.”

“So what did you come here for, Nico?” Quentier leaned back a little, easing her back, and Rathe was newly aware of the women behind her, not quite out of earshot. He knew most of them: Quentier’s sister Annet, the third oldest, called Sofian for her ability to charm or fee the judges; the dark‑haired singer who was Annet’s favorite decoy; Cassia, another Quentier, thin and wiry; Maurina Tacon, who was either Annet’s or Cassia’s leman–it was hard to unwind the clan’s tangled relationships. They were dangerous, certainly, he knew better than to underestimate them, but if there were a fight, he thought, the immediate danger would come from the hulking man loitering in the tavern dooryard. He had a broom in his hand, and he drew it back and forth through the dirt, but his attention wasn’t on his job.

“There’s a girl gone missing, a butcher’s apprentice over in Point of Hopes,” he said simply, and was not surprised to see Quentier’s face contort as though she wanted to spit. Behind her, Cassia–LaSier, they called her, he remembered suddenly, for the length of her river‑dark hair–said something to her sister, who grinned, and did spit.

“What’s that to me, pointsman?” Estel Quentier said. “Apprentices run away every year.”

“She didn’t run,” Rathe answered. “She didn’t take her clothes or anything with her, and she liked her work. No cause to run, no place to run to.”

“So why do you come to me?” Quentier’s eyes were narrowed, on the verge of anger, and Rathe chose his words carefully.

“Because I remember four or five years ago, in your mother’s time, there was trouble of that sort out of the ’Serry. We knew who the man was, raped two girls, both apprentice‑age or a little older, but when we came to arrest him, he was gone. Your mother swore he’d been dealt with, was gone, and we didn’t ask questions, being as we knew your mother. But now…”

He let his voice trail off, and Quentier nodded once. “Now you’re asking.”

Rathe nodded back, and waited.

There was a little silence, and then Quentier looked over her shoulder. “Annet.”

Sofian took a few steps forward, so that she was standing at her sister’s side. She was a handsome woman–all the Quentiers were good‑looking, dark, and strong‑featured, with good bones–and her clothes were better than they looked. “I remember. Rancon Paynor, that was. He lodged here, he was Joulet Farine’s man’s cousin, or something like that. A farmer, said he was running from a debt he couldn’t pay.”

She looked down at her sister, and seemed to receive some kind of confirmation. “He’s not your man.”

“You’re very sure.”

Sofian met his gaze squarely. “I helped carry his body to the Sier.”

Rathe nodded slowly, not surprised. He remembered the case all too well, remembered both the victims–both alive and well now, thank Demis and her Midwives–and the frustration, so strong they could all almost taste it, when they’d come back to Point of Sighs empty‑handed. It was one of the few times they’d all agreed the chief point shouldn’t have taken the fee. But when Yolan Quentier said she’d deal with something, it stayed dealt with, and they’d all had to be content with that, much as they would have preferred to make the point and watch Paynor hang. It was good to know that he wouldn’t be cleaning up an earlier mistake, even if it meant he was back where he’d started.

“You’ll be going, then?” Quentier asked, and Rathe snapped back to the present.

“I told you, that was my business here. This time.”

Quentier nodded. “The runaways are starting early this year, or so they say. Girls running who shouldn’t. Is there anything we should be watching for, Nico?”

For Quentier to ask for help from a pointsman, even so obliquely, was unprecedented, and Rathe looked warily at her. What do you know that you’re not telling me? he wanted to say, but knew better than to ask that sort of question without something solid to trade for her answers. It was enough of an oddity–and maybe a kind of answer–for her to have asked at all. “Nothing that I know of, Estel. I don’t have anything to go on right now–the complaint came to me, oh, maybe an hour ago.” He shrugged. “You know what I know, right now. She walked out of the hall last night or this morning early, leaving her goods behind, and she hasn’t come home. Her master’s worried, and her leman’s distraught, and I don’t think she ran. Until we know more, yeah, keep an eye on your kids.”

Quentier nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll do that. Will you let me know if there’s more?”

“I will if you will,” Rathe answered, and Quentier grinned.

“As far as I’m able, Nico.” The smile vanished. “Anything about the girl, though–what’s her name?”

“Herisse Robion, not that that would help, necessarily. They said she was tall for her age–she’s just twelve–and still pretty skinny.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tablet where he’d scrawled the description. “Brown hair, blue eyes, sweet‑faced, good teeth, wearing a bottle green suit, linen, bodice and skirt trimmed to match with darker green ribbon.”

“There are a hundred girls like that in Astreiant,” Sofian said, shaking her head, and Rathe nodded.

Quentier said, “If I hear anything, I’ll send to you, Nico.”

“Thanks.” Rathe tucked his tablet back into his pocket, then wondered if he should have betrayed its usual place in this den of pickpockets. But it was too late to do anything about it; he shrugged inwardly, and turned away, retracing his steps to Horse‑Copers’ Street.

“Oy, Nico!” That was a new voice, and he turned to see LaSier striding after him, her long hair flowing behind her like a horse’s tail. “Wait a minute.”

Rathe paused, suppressing the instinctive desire to put his hand on his purse, and LaSier fell into step beside him. She was younger than he by a year or two, slim and pretty, with a gait like a dancer.

“This butcher’s girl,” LaSier began, “she’s not the only child who’s gone missing who shouldn’t.”

“Oh?” Rathe stopped, already running down the list of missing persons they’d received from Point of Sighs. Not that that was always reliable, as every station guarded its prerogatives and points jealously, but he couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary. Runaways, certainly, and more than there should have been, or usually were, but nothing like Herisse.

LaSier made a face, as though she’d read his thoughts. “It hasn’t been reported, I don’t think. But there was a boy here, learning the trade, and he went out to the markets to watch the crowds and he never came home.”

“No one made a point on him, then?” Rathe asked, already knowing the answer–if it were that simple, the Quentiers wouldn’t be worrying; prison was an occupational hazard for them–and LaSier spat on the dust at her feet.

“We checked that first, of course, though he’d been here just long enough to learn how much he didn’t know, and I didn’t think he was stupid enough to try lifting anything on his own. But he’s not in the cells at Point of Sighs or anywhere southriver. And I’m worried. Estel’s worried.”

There was no need to ask why LaSier or Quentier hadn’t gone to Point of Sighs with the complaint. The Quentiers had always kept a school of sorts for pickpockets, their own kin and the children of friends and neighbors–Rathe sometimes wondered if there were some secret, hidden guild organization for illegal crafts–and he wasn’t surprised to hear that Estel was keeping up that part of the business. But she would have no recourse when one of her “students” disappeared, not without giving Astarac, the chief at Point of Sighs, an excuse to search the ’Serry and in general look too closely into Quentier business. “Are you making an official complaint to me?”

LaSier shook her head, smiling. “If it were official, we’d’ve gone to Point of Sighs, they’re the ones with jurisdiction. But I thought you ought to know. He didn’t have any place to run, that one. Gavaret Cordiere, his name is, his family’s from Dhenin.”

“Would he have run back to them?” Rathe asked. “If he–forgive my bluntness, Cassia–if he decided he didn’t like the business after all?”

“It’s possible,” LaSier answered. “But I don’t think he did.” She smiled again, a sudden, elfin grin. “He liked the trade, Nico, and he had the fingers for it. I’d’ve put him to work soon enough.”

Rathe sighed, and reached into his pocket for his tablet. “I’ll make inquiries northriver, if you’d like, see if he’s in cells there. And you might as well give me a description, in case–anything–turns up.”

A body, he meant, and LaSier grimaced and nodded in understanding. “He’s fourteen, maybe shoulder height on me, dark‑skinned–not as dark as me, but dark enough–brown hair, brown eyes. There’s a touch of red in his hair, maybe, and it’s curly. He cut it short when we came here, he looks like any apprentice.”

“Your stock in trade,” Rathe murmured.

“Exactly.” LaSier squinted, as though trying to remember, then shook her head. “That’s about all, Nico. He’s a bright boy, but not memorable looking.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Rathe answered, and scrawled the last note on the face of the tablet, stylus digging into the wax. He was running out of room on the second page: not a good sign, he thought, and folded the tablet closed on itself. “And I’ll check with the cellkeepers northriver. Would he give his right name?”

LaSier smiled again, wry this time. “He’s a boy, fourteen. Maybe not.”

“I’ll get descriptions, too,” Rathe said.

“Thanks,” LaSier said. “And, Nico: I–and Estel–we’ll take this as a favor.”

Rathe nodded, oddly touched by the offer. Besides, this was the kind of fee that he didn’t refuse, the trade of favor for favor within the law. “I’ll bear that in mind, Cassia, thanks. But let’s see what I find out, first.”

“Agreed,” LaSier said, and turned away. She called over her shoulder, “See you at the fair!”

“You’d better hope not,” Rathe answered, and started back toward Point of Hopes.

Monteia was waiting for him, the youngest of the runners informed him as soon as he stepped through the courtyard gate. The duty point, Ranazy, repeated the same message when he opened the hall door, and in the same moment Monteia herself appeared in the door of the chief point’s office.

“Rathe. I need to talk to you.”

Rathe suppressed a sigh–it was very like Monteia to make one feel guilty even when one had been doing one’s duty–but shrugged out of his jerkin, hanging it on the wall pegs as he passed behind Ranazy’s desk. “And I need to talk to you, too,” he said, and followed Monteia into the narrow room.

It was dark, the one narrow window looking onto the rear yard’s shadiest corner, and crowded with the chief point’s work table and a brace of battered chairs. The walls were lined with shelves that held station’s daybooks and a once‑handsome set of the city lawbooks, as well as a stack of the slates everyone used for notes and a selection of unlicensed broadsides stacked on a lower shelf. The latest of those, Rathe saw, with some relief, was over a moon‑month old: hardly current business.

“Have a seat,” Monteia said, and waved vaguely at the chairs on the far side of her table.

Rathe took the darker of the two–the other had been salvaged from someone’s house, and mended, not reliably–and settled himself.

“I hear you had another runaway today,” Monteia went on. She was a tall woman, with a face like a mournful horse and dark brown eyes that looked almost black in the dim light. Her clothes hung loose on her thin frame, utterly unmemorable, if one didn’t see the truncheon that swung at her belt.

Rathe nodded. “Only I don’t think it was a runaway. The girl seemed happy in her work.”

“Oh?” It was hard to tell, sometimes, if Monteia was being skeptical, or merely tired. Quickly, Rathe ran through the story, starting with the butcher’s arrival, and ending with his visit to the ’Serry and the Quentiers’ missing boy. When he had finished, Monteia leaned back in her chair, arms folded, long legs stretched out beneath the table. Looking down, Rathe could see the tip of her shoe protruding from beneath the table, could see, too, the string of cheap braid that hid the mark where the hem had been lengthened for her. Monteia might be chief point, but she was honest enough, in her way, and had children and a household of her own to keep.

“How many runaways is that so far this season?” she asked, after a moment.

“I could check the daybook to be sure,” Rathe answered, “but I’m pretty sure we’ve had eight reported. Nine if you count Herisse, but I want to treat that as an abduction. And of course the Cordiere boy, but that’s not our jurisdiction.”

Monteia nodded.

“Of the eight, then, two were apprentices, both brewers, and the rest ordinary labor,” Rathe continued. “That’s a lot for so early–the first of the Silklands caravans are only just in, and the trading ships haven’t really started yet.”

Monteia said, “We had the points’ dinner last night.”

Rathe blinked, unsure where this was leading–the chief points of the twelve point stations that policed Astreiant dined together once every solar month, ostensibly to exchange information, but more to help establish the points’ legitimacy by behaving like any other guild. The points were relatively new, at least in their present form; it had been the queen’s grandmother who’d given them the authority to enforce the laws, and not everyone was happy with the new system.

Monteia smiled as though she’d guessed the thought, showing her crooked teeth. “We’re not the only station to be seeing too many runaways, too early. I went planning to ask a few discreet questions, see what everybody else was doing this season, and, by the gods, so was everyone else. So we did a little horse‑trading, and I got some useful information, I think.”

Rathe nodded. He could imagine the scene, the long table and the polished paneling of a high‑priced inn’s best room, candles on the table to supplement the winter‑sun’s diminished light. The chief points would all be in their best, a round dozen men and women–six of each at the moment, all with Sofia, Astree, or Phoebe, the Pillars of Justice, strong in their nativity–sitting in order of precedence, from Temple Point at the head of the table to Fairs’ Point at the foot. He had met all of them at one time or another, as Monteia’s senior adjunct, but really only knew Dechaix of Point of Dreams and Astarac of Point of Sighs, the jurisdictions that bordered Point of Hopes, at all well. And Guillen Claes of Fairs’ Point, he added, with an inward smile. Claes was a solid pointsman, had come up through the ranks, and took no nonsense from anyone, for all that he had the unenviable job of handling the busiest and most junior point station in the city. Most of the southriver points got to know Claes well over the course of their careers, as the professional criminals who lived southriver, pickpockets like the Quentiers and horse‑thieves and footpads and the rest, tended to do their business in Fairs’ Point.

“Everyone’s got an unusual number of runaways this year,” Monteia said. “What’s more to the point, there are as many, or nearly so, missing from City Point as there are from Fairs’ Point.”

Rathe looked up sharply at that. City Point was one of the old districts, second in precedence only to Temple Point itself; children born in City Point were among the least likely to be lured away by the romance of the longdistance traders–or, if they were, they had mothers who could afford to apprentice them properly. Fairs’ Point children, on the other hand, had not only the proximity of New Fair and Little Fair to tempt them, but good cause to want to better themselves.

Monteia nodded. “Aize Lissinain, she’s chief at City Point since the beginning of Lepidas, was asking if we’d had any increase in the brothel traffic.”

“Trust northriver to think of that,” Rathe said, sourly.

“She was also asking Huyser how the workhouses were doing,” Monteia went on, and Rathe made a face that stopped short of apology. Huyser was chief of Manufactory Point; as the name implied, most of the city’s workhouses and manufactories lay in his district, and there were always complaints about the way the merchant‑makers treated their day‑workers. It was a good question–as was the one about the brothels, he admitted–so maybe Lissinain would be better than her predecessor.

“What did Huyser say?” he asked. “I was thinking that myself. Children are cheap.”

“But I wouldn’t want them working with machinery,” Monteia answered. “Too much chance of them breaking something. Anyway, Huyser said he was having as much of a problem with runaways as anyone, though not from the manufactories proper. He hadn’t heard of any of the makers letting workers go, or hiring new, for that matter, but he said he’d look into it.” She smiled, wry this time. “And Hearts and Dreams and I said we’d take a look round the brothels, just to be sure.”

Rathe nodded again. “It’s a reasonable precaution. We might even find one or two of them, at that.”

“Mmm.” Monteia didn’t sound particularly hopeful, either, and Rathe sighed.

“Does anyone know just how many children have gone missing?”

“Temple’s asked us each to compile a list for her, children missing and found, to be cross‑checked by her people just in case we’ve found some of them and don’t know it, and then circulated around the points for general use.” She made a face. “I can’t say I’m particularly happy with the idea, myself–Temple’s always looking for an excuse to stick her fingers in the rest of us’s business–but I think she’s probably right, this time.”

“It could help,” Rathe said. “As long as everyone gets listed. Did she say just the missing, or all the runaways?”

“Anyone reported missing,” Monteia answered. She grimaced. “I know, you’re thinking the same thing I am, some of them won’t list everyone–it’s embarrassing, gods, I’m embarrassed myself. But it’s a start.”

“Agreed,” Rathe said. “But then what?”

Monteia shook her head. “I wish I knew. This isn’t right, Nico. It feels… I don’t know, all wrong somehow. Kids disappear, sure, but not like this, not from everywhere. I was junior adjunct here when Rancon Paynor raped those girls, took them right off their own streets at twilight–it was spring then, right at the end of Limax, the suns were setting together. I remember what it felt like, and it wasn’t like this.”

“No,” Rathe said, and they sat in silence for a moment. He remembered the Paynor case, too, though he always counted the year by the lunar calendar, remembered it as the middle of the Flower Moon. There had been the victims, for one thing, the girls themselves; they’d disappeared for a day, two, but appeared again–and we were just lucky they weren’t bodies, he added to himself. People had been afraid. The women and girls had traveled in groups for weeks, even after it became clear that Paynor had disappeared, but it had been clear that something had happened. Not like this, when they couldn’t even put a name to what was happening. “I suppose no one’s found any bodies,” he said aloud, and surprised a short, humorless laugh from the chief point.

“Not so far. Though if they went in the Sier… the river doesn’t give up its dead easily.”

“But why?” Rathe shook his head again. “One madman, another Paynor, making his kills, yeah, I could believe it, but not with so many lads gone from so many districts. One man alone couldn’t do it.”

“Or woman, I suppose,” Monteia said, “if her stars were bad.”

“But not one person alone,” Rathe repeated.

Monteia sighed. “We don’t know enough yet, Nico, we can’t even say that for certain.” She straightened, drawing her feet back under the desk. “I want you to draw up the report–get in a scrivener to do fair copies, I don’t want to waste any more of your time than I have to, but get it done by tomorrow. We’ll know better where we stand once the compilation comes in.”