Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“I thought,” Eslingen said, and chose his words carefully, “I thought only nobles–nobles of four quarterings–could own those holdings.”

Denizard nodded. “That’s right. But there was a woman, a woman of I think eight quarters, who owed Madame quite a bit of money. So they made a bargain: d’Or–this woman would take the title, paid for with Madame’s money, and Hanse’s, and send a share of the estate’s takings to them as payment.”

Eslingen took a slow breath, let it out soundlessly. Caiazzo played dangerous games, and not just the ones southriver. Under the law, a commoner who presumed to purchase a noble title would lose her investment if she were found out, might, if the offense were particularly egregious or open, be sentenced to a fine–but that wasn’t the real deterrent. The nobles of the Ajanes were jealous of their privileges, jealous to the point of having forced the queen’s grandmother to agree to attach the rule of four quarters to the sale of all estates in their domain. And they were old‑fashioned enough to try to wipe out such an insult in the commoner’s blood. Eslingen could feel the hairs stirring on the nape of his neck at the thought of trying to protect Caiazzo from Ajanine nobles and their servants. He had served under an Ajanine captain once, for eight months when he was sixteen; it had been the first time he had deserted, and that had been the only thing that had saved his life. Three days after he had run, the Ajanine had thrown his company into a mad assault on a well‑garrisoned Chadroni fort, and had lost them all in the space of an hour. Eslingen, and the ten men sent to track him down, had been the only survivors; they had enlisted together under a sober League captain less than a moon‑month after that battle. He shook that memory away, said, still cautiously, “But what’s to stop this woman from refusing to pay, now she’s got the estate?”

Denizard gave him a grim look. “Madame Iniz still holds notes of her hand, for one thing, worth more than that estate.”

“Notes can be repudiated,” Eslingen said.

Denizard nodded. “Not easily, but, yes, they can be. But Hanse trades through there, too. And I wouldn’t want to annoy Master Caiazzo, would you?”

“No,” Eslingen agreed. But I’m not an eight‑quarter noble from the Ajanes. The words hung between them, unspoken, and Denizard made a face.

“It seemed worth the risk. There’s a gold mine on the estate, and merchants are always short of gold.”

Eslingen started to whistle, cut the sound off in a hiss of breath. Gold made all the difference, made the risks worth taking, both the risk of buying the property and of threatening the true noble who held it for them. Merchants are always short of gold, indeed; it’s gold that builds the manufactories and pays the caravan masters and the Silklands merchants when there’s nothing else to trade. I see why they did it, why it’s worth it, but, Seidos’s Horse, it’s a risk.

“And,” Denizard went on, “the stars were favorable.”

They would have to be. Eslingen squinted slightly. Seidos had been in the Gargoyle, she had said, which made sense. The Gargoyle was Argent’s sign, and Argent‑Bonfortune was the god of the merchants: the planet of the nobility in the sign of the merchant, a reasonable omen. But if Seidos was in the Gargoyle in the Demean reckoning, that meant it was–somewhere else–in the Phoeban zodiac. “If Seidos was in the Gargoyle,” he said aloud, “it was also in, what, Cock‑and‑Hens?”

Denizard looked away. “We’re common, it’s Demis who rules our lives.”

But that’s noble land. Eslingen killed that response–he was no magist, and his astrological education came from the broadsheets he read assiduously; there was no reason to think he was right, when Denizard said otherwise. But the estate in question was noble, and fell under Phoebe’s rule, under the signs of her solar zodiac. And by that reckoning, Seidos was in the sign of the Cock‑and‑Hens, the winter‑sun’s sign, sign of changing seasons, of change and suffering and impending, inevitable death. You could interpret the purchase as a change, and a kind of death, but still… it’s not a chance I’d want to take.

8

« ^ »

rathe leaned over Salineis’s shoulder as she made the last of the nightwatch’s entries in the station’s daybook–a call to locate a strayed maidservant, who’d turned out to be standing at the well chatting with her leman, barely a quarter hour overdue, the sort of thing they were all seeing entirely too much of these days–and then added his initials to the entry. It was his day to supervise the station, something of a welcome break in what had begun to seem like months of walking from point to point in search of clues to the missing children. It also meant that Monteia would not be there, and, since Rathe had had little chance to pursue the question of the unlicensed printers, he was just as glad not to have to explain that to her.

“Not a bad night, on the whole,” Salineis said, and Rathe dragged his attention back to her.

“How’re things by the Old Brown Dog?”

The woman shrugged, and unclasped her heavy jerkin. The bodice beneath it was sweat‑dark at her underarms, and another damp patch showed between her shoulder blades as she turned to hang it on the wall. “Not too bad, actually. The Huviet boy’s master, what’s his name, Follet, he’s let it be known he blames Paas, and that’s shut up most of them. Of course, Follet’s never liked Mistress Huviet–who does?– but at least it seems to be keeping the peace.”

Rathe nodded. “And Aagte?”

“Devynck,” Salineis said, with some precision, “is keeping her mouth shut and herself out of sight, for which I thank her stars and all my gods.” She shook her head, set a dashing cap on top of her piled hair. “And it seems to be working. They’re doing a decent business again, and Timo says he saw some of the locals drinking there when he checked in last night. If they blame anyone, it’s that knife of hers.”

“That’s good news,” Rathe said, and meant it. Eslingen was well clear of Point of Hopes; he could afford to take the blame for a little longer, at least until it had been forgotten.

“Well, we’ve needed some, after clock‑night,” Salineis answered, and turned away.

Rathe seated himself in front of the daybook, paged idly through the events of the last three days. The clock‑night had frightened and sobered the city, it seemed; since then things had been relatively quiet, except for the false alarms, and, best of all, no children had gone missing in that period. Half a dozen had been reported, but all of those had been found within a few hours. And that reminds me, he thought, I still have to get myself over to Point of Dreams and see if the Cytel boy is really with Savatier’s company. The memory brought with it a twinge of real dread: surely, he thought, if Albe was there, and safe, Gavi would have told me… But Jhirassi had been working; their waking hours had not overlapped. Still, he decided, I’ll make it my business to walk by there on my way home tonight.

The front door opened then, and he looked up, expecting one of the duty points or someone come to report another missing child. To his surprise, Monteia swept in, bringing with her the distinct scent of manure. She scowled at him, scraping her shoes on the iron blade set in the floor by the sill, and Rathe said, cautiously, “I didn’t expect you in today, Chief.”

“No more did I.” Monteia inspected her soles, swore under her breath, and scraped again. “I dined with the other chiefs last night, Nico, and there’s some business that won’t wait.” She looked at her shoes again, nodded, satisfied, and leaned back out the door. “Vatan! Send one of the runners to sweep the gate and clean up here, and then get in here yourself. I need to talk to Nico.”

Rathe rose, already dreading her news, and followed her into the workroom. Monteia kicked her shoes into a corner, padded in stocking feet to her chair and sat down, planting both elbows solidly on the cluttered surface.

“Sit, man,” she said. “It’s not you I’m annoyed with, not personally.”

There was no good answer to that, and Rathe perched warily on the nearest stool.

“I take it the night was quiet?” Monteia went on.

“According to Sal, yeah. Nothing but false alarms, though by the look of the book that kept them on the run.”

Monteia grunted. “That’s what I’m hearing from all the points, and it’s one piece of good news, I suppose. There hasn’t been a child stolen in the last ten days–oh, plenty of reports, but those kids have all been found.”

“So what’s the bad news?” Rathe asked, after a moment. “Aside from the fact we haven’t found the first eighty‑five.”

Monteia gave him a sour look. “The bad news is what I’m hearing from our own markets. Not only are all of us too busy to do more than shake our fists at the illegal printers, the printers are blaming us for the kids–and I want to see that stopped. Claes tells me you were inquiring after one called Agere?”

Rathe nodded. “She’s printed some of the worst that I’ve seen sold here. I told Claes we’d split the point if we made it, since Agere works out of Fairs’ Point. I handed the sheets I got over to the judiciary.”

“Fair enough.” Monteia’s scowl deepened again. “But I want her.”

Rathe hid a sigh. Tracking down illegal printers seemed less than vital, given the missing children, but he knew Monteia was right. They couldn’t abandon everything else, no matter how much they might want to concentrate on the children. “I’ll do what I can, Chief.”

“I know.” Monteia shook her head. “Sorry, Nico, it was a long night.”

“More bad news?” Even as he asked, Rathe knew that wasn’t it, or not precisely so, and wasn’t surprised when Monteia shook her head again.

“Not exactly–it might even turn out to be good news. Have you heard there’s a new species of astrologer working the fair?”

“I’ve heard something. I’ve spoken with a few people about them. Not affiliated with the university or the temples, and the Three Nations are all upset because they’re undercutting the student prices.”

“That about covers it,” Monteia said. “Fairs’ Point say they think there are six or eight of them, but they’re very shy of the points.”

“Probably don’t want to pay the fees,” Rathe said.

Monteia gave him a thin smile. “Only Claes says he thinks they’re paying entirely too much attention to children.”

“Did he question them on it?” Rathe demanded.

“Of course he did, do you think he’s an apprentice?” Monteia reined in her temper with a visible effort. “They say–and I’ll be damned if I can contradict them–that of course they are, since children are most in need of protection and advice these days.”

“But still–” Rathe leaned forward, unable to keep still. “No one knows who these people are, or where they’ve come from, right? So we should find out, and fast, before anyone else goes missing.”

“They could be a visitation from the gods,” Monteia said, and snorted. “After clock‑night, I’d believe it. Some people would rather blame anybody else before they’d question an astrologer.” She held up her hand, forestalling Rathe’s instant response. “But I agree with you, Nico. Claes is having them watched, but I want you to start on it from our end. See what you can find out, see if there’s any connection between them and our missing, and do it fast, before this lull ends, and we start losing children again.”

Rathe pushed himself up from the stool, his mind already racing. He would visit Mailet’s workshop first, he decided; the rest of the children came from families or work places that were less settled than the butcher’s, would be harder to find. “I’ll talk to Istre, too,” he said aloud. “The university has a stake in dealing with these hedge‑astrologers.”

Monteia nodded. “We’ve been working them pretty hard, even your friend. We’re not the only people who had the clever notion of sending nativities to the magists. Between the twelve of us, I think we’ve sent nearly eighty birth‑stars over there, and none of us have gotten anything back yet.”

That was sobering, but Rathe shoved aside the uncertainty. “I’ll ask Istre when I speak to him,” he said. “Gods, this could be the chance we’ve been waiting for.”

He made his way quickly through the streets, barely aware of the uncertain glances, truculent and oddly embarrassed all at once, as he reached the Knives Road. Mailet’s hall was busy–busy enough, Rathe saw, that Mailet himself was working the front of the shop, flanked by sweating journeymen. The air smelled of animals and blood, and Rathe was glad they were working in the street and not in the close confines of the building. Mailet glanced up at Rathe’s approach, brows drawing together in a scowl, but he mastered himself instantly, and finished his business with his customer before turning on the pointsman.

“And what do you want here this time, Rathe?”

“I want to speak to Trijntje Ollre,” Rathe said, and curbed his own excitement before it could turn into irritation.

“Why–?” Mailet broke off, his eyes focussing on something over Rathe’s right shoulder. “Not before time, Liron. Now, get these stones sluiced down.”

Rathe glanced back, to see an older apprentice hurrying toward them, water buckets hanging from a carrying yoke balanced on his shoulders. He turned his attention back to Mailet, and said, “I need to talk to her because we have some new information.” He grimaced at the sudden hope in Mailet’s face, “It’s nothing solid, not yet, but–it would help if I could talk to Trijntje.”

Mailet took a deep breath, but jerked his head toward the main door. “You know your way by now. She’s in the hall with the others.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and ducked past him into the shop.

As promised, the apprentices were at work at their long tables, knives flashing in the sunlight that poured in through the high windows. They seemed in less of a rush this time–Rathe didn’t see a magist to keep track of favorable stars–but the piles of vegetables at each broad table were still visibly diminishing. He could smell the peppery, pungent odor of all‑save, and saw a young apprentice moving from table to table distributing the shabby bunches. The journeyman Grosejl saw him then, and moved quickly to intercept him, her face drawing into a wary frown.

“Any news?”

Rathe shook his head. “Not directly, no. But there are some questions I need to ask Trijntje–we have some new information that may help.” He saw the hope flare in her eyes, and added, guiltily, “I don’t know for certain–I can’t promise anything.”

“Something’s better than nothing,” Grosejl answered, and waved toward the line of tables. “Trijntje! Come here a moment.”

The girl put down her knife obediently, and came toward them, wiping her hands on her apron. “Is–” She broke off, unable to finish the question, and Rathe shook his head.

“We haven’t found anything, either way, but there are some questions I need to ask.”

“I don’t know what else I can tell you.” She wound her hands in her apron, then frowned at herself, and stopped.

Rathe said, “Have you–did you and Herisse consult any astrologers recently? Or did any of the other girls?”

Ollre looked up at him, her frown deepening, but more perplexed, he thought, than angry. He caught himself holding his breath, not wanting to say more, for fear of telling her what he wanted to hear.

“At the First Fair, we did,” she said at last, and shrugged. “It’s supposed to be auspicious for butchers, and then Metenere was trine the sun, and all. So we had our stars read.”

Rathe nodded. “You and Herisse together?”

“Yes.”

He held his breath again. “What stall did you visit, do you remember? Or did you go to one of the students?”

Ollre shook her head. “We didn’t have to go to one of the booths or the Three Nations, which was a good thing, too, at their prices. There were some astrologers walking around, I don’t know their affiliation– I thought they were students, at first, but their robes were black, not grey. So we went to one of them.” She seemed to see something in Rathe’s expression, and her head lifted. “Well, neither one of us had coin to waste, and he was cheap enough, and honest‑sounding. Not at all forbidding, or obnoxious, like the Three Nations.”

“What sort of a reading did he give you?” Rathe asked. He heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the startled look on her face: it was not good manners to inquire into someone’s stars, but he was past caring, swept on before she could protest. “Did he give you anything–a written horoscope, a broadsheet, anything?”

Ollre blinked at him, visibly uncertain, and Grosejl said, “I don’t see what the details have to do with anything, pointsman.”

“I need to know what kind of service he provided,” Rathe said. He looked at Ollre. “You don’t have to tell me the details, but I do need to know how he read you, what he did for you.”

Ollre looked suddenly embarrassed. “Well, he didn’t actually do much for me, my nativity’s not that good, just to the hour. So he just said general things, and said he couldn’t help me much–except for this.” She reached under her apron, into the pocket she wore beneath the skirt, and brought out a small disk. “He said it was for luck, that the stars were going to be unsettled for a while, and that I’d need it.” She made a face. “He was right there, wasn’t he?”

Rathe stared for a moment at the dark round of wax, then said, “May I?”

Ollre shrugged and held it out, and he took it from her hand. It was a crude thing, stamped with planetary signs around a central figure of Areton with his shield. He recognized most of them, but couldn’t begin to guess what the sequence meant. But b’Estorr would know, he thought, and turned it over. The reverse was blank. “Did Herisse get one of these?”

“Oh, yes, and she talked to him for a lot longer–of course, she knows her stars to the minute.” Ollre’s fond smile vanished suddenly. “Here, you don’t think that has anything to do with her vanishing, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe said. “It’s possible, yeah, but we don’t know for sure. Can I keep this?”

“If it had anything to do with–” Ollre shuddered. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

“And if it didn’t,” Rathe said gently, “I’ll see it gets back to you. Can you tell me what this astrologer looked like?”

The girl shrugged, looked embarrassed again. He’d been of middle years, not grey, not young; of middle height and middle color and spoke without an accent, beyond the normal tang of Astreianter speech. It wasn’t much, but Rathe hadn’t been expecting much, and nodded politely. “Thanks, Trijntje, this has been a help.”

The girl nodded, looking as though she wanted to ask something more, but Grosejl touched her arm. “All right, Trijntje, get back to work.” She looked at Rathe as the apprentice moved slowly back toward her table. “What’ll you do with it, anyway?”

Rathe looked down at the little charm, then, very carefully, slipped it into his purse, knotting the strings securely over it. “Take it to a magist I know at the university.”

Grosejl nodded. “Gods, I hope you find her–all of them. It’s the not hearing, you see. It’s the–the blindness of it all. No word, no knowing what might have happened.” Her lips twisted. “Death isn’t all bad, pointsman. At least it’s an end.”

You don’t have a friend who’s a necromancer, Rathe thought. He could feel the excitement rising in him at the first real evidence he’d found, and thrust it sternly down before the journeyman could see and misunderstand. He made his excuses quickly, and headed back out to the street. He would visit the other shops and families, at least the ones he could find, and then he’d head to the fair, let Claes know about this new connection. And then… he fought back the sense of certainty. Then he would go to the university, and see what b’Estorr had to say about the charm.

It took him the better part of three hours to contact the relatives and employers of the children on his book, and the results were less than conclusive. The brewers’ apprentices had certainly gone to the First Fair, and had had their stars read, though the remaining apprentices couldn’t say whether it had been by the Three Nations or the black‑robed strangers. The price would have mattered, they admitted, but they simply didn’t know. One of the shop boys had been star‑mad, had his stars read at every possible opportunity, and he had definitely spoken to one of the hedge‑astrologers–but, the counterwoman had warned, he’d also spoken to a student of the Three Nations, and had at least gone into a booth run by the Temple of Sofia. As for the rest, no one could remember whether or not they’d spoken to any astrologers, but at least, Rathe thought, they couldn’t say they hadn’t either. He knew the dangers of overconfidence, of building too much on too little fact, but couldn’t seem to stop himself from hoping. It was the first decent piece of luck they’d had–Astree, send it’s the right piece, he thought, and paused at one of the shrines outside the Pantheon to buy and light a stick of incense.

The fair was as busy as ever, and Rathe knew from experience that he was more likely to find Claes at the point station than in the fairground itself. Even so, he couldn’t resist the chance to pass through the teeming market, keeping an eye out for black‑robed astrologers. It was too much to hope he’d catch them at something–if they were involved, they’d been far too careful to arouse suspicion–but still, it would be good to get a look at them.

He reached the printers’ row without seeing any sign of them, however, and the sight of Agere’s faded sign took the edge off his pleasure. He turned toward it, falling in behind a well‑dressed matron whose broad body and full skirts helped screen his approach, and then reached around her to slip a sheet from the top of its pile. Agere turned toward him, her smile faltering as she recognized the jerkin and the truncheon at his belt.

“You’re not with Fairs’ Point,” she said, confidently enough. “You’ve no jurisdiction here, pointsman.”

“Unfair, Agere, I might just want to buy a sheet.” Rathe skimmed through the smudged printing, feeling his face stiffen with anger. “Not this one, though.” It was the worst he’d seen yet, openly blaming the points for failing to protect the missing children, and hinting that they–and perhaps the metropolitan and the city government–were somehow behind the disappearances. He set the page back on its pile, and gave Agere his least pleasant smile. “So now we’re conspiring with Astreiant herself? You flatter us, usually it’s the Leaguers, or the manufactories, or the soldiers–of whatever nation–or anyone else you think you can attack and get away with. And I don’t see a bond‑mark here.”

“I don’t print those,” Agere said, without inflection. “I’m selling them for someone else.”

That was the usual excuse, and Rathe’s lips damned. “Oh, Agere, couldn’t you say something I hadn’t heard a hundred times already?”

“I didn’t print it,” Agere snapped. “Is it a fee you’re after? Then have the decency to say so.”

Rathe regarded her a moment longer. She had been right about one thing, he had no jurisdiction here. To make the point stand, he would have to fetch someone from Fairs’ Point to make the arrest, and by the time he’d done that, Agere would simply have disposed of the offending broadsheet. He said, “No fee for a warning, Agere. Caiazzo’s not fond of politics–yeah, I know you print under his coin–and there’s not a fee high enough to buy me off when I can watch Caiazzo drop you. And then we will score you without that counterfeit license to protect you. Have a good fair, printer.”

He walked away, aware of the printer’s eyes burning into him, her anger only just leashed. He turned the next corner, blindly, found himself in the leathersellers’s quarter, and stopped, surprised that his hands were shaking. It was one thing to listen to the rumors, the insults, to have it told to him, but to see it in print, in the broadsheets that were the lifeblood of Astreiant… the plain black‑and‑white of the type was somehow more threatening that any spoken accusation. Words disappeared as soon as they were spoken, but the letters on paper stayed to haunt a man.

He found Claes at the Fairs’ Point station, as he’d expected, presiding over the ordinary chaos of the main room with a tankard in one hand and his truncheon in the other. Rathe sidestepped a drunken carter, bloody‑nosed and furious, and lifted his hand to get Claes’s attention.

“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.