Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

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

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

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

“Oh, are you working?”

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

“Not the fair, anyway.”

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

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

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

“From what Monteia says, yes. Why?”

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

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

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

“Do you know it?” Rathe asked.

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

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

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

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

LaSier grinned. “And not born to hang.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The children?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“By first sunset, I expect, pointsman.”

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

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

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

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

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

Rathe sat up straight, his dinner forgotten. One or two, and especially the children of guildfolk, he would have expected that, but all of them? Most southriver women worked too hard for birth to be much more than an interruption in the business of existence; they noted the times as best they could, but when you had only the person helping with the birth–and her not a trained midwife, more often than not, just a sister or a neighbor–small wonder times were inexact. There were the exceptions, notable days like the earthquake, and there were enough clocktowers so that with care a woman could note the time, but still, for so many–for all of them–to know their nativities so precisely… it had to mean something, was too strange to be mere coincidence.

He looked again at the sky, guessing the time to first sunset, and a voice said from the side gate, “Unbelievable. First at Wicked’s, and now here? I don’t know if I can stand the shock.”

Rathe smiled, almost in spite of himself, and Jhirassi closed the gate behind him, came across the beaten dirt to join him. “I have some news for you–good news,” Jhirassi added hastily. “I was going to tease you with it, but I don’t think that would be playing fair. The clerk’s child you asked me about, he’s with Savatier. Frightened witless when he realized his mother thought he’d gone the way of the others, but there. He’s not bad, for a boy. And Savatier thinks he could make something of himself.” He sighed. “Just what we all need, more competition.”

“Keeps you young,” Rathe said, automatically, a slight frown forming between his brows. There had been something odd about Albe Cytel’s nativity–there wasn’t one, he remembered suddenly. For some reason, premature labor, or just ordinary carelessness, Cytel’s mother had not managed to note the time of her son’s birth, and that was the child who was not truly missing.

“What’s wrong?” Jhirassi asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“Nothing, I don’t think. Gavi, I want to talk to him–Albe. Can you take me to him?”

“I just got home,” Jhirassi protested, but sighed, seeing Rathe’s intent expression. “Oh, very well. I don’t suppose you can afford to buy me dinner in return?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Jhirassi said, sadly. “All right, I’ll take you to Savatier. Maybe I’ll buy dinner.”

Rathe followed him through the knotted streets where Point of Hopes joined Point of Dreams, and then out into the broader squares where the better theaters stood. Savatier’s was a good house, fully roofed, but at the moment the front doors were closed and locked. Jhirassi ignored that, and led the way to a side door that gave onto a narrow hall. It ended in a tangle of ropes that controlled the stage machinery, and Rathe followed gingerly as Jhirassi wove his way through them. There was a narrow staircase beyond that, and Jhirassi went up it, to tap on a red painted door.

“The counting‑house,” he said, succinctly, and the door opened. A stocky woman–Savatier, Rathe assumed–stood looking out at them, barefoot, a sweating metal cup in one hand.

“Gavi? What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but this is Nicolas Rathe–he’s adjunct point at Point of Hopes, and a friend of mine, too. He wants to talk to Albe.”

Savatier leaned heavily against the door frame. “We’re not stealing children, Adjunct Point, the boy came here of his own free will, theater‑mad, and not without talent.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what business is it of Point of Hopes, anyway?”

“You’re Dreams’ business, Savatier,” Rathe agreed, “and I don’t think you’re stealing children. But I do need to talk to the boy. He may have some information.”

“About these disappearances?” Savatier asked.

“Yes.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then sighed deeply. “All right. Gavi, he’s down in the yard with the rest.” She looked back at Rathe. “A new script we’re rehearsing, and it’s not coming together. And if bes’Hallen can’t make it work…” She shook her head, as much at herself as at them. “Go on then,” she said, and closed the door firmly in their faces.

Rathe looked at Jhirassi, who smiled, and started back down the stairs. “And if it’s the piece I think it is, it’s not going to get any better. We passed on it.”

He led the way back through the backstage and then a narrow door into a small courtyard. There were perhaps a dozen actors there, women and men about evenly mixed, some leaning against the high walls, a group of three huddled over a tattered‑looking sheaf of paper.

There were a few apprentices as well, and Rathe guessed that the youngest, a fair‑haired, ruddy‑skinned boy, was the missing Albe Cytel. As the door opened, one of the women detached herself from the group, and lifted a hand to Jhirassi. She was a striking woman, hair worn loose under a Silklander scarf, and Rathe recognized her as Anjesine bes’Hallen. He had seen her several times before on stage, usually as tragic queens, and he wondered if she would be able to make this impossible play work. She looked determined enough for it, anyway.

“Gavi, joy, I thought you were settled with Mattie,” she said, and Jhirassi sighed.

“Anj, this is Adjunct Point Nicolas Rathe, from Point of Hopes. He’s also my downstairs neighbor, so I’ll vouch for him. He’d like to talk to Albe.”

The boy moved closer to the actress, and bes’Hallen put a hand on his shoulder. Rathe remembered the gesture from one of last year’s successful plays, only, since the playwright had been Chresta Aconin, better known as Aconite, he had to think the original intent had been ironic.

“His mother will just have to send someone from Dreams if she wants him back,” bes’Hallen said. “We’re not letting him go with just anyone, pointsman, not under the circumstances–no offense, Gav, but you know what they’re saying about the points.”

“Oh, for the dogs’ sake,” Gavi snapped, “that only plays well on a really large stage.”

Rathe blinked–that was not the tack he’d expected Jhirassi to take–but after a heartbeat, bes’Hallen grinned, and let her hand fall from Cytel’s shoulder. “Oh, it plays better in the small spaces than you might think, dear, if you weren’t afraid of a little honest emotion. But, really, we can’t–”

“Nico just wants to talk to him–I don’t even know if he’s told Dreams or not–”

“I haven’t,” Rathe said. “I will, but I haven’t had the time.”

“I’ll chaperone,” Jhirassi finished. “If that will make you happier.” bes’Hallen lifted an eyebrow at that–another practiced gesture– but nudged the boy forward. “All right. Go with Gavi, dear, and don’t worry. You’re welcome here. Savatier has said so, and so have I.”

“Let’s go in,” Jhirassi said. ‘It’s more private.”

Rathe stood aside to let the boy follow Jhirassi, and then went with them into the crowded backstage. Savatier’s troupe clearly spent a decent sum on stage settings: there were at least a dozen rolled canvases stacked against the wall, and there was real furniture scattered about the space. Jhirassi chose one of the chairs, shook it to make sure it would hold his weight, and sat with grace.

“Sit down, Albe–find a stool, for Oriane’s sake.” He looked at Rathe. “You’d think you were going to eat him for dinner.”

Rathe sighed. “Albe, I’m not here to bring you back to your mother–you heard bes’Hallen, I’m from Point of Hopes, and this is Point of Dreams’ affair. But I do need to ask you some questions.” He paused, looking at the boy’s wary face. “It may help find the other children, or I wouldn’t be bothering.”

The boy nodded slowly. “All right.”

“First,” Rathe said, “do you know your nativity?”

Cytel scowled. “Yes, well, sort of. Within the hour anyway.” He seemed to see Jhirassi’s surprise, and burst out, “It’s not my fault, I was born early, the midwife wasn’t very good. But, no, I don’t have a real good nativity.”

Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief. So far, the pattern was holding true, at least in the cases he’d dealt with. “Now, did you go to the fair, or the First Fair, before you–came–to Savatier’s?”

Cytel blinked, but nodded. “Yes.”

“By yourself, or with other people?”

Cytel shrugged one shoulder. “Maseigne Foucquet gave a dozen of us an early afternoon so we could go. Palissy–she’s the senior clerk‑journeyman–she went with us.”

Rathe nodded. “And once there, I’m assuming you did the usual things. Did you get your stars read?”

The boy looked embarrassed again, and Rathe willed him not to become mulish. “I was thinking about it, yes, because I don’t want to go to the judiciary, and I do want to be an actor, and I wanted to see what my stars said about that.” He scowled. “Even my mother admits they’re not right for the law.”

Rathe held his breath. A negative answer wouldn’t disprove any of his theories, but if the boy had spoken to one of the hedge‑astrologers… “But you didn’t?” he asked, when Cytel seemed unwilling to continue. “Get them read, I mean?”

“Is it important?”

“Yes,” Rathe said, and only just controlled the intensity in his voice. “It’s important.”

Cytel shrugged again. “Well, I did, only not at the temples. They’re expensive, and I didn’t have much money with me. There was an astrologer, one of the new ones, who offered to read them for me. He said I looked like I had a career ahead of me.” His lips curled slightly.

“Which is pretty safe to say, I suppose. But when I told him my stars, he told me it’d be hard to give me a proper reading because I didn’t have the details–like I didn’t know that–but he only charged me half a demming so I can’t complain.”

“So he didn’t do a reading,” Rathe said.

“I told you, he did sort of a one, but it wasn’t very detailed. About what you’d expect, I guess.”

“Did he give you any kind of charm, say anything about trouble coming?” Rathe asked.

“Oh.” Cytel looked startled, reached into his pockets. “Yes, he said times were going to be hard for people in my sign, and I should take care–he gave me a sigil, just a piece of wax, but I think I’ve lost it.”

“That’s all right,” Rathe said. “But if you should find it–send it to me, or to any pointsman. Don’t keep it.”

Cytel’s eyes widened. “You don’t think–”

“I don’t know that it’s anything,” Rathe said, firmly, “but this is not the time to take chances.”

“I won’t,” Cytel answered.

“Good. Thanks for your help.” Rathe sighed, thinking of Foucquet and his responsibilities there. It seemed a shame to send the boy back when he was obviously happy here, but he shoved the thought away. “I’ll have to tell Maseigne Foucquet where you are. And she will tell your mother. But it looks as though Savatier wants you here.”

“She’s never met my mother,” Cytel said.

“I’ll put in a word with Maseigne,” Rathe said, “but I can’t promise anything. But I will talk to her.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, with doubting courtesy. He pushed himself to his feet, and, at Rathe’s nod, hurried back toward the courtyard.

“Did you get what you want?” Jhirassi asked, and stood, stretching.

Rathe spread his hands, trying to contain his excitement. “I don’t know. I don’t even know for sure what I’m looking for. But–yes, I think so. It’s what I hoped he’d say.”

Jhirassi lifted his eyebrows, but visibly decided not to pursue the question. “Well, then. Shall we get dinner? I’m starving, myself.”

“You go ahead,” Rathe answered. “I have business at the university.”

“Your friend from Wicked’s?” Jhirassi asked.

“Yes.”

“Do say hello to him for me, would you? And if he doesn’t remember who I am, I don’t want to hear about it, Nico. Lie.”

“Oh, he’ll remember. Istre doesn’t forget people–” Rathe saw the other draw himself up in mock anger, and added hastily. “And I doubt anyone who’s ever met you has forgotten you.”

“Better,” Jhirassi said. “All right, then, go on, and here I was going to buy you dinner from Wicked’s. You won’t get better at the university, you know.”

“I know,” Rathe agreed, and let himself out the side door.

By the time he reached the university precinct, the sun was well down, and the winter‑sun’s cool light threw pale shadows across the grassy yard. A gang of students, all male, and mostly Ile’norders by their accents, were arguing loudly on the steps of one of the dormitories; from an upper window, the delicate notes of a cittern floated down, sour now where the player missed her fingering, and a trio of gargoyles tumbled quarreling across the path in front of him. It was all appallingly ordinary, all signs of the clock‑night erased, as though the troubles that had hit the rest of Astreiant had bypassed the university completely, and for an instant he could understand northriver folk’s anger at the students. But then he passed one of the outside gates, and saw the bright tassels of protective charms dangling from the posts. There was a guard, too, a big man, leather‑jerkined, sitting unobtrusively in the shadow of the nearest building, and Rathe shook his head. The university knew, and was taking precautions.

b’Estorr had left word he was expected, and the old woman swung open her door before he could even ask. Rathe climbed the long flight of stairs, lit by hanging oil lamps against the winter‑sun’s twilight, and found b’Estorr’s door ajar. He caught his breath, and in the same instant dismissed his fear. No one would rob a magist, especially not on his own home ground. He tapped on the frame, and pushed open the door. The room was dim, only a single lamp lit on the worktable. b’Estorr himself was sitting in one of the window seats, a tablet tilted to the pale light, looked up with a smile at Rathe’s appearance.

“Good, you’re here.”

Rathe closed the door behind him, and flicked the latch into place. “Is it because your stuff is hard to fence that you leave the door wide open?” As he spoke, there was a familiar eddy of cold air, like the trailing of fingertips across the nape of his neck. They were the real reasons for b’Estorr’s confidence, of course; the palpable presence of the ghosts would discourage all but the most hardened thieves, and those would know better than to give a ghost the chance to reveal their identities.

b’Estorr grinned. “Oh, I daresay there are shops around here that would buy a used orrery or an astrolabe, and no questions asked.” He folded his tablets, and crossed to the table to light the candles that stood in a six‑armed candelabrum. The warm light spread, filling the center of the room, but Rathe could still feel the cool presence of the ghosts. It was stronger at night, when the shadows seemed to give visible shape to the odd breezes, and he had to make an effort not to peer into corners.

“Have you eaten?”

b’Estorr asked, and gestured to the remains of a pie that stood on the table. There was a dish of strawberries as well, and cone‑sugar and a grater, and Rathe felt his mouth water.

“No, I haven’t, but you don’t have to keep feeding me.”

“You might as well eat when you can,” b’Estorr answered, and poured a glass of wine without being asked. Rathe took it, glad of its delicate tang, and accepted a wedge of the pie as well. He had eaten at the fair, a fried pie snatched in haste, and there had been the bread at his own lodgings, but this, cold cheese and onions, was far better than anything he’d had in days.

“Anything more on the clocks?” Rathe asked, his mouth full, and b’Estorr’s eyebrows twitched.

“Not really. There are no records of anything similar happening at starchange, though of course, the records aren’t great for the last time the Starsmith was in a shared sign–for one thing, clocks were very rare then.”

“That was, what, six hundred years ago?” Rathe asked. Before Chenedolle had become one kingdom, before Astreiant itself was more than a minor fief of a petty not‑yet‑palatine.

“About that,” b’Estorr answered. “You should know, though, that there’s a minority view that holds that it was someone playing with powers they shouldn’t.”

“Gods above,” Rathe said, involuntarily, and b’Estorr gave him a sour smile.

“I doubt it’s that–the sheer scale of the power is just too great– but the masters and scholars are looking sidelong at each other, and at all the tricksters among the students. It’s a mess, Nico.”

“Better yours than mine,” Rathe answered.

“Thank you. Is there any news of the children?” the necromancer went on, and Rathe nodded, swallowing hastily.

“Maybe, but it’s more than we’ve had yet. There are two things, really, and I need your help with both of them.” He reached into his pocket, brought out his purse and carefully unknotted the strings. He poured its contents onto the tabletop, the wax disk he’d gotten from Ollre dark among the mix of coins and tokens and a pair of flawed dice. He handed the disk to b’Estorr and swept the rest of it back into the purse, saying, “Trijntje Ollre–she’s Herisse Robion’s leman, they’re both apprentice butchers–she tells me they had their stars read by one of these hedge‑astrologers, and he gave her this.”

b’Estorr picked it up curiously, held it in the sphere of brightest light from the candles. “A pretty poor piece of work it is, too. It’s supposed to be sort of a generic ‘from‑harm’–you know, the sort of things mothers give their babies before they go off to dame school– but it’s not very well made. All the signs are generic, and it wouldn’t be much more effective than throwing coins in a wishing bowl.” He shook his head, and handed it back. “You say it’s from one of those new astrologers? I can’t say I’m surprised. They can’t be that well trained.”