Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“So it’s not harmful,” Rathe said.

b’Estorr shook his head again. “Not likely. It’s not helpful, either, and if the girl paid money for it, well…”

Rathe waved that away. “What would you say if I told you I’d found another child–obviously not one of the missing–who’d gotten a charm from another one of these astrologers?”

“I’d be–intrigued,” b’Estorr said. “Can I see it?”

Rathe shook his head regretfully. “The boy didn’t have it, said he’d lost it, but from the sound of it, it was pretty much the same as this one. What makes it really interesting, though, is that half the kids who’ve gone missing from Point of Hopes had their stars read before they vanished, and probably by one of the hedge‑astrologers.”

“You’re right,” b’Estorr said. “That’s very interesting.” He lifted the charm again, holding it to the light. “Mind you,” he went on, reluctantly, “it could just be coincidence–these aren’t very effective, and maybe they just didn’t work.”

“It has to mean something,” Rathe said. “We don’t have anything else to go on.” He took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing.”

“Oh?” b’Estorr gave him an odd look, and set the charm down again. “I wonder if it’s the same thing we’ve been noticing, with these nativities.”

Rathe bared teeth in an angry smile. “It could be. And there’s one in particular that clinches it for me. When I was at the fair this afternoon, I ran into a woman I know, a pickpocket, part of a dynasty, really, working out of the old Caravansary. They’d lost one of their apprentices, told me about it a couple weeks back.”

“I thought the ’Serry was in Point of Sighs,” b’Estorr said.

“It is.” Rathe shrugged. “What were they going to do, go to Sighs and say, please help us, one of our apprentice pickpockets is missing?”

“But you’ve asked around,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe nodded.

“And when I ran into Cassia, I mentioned the horoscopes, and she said it was a shame Gavaret–that’s the boy–wasn’t getting the same chance as the rest of the kids. I didn’t think there’d be a chance of getting a nativity on him, and I said so, but she had it. And it’s very detailed, Istre, close to the minute.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his tablet and read from the dark wax. “Born on Midsummer Eve fourteen years ago in Dhenin. The mother said he crowned as the town clock struck midnight and was born at the half hour. You don’t get much better than that, not even in nobles’ houses. And all of our missing kids, every last one of them, have nativities just as precisely noted. It’s not natural, and it’s got to mean something.”

b’Estorr was nodding even before he’d finished. “It’s not just your kids, Nico. We–those of us here who’ve been doing the horoscopes for the stations–we’ve all noticed it. All of the children, eighty‑four of them, for Dis’s sake, know their births to better than a quarter hour. Your pickpocket–he’s just one more.” He leaned back. “Of course, we haven’t found anything else in common, but we are looking.”

“There’s another oddity here, too,” Rathe said quietly. “The boy who’d lost his charm, he’s northriver born–son of a judiciary clerk, in fact. But he doesn’t know his birth stars, only to the hour. And he’s not missing, even though he did talk to one of these astrologers, though I haven’t got a shred of real evidence that they’re involved.”

“Can’t you do something?” b’Estorr asked. “Ban them from the fair–hells, can’t you arrest them on suspicion? I’d think the city would be delighted to see that happen.”

Rathe shook his head. “The arbiters control the fair, and they say they can’t ban them because people think of them as a good thing, and a good alternative to the Three Nations, for that matter.”

“Ah.” b’Estorr sat back in his chair, frowning.

“And as for arresting them, gods, I’d like nothing better,” Rathe went on. “We don’t have the authority.”

“If you don’t, who does?” b’Estorr snapped, and Rathe held up his hand.

“Bear with me, will you? It’s complicated. The points are relatively new here, we started out with the writ to keep the peace, and the rest, everything else we do, has developed from that.”

“Including tracking down lost property–and children?” b’Estorr asked.

“It’s all a matter of the queen’s peace, isn’t it?” Rathe answered. “The theory being that if a woman’s household and her property aren’t safe, then she’s more likely to break the peace trying to preserve them–which I’ll admit is a good argument. But that’s where our authority comes from, not anything else. Right now, yeah, we spend most of our time trying to figure out who’s done what to whom, and even why, but we don’t really have the queen’s warrant for that. And if we tried to arrest the hedge‑astrologers, well, you’ve seen the broadsheets. People would cry we were blaming them to save ourselves, and the judiciary would probably uphold them as a matter of the queen’s peace.”

“So where does that leave you?”

b’Estorr asked, after a moment.

Rathe sighed. “Confused. Why would astrologers be stealing children, anyway?”

“Stealing children who know their nativities to better than a quarter hour,” b’Estorr corrected, frowning again. “We’ve been trying to see what these nativities have in common, but maybe we’re going at it backwards.” He looked up sharply, the blue eyes suddenly vivid. “Maybe the astrologers already know the link, and they’re picking out the children accordingly.”

“Which would explain why only the ones who know their stars closely are missing,” Rathe agreed, “but it doesn’t tell us why they’re wanted.”

“No.”

b’Estorr lifted one shoulder. “Finding that’s just a matter of time and effort, though, sorting through books. Look, thousands of magistical procedures require the worker to have a specific horoscope–it’s like any job, only more so, and we all trade off, depending on when we were born, do a favor here, get a favor there.” He broke off, shaking his head at his own distraction. “But there aren’t that many for which you’d want children–for most of them, in fact, children would be all wrong. And the sheer number involved is unusual. That’s got to help narrow it down.”

“If you say so,” Rathe said, dubiously. He looked down at the charm again, thinking of what Monteia would say when he told her about this, and then remembered something else she had told him that morning. “There may be another problem, Istre. There haven’t been any real disappearances over the past few days, not since the twentieth of the Gargoyle. We were thinking it was good news, but now I’m not so sure.”

“You’re thinking they–whoever they are–have gotten everyone they need,” b’Estorr said. He shook his head. “You’d think someone would have noticed someone trying to hide eighty children somewhere.”

“Unless they were taken out of the city,” Rathe answered. “And they must’ve been, someone would’ve seen them. The city’s been looking too hard not to.”

“Well, then, you’d think someone would notice anyone trying to herd eighty‑four, no, eighty‑five with your pickpocket, eighty‑five children anywhere, it has to be harder than trying to hide them,” b’Estorr muttered.

“They must have been moved in small groups,” Rathe said, and stopped. Even so, the only people who could hope to hide, or travel with, large numbers of children would be people who were expected to travel, and that meant another trip to the fair. He had friends among the caravaners, could ask them what they’d heard. He sighed then, thinking of the one hedge‑astrologer he’d seen. “The astrologers are still around, though who knows for how long.” He stopped then, staring at the books that filled one tall case and overflowed onto the table beside it. The candlelight trembled on the rubbed gilt of the bindings, drew smudged highlights from the heavy leather. If this were an ordinary crime, he thought, something southriver, stolen goods, say, or pimping, we’d send someone to buy from them, see what happened. Could I do that here? I’d have to send a runner, none of the points at Hopes could pass for apprentice‑age, and that’s bad enough–unless Istre could provide some sort of protection? He said, slowly, “Istre, is there anyway you, or someone here, could protect a child from being stolen?”

“If we could,” b’Estorr said, sourly, “don’t you think we’d’ve done it?”

“I mean, knowing they’re looking for something–”

“Without knowing what,” b’Estorr said, “there’s damn all I can do.” He looked at the pointsman. “Why?”

Rathe made a face. “I told you, we’d have to catch them actually doing something before we can claim the point on them. I was thinking about offering them some bait. If any of our runners know their stars well enough, or even if they don’t, maybe we could fake a nativity for them, we could send them to the fair, see what the astrologers do about them.” He saw b’Estorr’s startled look, and looked disgusted with himself. “Yeah, I know, it’d be dangerous. I’d take everyone I could from Point of Hopes–hells, I’ll borrow from Fairs, if Claes’ll let me–and make damn sure the kids never get out of our sight. But it’s something to do, before they all disappear back to wherever they took the kids.”

b’Estorr was silent for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “It might work–but don’t try faking nativities, to do it right takes time, and unless you do it very carefully, they’ll know something’s off. It’s a risk, of course, but what are the odds they’ll have the right conjunction?” He leaned back in his chair again, stretching to reach a sheaf of scribbled papers. “Right now, I’d say don’t use anyone who has Areton in the Anvil–that’s the one thing I’ve seen more of than I’d expect. Of course, that means about as much as saying most of them have sun or moon in a mutable sign, anything or nothing.”

Rathe nodded, and scratched the prohibition into his tablet. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

b’Estorr shook his head, his pale hair gleaming in the candlelight. “I wish there were, but, as I told you, there isn’t a pattern. Just–have them be very careful. Anyway, you say you’ll be watching them?”

“Oh, yes,” Rathe said, grimly. And if none of our kids know their stars well enough, someone from Dreams or Sighs will, he added silently. And I’ll make very sure they come home safe again. He stood and stretched, hearing the muscles crack along his spine. “Thanks for dinner, Istre, but I’d better go now, if I want to get home before second sunset.”

“I’ll let you know if I–we–figure out anything,” b’Estorr said, and smiled. “Whatever the hour.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said again, and let himself out into the dimly lit stairway. It wasn’t much, he thought, but it was more than he’d had before. Monteia wouldn’t like it–hells, he thought, I’m not sure I like it–but it stands a chance of working. He lengthened his stride, heading through the shadowed streets toward the Hopes‑point Bridge. And I’m very much afraid it’s a chance we’ll have to take.

9

« ^ »

the winter‑sun had passed the zenith, was declining toward the housetops across the wide road. Eslingen eyed it cautiously, wishing there were more clocks in Point of Hearts, guessed that he and Denizard had been waiting for more than an hour. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly nice tavern, the service deft and discreet–Point of Hearts was living up to its reputation as the neighborhood for assignations–and the wine excellent, but still, he thought, whoever it is we’re waiting for should have been here by now.

A shadow fell across the table, and he looked up to see Denizard returning from the open doorway. She was frowning, her fingers tapping against the bowl of her wine glass, and one of the waiters hurried to her side.

“Is everything all right, madame?”

Denizard forced a smile, nodded. “Fine, thanks.” She glanced at the table, littered now with emptied plates. “You can bring us another serving of the cakes, however.”

“At once, madame.” The waiter bowed, and hurried away.

Denizard made a face, and reseated herself, settling her skirts neatly around her.

“No sign of–?” Eslingen, asked, and left the sentence delicately unfinished.

The magist sighed. “No. And if he’s not here by now, I doubt he’s coming.”

Eslingen waited, but no more information seemed to be forthcoming. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Can you tell me, I mean? I’m generally more useful when I have some idea of the circumstances I’m dealing with.”

Despite his best efforts, the words came out more sharply than he’d intended, and Denizard gave him a hard glance. “You’re not indispensable, however, Eslingen.”

Eslingen held up his hands. “Agreed. But, until you dispense with me…” He gave her his best smile, and, to his surprise, the magist smiled back reluctantly.

“True. And Hanse said I should use my discretion.” She glanced around again, and Eslingen looked with her. The tavern was hardly crowded, most of the drinkers clustered at the far side of the wide room by the unlit fireplace. A man and a woman, the woman in a wide‑brimmed hat and hood that effectively hid her face, sat at a corner table, leaning close, their plates forgotten. Conspirators or clandestine lovers, Eslingen guessed, and not much interested in anything except each other.

“It’s the Ajanine property,” Denizard said. She kept her voice low, but didn’t whisper. “Hanse–and Madame Allyns, but mostly Hanse; he takes the risk for her–has owned this land for four years now, and we’ve never had any trouble, but this year…” She shook her head again. “This year, we haven’t seen our gold, or had word from the so‑called landame. The mine is seigneurial, the landame has full control of the takings. So she pays her debt in gold, and we–Hanse has the funds he needs to finance his caravans and caravels. But this year, Maseigne de Mailhac hasn’t done her part.”

Which explained a great deal, Eslingen thought. It explained Rouvalles’s impatience, and Caiazzo’s temper, and probably even the old woman in the Court. He said aloud, “You can’t mean we’re waiting for the gold. Not just the two of us.”

“I thought you were good, soldier,” Denizard answered.

“No one’s that good.”

Denizard grinned. “At least you’re honest. We’re waiting for one of Hanse’s men, he sent him north a good month ago, and he should have been back some days since.” She shook her head, the smile fading. “There’s something very wrong at Mailhac, Eslingen, that’s for sure. And I’m very much afraid Hanse is going to have to send one of us to deal with the situation.”

Eslingen nodded, but said nothing. Denizard sighed again, and pushed herself away from the table, went to the door again to peer out into the soft twilight. Eslingen watched her go, turning the stem of his wine glass in his hand, and wondered what he should do with this knowledge. He had promised Rathe word of anything strange about Caiazzo’s business, and part ownership of an Ajanine gold mine–an Ajanine gold mine located of necessity on noble land–was certainly out of the ordinary. Except, he added, with an inward grin, maybe for Hanselin Caiazzo. He had known from Rathe’s own words that Caiazzo’s dealings weren’t all legal, but he was only just beginning to understand the scope of the longdistance trader’s operations, legitimate as well as not. Perhaps an Ajanine manor wasn’t so far out of Caiazzo’s usual range as he’d thought.

He leaned back as the waiter returned with the dish of cakes, replacing the previous dishes with quick deference. He liked Caiazzo’s service, liked the sober elegance of the house and his own place in it, suspected he would be aping the cut of Caiazzo’s coat for years to come. He didn’t want to give it up–and why should he, especially for Rathe, whom he’d known less than a solar month?–and he’d be lucky if the job was all he lost if he betrayed Caiazzo to the points. He remembered the old woman in her empty shop at the heart of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, and shivered, trying to blame it on the evening air. If she found out he’d betrayed Caiazzo, he’d be fighting off her bravos for the rest of the year, and think himself lucky to escape to the border fighting. Besides, illegal Caiazzo’s dealings might be– were, he corrected himself, unmistakably outside Chenedolle’s laws– but they had nothing whatsoever to do with the missing children. That was all he’d promised Rathe; unless and until he found any indication Caiazzo was dabbling in that, he would keep Caiazzo’s business strictly to himself.

As Rathe had expected, Monteia didn’t like the idea of using the runners to force the hedge‑astrologers into the open. She shook her head when he had finished, and leaned back against the window frame, her long face very sober.

“It’s a long shot, Nico, a very long shot,” she said at last. “I think you’re right, this has to be the reason these kids are being taken, but to risk our runners…” She shook her head, her voice trailing off into silence.

“Can you think of a better way of stopping them?” Rathe asked, and Monteia shook her head again.

“Not offhand, no. But I want to try. I owe them that much, Nico.” She drew herself up, planted her elbows on the table. “I’m going to draft a letter to all the points, and to Claes in particular–that might get his attention better than just sending you to talk to him.”

Rathe made a face, but admitted that Monteia was probably right. Claes was ready to be annoyed with Hopes over his presence in the fair the day before; better to follow protocol than to risk angering him just when they would need him most.

“On the other hand,” Monteia went on, “there’s one thing you said that we can follow up on, and we haven’t yet. If the kids aren’t in the city, then where are they?”

“They have to have been taken away,” Rathe said. “We’d’ve found them otherwise.”

Monteia nodded. “I agree. And I know you’ve got friends in the caravans.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rathe said. “I did Monferriol a favor once.”

“Then he can do you one,” Monteia said. “Give a shout for Andry and Houssaye, will you?”

Rathe did as he was told, and a moment later the pointsmen appeared in the doorway, looking puzzled.

“Come on in,” Monteia said, “and close the door. I’ve got work for you.”

The two filed in, wedging themselves into the space between Rathe’s chair and the wall, and Houssaye shut the door carefully behind him.

Monteia nodded. “All right. Nico, you’ll take the caravans at the fair, since you know Monferriol. Andry, I want you and Houssaye to take the river, Exemption Docks to the Chain. We’re looking for any way that these child‑thieves could have taken the kids out of the city– anything out of the ordinary, someone leaving too soon or too late, hiding his cargo, anything at all.”

The pointsmen exchanged glances, and then Andry said, cautiously, “We’ve done a lot of that already, Chief. And so far, nobody’s noticed anything.”

“Well, do it again,” Monteia answered. She hesitated, then said, almost reluctantly, “We may have something to go on. Nico and his necromancer friend have found something all the kids have in common, though the gods alone know why it matters. All of them knew their stars to better than the quarter hour. You can pass that on as you see fit–it may calm some people down–but be careful with it.”

Andry nodded, his face thoughtful, and Houssaye said, slowly, “I don’t think the river‑folk are involved, Chief. I’ve spoken to friends of mine in Hearts and Dreams, and they say they’ve been keeping a close watch on the Chain. Nobody’s gone upriver without being searched.”

That was not good news, Rathe thought. The Sier was a major highway for trade, but if the upriver traffic was being searched, then that left only the downriver, and that led to the sea and the Silklands. He shivered in spite of himself at the thought of the missing children being taken out of Chenedolle entirely, and saw from Andry’s expression that the same thought was in his mind as well.

“Look anyway,” Monteia said. “Gods, if they were taken to sea–” She broke off again, not wanting to articulate the thought, but the three men nodded. She didn’t need to articulate it: they had no authority outside Astreiant, but at least anywhere in Chenedolle they could appeal to the royal authority. If the children were outside the kingdom, the gods only knew whether the local rulers would listen to them. And, worst of all, least to be spoken, there was the chance that the children had simply been taken to sea and abandoned to the waves. In ancient times, Oriane’s worship had demanded those sacrifices; Rathe crossed his fingers, praying that no one had decided to revive those customs.

“Our best chance is probably the caravans or the horsemarket at the Little Fair,” Monteia said briskly, and Rathe shook away his fears. “Nico, I’m sorry to be asking you to handle it alone, but it’s more discreet that way. I don’t want to antagonize Fairs if I can avoid it.”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll be careful,” he said and Monteia nodded.

“Right. Be off with you, then.”

Rathe made his way to the fair by the Manufactory Bridge, skirting the fairgrounds proper until he reached the quarter where the caravaners camped. It was busy, as usual; he had to wait while an incoming train, a good two dozen packhorses, all heavily laden, plus attendants, made their way up the main street and were turned into a waiting corral. He followed them toward the stables, walking carefully, and felt a sudden pang of uncertainty. The arriving caravan was obviously one of the ones working the shorter routes–to Cazaril in the south, say, or across to the Chadroni gap. They came in almost daily throughout the fair, and most of them would stay a few days beyond the official closing, to ensure they sold all their goods. The ones working the longer routes, however, would almost certainly leave earlier, well before the end of the fair, especially if they had to take a northern route. And Monferriol was a northern traveller. Bonfortune send I haven’t missed him, Rathe thought, and in the same instant saw a familiar blue and yellow pennant flying over one of the tents set up outside the stables. Monferriol worked for a consortium of small traders, had a knack for taking his principals’ goods safely through the Chadroni Gap, across Chadron itself, and into the Vestara beyond, keeping just ahead of the worst weather until he reached Al’manon‑of‑the‑Snows. He wintered there, and returning to Astreiant with the first thaws, bringing the first shipments of the northern goods, wools, uncured leathers, wine, and all the rest. Of necessity, his timing was precise, and his awareness of his surroundings exquisitely tuned: he would know if anyone had left ahead of him, and where they were going, and why.

He turned toward the stables, stopped the first hostler he saw who carried Monferriol’s yellow and blue ribbons. “Is Monferriol about?”

The woman looked up at him, took in the jerkin and truncheon, and sighed. “Oh, gods, did he forget to pay his damned bond again? I wish he’d stop playing these games with you lot, the rest of us have work to do.”

Rathe shook his head. “I’m not from Fairs’ Point, I’m from Point of Hopes–and I’m a friend of Jevis’s, just wanted to say hello.”

The hostler pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak of dust along one cheekbone. “I think you’ll find him in the factors’ tent, pointsman.”

“If he’s busy–”

She looked at him, her mouth twisting into a gap‑toothed grin. “Do you know a single factor who’s up at this hour, or at least here? I don’t, and I don’t think I’d want to. No, he’s just gloating over the route again, the bastard. You know where it is? Right, the fancy one.” She turned back to the corral even as she spoke, and Rathe turned toward the factors’ tent.

It was elaborate, he thought, but then, the consortium probably had to make more of a display than established traders like Caiazzo or older consortia like the Talhafers. And it was bright, crimson canvas– not much faded, yet–flying a bright yellow pennant with Monferriol’s blue ferret rampant in a circle. He could hear a toneless, rumbling humming through the walls, and pulled the flap aside.

“Jevis? Planning new tortures for your people?”

“Gods above, boy, don’t scare me like that, I thought you were the competition,” Monferriol bellowed, and Rathe saw that, indeed, he did have a knife in his hand. Rathe’s expert eye gauged it as just within the city’s legal limits. It might be a little longer, but not enough to make it worth a pointsman’s while to question it.

“Is business getting that cutthroat?” he asked, and Monferriol dropped back onto his high stool, snorting. He was a huge man, tall and heavy‑set, hair and beard an untidy hedge.

“Isn’t it always? That bastard Caiazzo’s got the eastern route sewed up, and a damned good caravan‑master he has too, but he can’t touch me in the north, for all he keeps trying.”

“That’s something to be satisfied with, surely,” Rathe said, mildly. He knew perfectly well that Monferriol and his consortium had been trying to make inroads into the eastern route for the last few years.

“It’s something to keep me awake nights,” Monferriol answered, and looked back at the maps spread out on the table beside him. “Though why I should lie awake when none of my principals do, I bloody well don’t know.”

“It’s their money and they trust you?” Rathe guessed, and Monferriol made a face.

“More to the point, it’s my blood and my reputation on the line, every time we cross the blighted Gap. Godless people, the Chadroni.” He looked down at the maps, shaking his head. “It figures Caiazzo would have one for his master.”

“Then why do it?” Rathe asked. He should get to his own business, he knew, but the sheer scale of Monferriol’s affairs–and ego–always fascinated him.

“Why? Gods, boy, because I can. Because I’m the best there is at managing a caravan through the Gap and Chadron and the Vestara. Why in all hells are you a pointsman? Because you’re good at it, and if you didn’t do it, someone else would, and get all the glory–or else muck it up and leave you fuming at them for a pack of incompetents.”

And that was true enough, Rathe reflected, and not what he’d expected to hear. He saw an almanac open beside the map, and nodded to it. “What are the temples forecasting for this winter?”

Monferriol stuck out his lower lip as he looked down at the little book. “Heavy snows in the Gap, they’re saying, the worst in memory. Of course, last year they predicted a mild winter, and we all know how accurate that was.”

Rathe grinned. The previous winter had been unusually bad, with snow before Midwinter in Astreiant itself.

“So,” Monferriol said, and swung around so that his back was to the table. “What can I do for you, Nico?”

“I need your–advice, your expert knowledge,” Rathe said. “It’s about the children.”

“Oh, that. That’s a bad business. What are you lot doing about it?”

“What we can,” Rathe answered. “What I want to know from you is whether you’ve noticed anything odd among the caravans this fair.”

“We’re an odd lot,” Monferriol answered, but Rathe thought he looked wary. “What did you have in mind?”

“Has anyone changed their usual plans, left earlier than expected, not come in till late, anything?”

Monferriol’s face screwed up in thought. He was acting, Rathe thought suddenly, and bit back his sudden anger. Before either man could speak, however, the flap was pulled back again. “Gods above,” Monferriol roared, and Rathe thought there was as much relief as anger in his tone. “What is this, a waystation? Oh, it’s you, Rouvalles. What do you want.”

The newcomer lifted an eyebrow, but said, equably enough, “I’ve come about those extra horses you wanted. I can spare you two, but you’ll pay.”

“I always do when I deal with the godless Chadroni,” Monferriol muttered.

The other man–Rouvalles–lifted a shoulder in a shrug. He was almost as tall as Monferriol, his long hair drawn back with a strip of braided leather that had probably come from a broken harness. “They’re good horses and you know it.”

“Better than those last screws you sold me?”

“Those screws are pure Vestaran blood, Jevis, but if you don’t want them you don’t, and there’s no point in my forcing them on you.” Rouvalles glanced at Rathe, nodded politely. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“How in the name of all the gods, and poor Bonfortune above all, does Caiazzo ever turn a profit with you?” Monferriol demanded, rolling his eyes to the tent’s peak. “You won’t bargain, you won’t even allow the possibility of haggling–”

“I don’t have time to haggle,” Rouvalles said, cutting through the tirade with what sounded like the ease of long practice. “I’m already two weeks late, as you damn well know. You can have the horses or not, it makes no difference to me.”

“Money came through finally, did it?” Monferriol asked, and Rouvalles shrugged.

“As you also know.”

“So you’re Caiazzo’s caravan‑master,” Rathe interjected. He hoped he sounded casual, but doubted it.

Rouvalles glanced at him, the smile ready enough, but the pale eyes cool and assessing. “You know Hanselin, then–oh, I see. Pointsman.” He grinned suddenly, and the humor looked genuine. “Then I guess you would know him. Yes, I’m his caravan‑master, and no, I’m not spiriting any children out of Astreiant. You can check my camp if you like, but you wouldn’t find any children there in any case, they’re useless on a long route like mine.”

“Fairs’ Point already spoke to you, then,” Rathe said, apologetically, and was surprised when Rouvalles shook his head, one dirty gold curl escaping from the tied leather.

“No. Hanse’s new knife, in actual fact, which should count in Hanse’s favor. Have you been looking in his direction, pointsman? It wouldn’t be like him, you know.”

“I do know,” Rathe agreed. “You said you’re late leaving the city. You haven’t noticed anyone who’s left early, or in a hurry, or just been acting odd?”

Rouvalles shook his head again. “Not that I’ve noticed.” He looked at Monferriol. “So, Jevis, you want the horses?”

“I want the damn horses, yes.”

“All right, then, I’ll have them brought round once you send the money. How many children are you missing, pointsman?”

Monferriol slid off his stood. “Oh, very funny, Rouvalles, indeed. Would you get out?”