Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“No, I’m curious.” Rouvalles lifted a hand, and Monferriol subsided, muttering. Gesture and response seemed automatic: the Chadroni was almost aristocratic, for a caravaner, Rathe thought, and stilled his own instinctive rebellion. “How many?”

“Throughout the city, eighty‑five. Why?” He fixed his eyes on Rouvalles, and the Chadroni looked away.

“You should probably ask Jevis why he’s buying horses so late in the season.”

“You bastard,” Monferriol flared, and Rouvalles glared at him.

“I’ve heard the same story from half a dozen people, and if you lot won’t go to the points you brag of in every other city in the world– well, by all the gods, I will.”

“Jevis?” Rathe looked at Monferriol, and the big man threw up his hands.

“There’s no law against selling horses, for Bonfortune’s sake. And there’s no reason to think this had anything to do with the children.”

“Except,” Rouvalles said, “that this pointsman is asking about anything out of the ordinary. And by Tyrseis, this is just that.”

Rathe looked from one to the other. “One of you can start from the beginning and explain. Jevis?”

Monferriol looked distinctly abashed. “It’s nothing, really–almost certainly. But, oh, a week or two ago, maybe seven, eight days, a man came to me and wanted to buy a pair of draft horses. Suitable for pulling a baggage wagon–hells, I thought he was a damn mercenary, there are enough of them around these days. But he offered me half again what the beasts were worth, and when I hesitated–I thought I’d heard him wrong–he upped the price again. So I sold them, and even at his prices–” He jerked his head at Rouvalles. “–I’ll still make a profit.” He stopped then, glaring first at Rouvalles and then at the pointsman.

Rathe shook his head. “Interesting, but I don’t see–”

Rouvalles stirred, and Monferriol said hastily, “The thing is, the same thing’s happened to a dozen of us, a man coming and wanting to buy draft horses. And offering too good a price to turn him down. It hasn’t been the same man, always, but still, well, it got some of us wondering. They’re not traders, that’s for sure, but beyond that, who knows? We didn’t know if we should go to the points or not. Nico, it might have been something ordinary.”

Rathe nodded, absently, his mind racing. A dozen traders, selling one or two horses each–that would easily be enough to transport eighty‑five children. The only question was, where had they been taken? He said, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who this person was?”

Monferriol shook his head. “I told you, I thought he was a mercenary, the successful kind. He dressed like an upper servant, mind you, nice coat, nice manners.”

“What did he look like?” Rathe asked, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when the big man shrugged.

“Ordinary. I’m sorry, boy, he was–well, middling everything. You know the sort, sort of wood‑colored.”

Rathe grinned in spite of himself, in spite of the situation. He knew exactly the sort of man Monferriol was describing, brown‑haired, brown‑skinned, brown‑eyed, utterly unremarkable features–the points took dozens of them for thieving every year, and released half of them for lack of a victim to swear to them. “What about you?” he said to Rouvalles, and the Chadroni shook his head.

“All I know is what I’ve heard from Jevis and some others. I don’t use draft horses, you can’t take carts over the land‑bridge.”

Rathe sighed–that would have been too much good luck–and looked back at Monferriol. “Jevis, I’m going to tell you this once, and I want you to do it for me. Consider it the favor you owe me.”

“We’ll see,” Monferriol said, but nodded.

“Go to Fairs’ Point with this,” Rathe said. “Get together everybody who’s sold to these people, and go to Guillot Claes, he’s the chief at Fairs’, and tell him what you’ve told me. They’ve probably left the city, but it’s worth trying to find them, and this is Fairs’ business, not mine.”

“You couldn’t keep us company,” Monferriol said, without real hope, and Rathe shook his head.

“It would look better if it was just you.”

“Right.” Monferriol made a face. “Bonfortune help me, but I’ll do it.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and included Rouvalles in his nod.

The Chadroni smiled, the expression a little melancholy. “It’s a bad business, this,” he said. “Not to mention bad forbusiness. I hope you find them.” He looked back at Monferriol. “Send the money, and I’ll send the horses. And sooner would be better than later, I’m going to be busy the next few days.”

“You’ll get your money,” Monferriol growled. Rouvalles waved a hand, acknowledgement and farewell, and ducked back out the tent flap. Monferriol looked at Rathe. “I would’ve gone to the points sooner, Nico, but–hells, I didn’t realize, none of us did, just how many horses were being bought this way.”

“Go now,” Rathe said, gently. “Claes will be grateful, I’m sure of that. It’s one of the first solid things we’ve had.”

“I hope you catch the bastards,” Monferriol answered. “Hanging’s too good for them.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Rathe answered, and followed Rouvalles out of the tent. And that was more than he’d thought they’d be able to do yesterday, he thought, as he made his way back toward Point of Hopes, but still not enough.

Monteia was waiting in the station’s main room, fingers tapping impatiently on the edge of the worktable. She rose as he came in, saying, “Well?”

“More news, Chief,” he answered. “Monferriol says that some people–not traders, not anything he recognized–have been buying draft horses from various of the caravaners. A lot of horses, Chief, enough to pull enough wagons to carry eighty‑five children.”

Monteia went very still. “Any idea of who, or where they went?”

Rathe shook his head. “I told Jevis–Monferriol–to take himself and the others over to Fairs’ Point, let them work on it. But I think we know how they’re being moved now.”

“And damn all good it does us,” Monteia muttered. “We know two hows, how they’re choosing the kids and some of how they’re moving them, but that doesn’t get us anything useful.”

“Not yet,” Rathe answered, and hoped it was true.

Monteia sighed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said this morning. I still don’t like it, but I can’t think of anything better. Let’s get the runners in here, and see if any of them are willing to be bait.”

Rathe flinched–put that baldly, the idea seemed to have even less merit–but went to the door and looked out. The youngest of the runners, a child from the Brewers’ Court who looked even younger than his ten years, was sitting on the edge of the empty horse trough, and Rathe beckoned to him. “Laci! Find the rest of the runners, will you, and ask them to come in here, please.”

“Are we in trouble?” The boy looked warily at him, and Rathe felt his smile turn sickly.

“No.” Not unless we make some bad mistakes, he added silently, and Astree send we don’t. “The chief has a job for some of you, that’s all.”

“All right.” The boy turned away, and Rathe called after him.

“As soon as possible, please.”

Laci lifted a hand in answer, and darted away. Rathe stood for a moment, looking at the now‑empty yard, and then went back into the station. To his surprise, however, Laci was back in less than a quarter of an hour, and half a dozen of the other runners were with him.

“This was all I could find, Nico,” Laci announced. “Is that all right?”

“That’s fine,” Rathe answered. He stood back, letting the little group file past him into the station, and saw Monteia shake her head.

“In the workroom, please,” she said aloud, and the runners edged in, whispering and murmuring among themselves. Rathe followed them in, and closed the door behind them. He knew all of them, of course: Laci; raw‑boned Jacme, who’d been kicked out of his own house and slept behind the bar at the Cazaril Grey; willowy Biatris, who would get her apprenticeship next year if the station itself had to pay her fees; Surgi, dark and stocky, born in the Rivermarket docks; Fasquelle de Galhac, who had a brain despite the pretensions of her name; stolid Lennar with his crooked nose; and finally Asheri, his favorite of this year’s group. She was standing a little apart from the rest, her thin face very grave, and he wondered if something was wrong. Then Monteia had seated herself behind the table, gestured for the runners to make themselves comfortable.

“As you may or may not have heard, we’ve found something all the missing lads have in common,” she began bluntly. “They all knew their stars to a quarter hour or better, and a lot of them, maybe all of them, had their stars read by one of these new astrologers we’ve been hearing about. Which gives us an obvious option.”

Biatris was already nodding, her thumbs hooked into the belt she wore beneath her sleeveless bodice. Asheri tipped her head to one side but made no other move, while Surgi and Lennar exchanged nervous glances. Monteia gave them all a jaundiced look.

“I’ll say from the start that I’m not particularly happy with this idea, but it could work, and it’s vital that we catch these bastards.” She took a deep breath. “What we need is someone of the right age–your ages–who knows her stars close enough to go and get a reading done. We’ll be watching you, of course, myself and Nico and Houssaye and Salineis, but there’s a chance something could go wrong. So think about that before you answer.”

Surgi and Lennar exchanged looks again, and Lennar said, “I’d do it–”

“–in a minute,” Surgi agreed.

“–but I don’t know my stars that well,” Lennar finished. “And neither does Surgi. Couldn’t we pretend?”

“I asked about that at the university,” Rathe said. “Istre–a friend of mine who’s a necromancer–said that they’d be able to tell.”

“Oh.” Surgi’s shoulders sagged visibly, but then he brightened. “We could go with everybody, help make sure the astrologers don’t steal them.”

“We’ll see,” Monteia said. “All right. Do any of you know your stars to the quarter hour?”

There was a little silence then, and Asheri said, “I do. Better than that, actually, I was born on the hour.”

Biatris nodded. “I know mine to just about the quarter.”

Monteia nodded again. “And would you be willing to do this– knowing it could be dangerous?”

There was another silence, longer this time, and then Biatris shrugged. “If it might help, yeah, sure.”

Asheri looked at her shoes, and Rathe felt unreasonably guilty. She didn’t want to be a pointswoman, he knew that well enough–her real love was needlework, and one of the reasons she worked as a runner was to save the fees she needed to join the Embroiderers’ Guild. He tilted his head, trying to see her face, and was relieved to see it merely thoughtful, neither afraid nor angry. She looked up then, and nodded. “All right. I’m willing.”

“I think we should all go,” Lennar said, and Jacme nodded. He was the oldest of the group, seemed older, Rathe knew, because he’d been on his own so long.

“I agree.” He grinned, showing the gap at the side of his mouth where a tooth had been knocked out. “Even with Nico and everybody keeping an eye on us, they’ll have to stay back to keep from upsetting these astrologers, and hells, it’d have to be harder to steal just one from among a group.”

“It’s been done,” Rathe said, but looked at Monteia, and nodded. “I think he’s right, Chief.”

“I agree.” Monteia reached under the worktable, pulled out the station’s strongbox, and fished under her bodice for the key. She unlocked the heavy chest, and took put a bag of coins. “What did you say they charged, Nico?”

“Half a demming, or so most of the lads who didn’t get taken said,” Rathe answered, and Monteia grunted.

“Better give you a few more than that,” she said, and counted out three demmings for each of the runners. “If you don’t spend it, keep it. And there’ll be a seilling apiece when we all get back.”

A seilling was decent money, and Mathe saw several of the runners exchange glances, suddenly sobered. If Monteia was willing to pay that much, they were obviously thinking, then it must be serious. Good, he thought, and said aloud, “One thing more. These astrologers are also offering charms against the current troubles. If he offers you one, take it, but give it to one of us as soon as you can, all right? We can take it to the university.”

Biatris and Asheri nodded.

“All right,” Monteia said. “Stay together as much as you can without looking suspicious–Biatris, you and Asheri stay tight, that’ll make it easier to watch you. Everyone understand?” The runners nodded. “Right, then. Let’s go to the fair.”

It didn’t take long to collect the rest of the duty pointsmen and women, and to abandon the semiuniform of jerkin and truncheon. Rathe trailed behind the little knot of children as they passed the edge of the fair precinct, aware of Houssaye strolling a little behind him, parasol balanced on his shoulder. At the midafternoon, things were a little less busy than usual; a number of the stalls had fewer workers in evidence, and Rathe could see merchants snatching a hurried meal in the back of others. At least it would be easier to watch the kids than it would have been in the full crowds, he thought, as long as the astrologers do their part.

They made their way across the full width of the fairground without result, though Laci stopped to spend some of his coins on stick candy and a cup of thick, sweet Silklands tea. At the northern edge, where the linen‑sellers had their booths, the group of runners paused, and Rathe stepped back into the shade of an awning, pretending to examine the bolts of coarse cloth.

“That’s good for shirts, sir,” the woman behind the counter said. “Wears like iron, and only an aster a yard. You won’t get a better shirt for two seillings.”

Rathe nodded, not really listening. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the runners arguing about something, Biatris and Asheri pointing back toward the center of the fair, Lennar pointing toward the distant corrals. Rathe frowned–what were they thinking of, to split the group?–and then he saw the way that Laci was fidgeting. Even as he realized what was happening, Jacme caught the younger boy by the hand and started off at speed toward the corrals and the latrines beyond. Rathe swore under his breath, and turned away from the stall, looking around for one of the other pointsmen. Before he could do anything, however, he saw Salineis, conspicuous in a broad‑brimmed hat, take off after them. He allowed himself a sigh of relief–at least someone would be watching them, even if they weren’t in the most likely group–and turned to follow the others.

They had gotten a little ahead of him, were just turning into the row of stalls that sold needles and fine thread. Asheri’s doing, Rathe thought, and did his best not to hurry after them. She took her time making her way along the rows of stalls, obviously drawn in by the displays: silk and linen and even cotton thread in every thickness and every color of the rainbow; packets of pins wrapped in bright dyed paper; polishing glasses, dark and light; needles and needle‑cases and shears in every size from the length of a finger to heavy iron things nearly as long as a woman’s forearm. Biatris stayed close to her side, though from the glazed look on her face, she would rather have been somewhere else, but the rest of the runners had drawn ahead of them, and at last Fasquelle stopped, turned back to stare at them.

“Come on, will you?” Her clear voice floated above the noise of the fair, audible along the length of the row.

Biatris lifted a hand, and then touched Asheri’s shoulder. The younger girl sighed, and moved reluctantly away from the array of threads. Rathe grinned, sympathizing with both sides, and the expression froze on his face as he saw a man in a black robe turn into the row of stalls. He seemed ordinary enough, the shabby scholar’s robe half open over a plain dark suit, his round face a little pink from the heat, but Rathe felt his spine tingle. The man spoke to the first group of runners, and Rathe saw Surgi shake his head. The astrologer shrugged, smiling, and moved on. Asheri had seen him, too, and as he drew abreast, she stepped into his path. She said something–asking for a reading, Rathe knew, and didn’t know if he was impressed or appalled by her bravery–and jerked her head toward Biatris, who moved up to join her. The astrologer looked from one to the other, nodding, and then motioned for them to follow him. He led them back the way they’d come, and Rathe looked away, pretended to be examining a length of embroidered ribbon, as they passed him. He counted to twenty, then shook his head at the stall‑keeper, and trailed after the black‑robed figure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Houssaye’s parasol, and then Monteia’s oxblood skirt and bodice suit. If the astrologer tried anything, they would be ready.

The astrologer paused then, and gestured for the girls to precede him down an alley that ran between two of the larger stalls. Asheri hesitated for a fraction of a second, but Biatris stepped firmly on, and the younger girl followed, the astrologer in his black robe trailing after them both. Rathe swore under his breath, and looked around wildly. Monteia was already moving to put herself at the far end of the alley, and Houssaye and Andry were in place as well. The sight was steadying, and Rathe made himself walk casually past the alley‑mouth. He could do nothing more than glance in, not without rousing suspicion, but in that instant he caught a glimpse of the two girls standing fascinated, eyes on the orrery held by the astrologer. He was adjusting one of the rings that gave the planetary positions, and seemed to be explaining something at the same time. And then Rathe was past, and made himself stop at the nearest stall, trying to pretend to study the display of needles.

“Andry’s gone round the other end with the chief,” Houssaye said, softly, and leaned over the other man’s shoulder. His parasol was neatly folded now, Rathe saw, ready for action.

“Good,” Rathe answered. “Is there any way of getting closer?”

Houssaye shook his head, his face reflecting the same frustration Rathe was feeling. “Not without being seen. Gods–” He broke off then, shaking his head, and Rathe laid a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no other way in or out,” he said, with more confidence than he felt. “So we wait.”

It seemed an interminable time before the girls reappeared, walking solemnly on either side of the astrologer. Both looked thoughtful, and Rathe found himself holding his breath. If the astrologer has already placed some geas on them–but that was supposed to be impossible, or at best extremely difficult without the proper tools and carefully chosen stars, he reminded himself. The astrologer said something to the girls, and then turned away, heading toward the center of the fair.

Rathe nudged Houssaye. “Follow him,” he said, and himself moved up to join the runners. The rest of the runners hurried over, too, and Rathe gathered them into a tight group.

“Are you all right?” he said, to Asheri and Biatris, and both girls nodded.

“It wasn’t anything, really,” Biatris said, and Rathe held up his hand.

“We’ll talk when we get back to the station. Where’s Jacme and Laci?”

“Laci had to piss,” Fasquelle answered, and Salineis loomed over her shoulder.

“They’re with me, Nico. The chief says we should get back to the station. She’ll meet us there.”

Rathe nodded. “We’ll take a boat,” he said, and added silently, and I’ll pay for it myself if the station won’t.

It took a few minutes to find a boat that would take the entire group upstream, but eventually they found a small barge and Rathe herded everyone aboard. Despite the current, it didn’t take long to reach the landing at the Rivermarket, and Rathe led them quickly back through the streets to the station house. To his surprise, Monteia was there ahead of them, sitting scowling at the main desk. Her frown eased a little as she saw them, and she gestured for the runners to find seats in the clutter of the main room.

“Sal, shut the door. Nico, where’s Houssaye?”

“I told him to follow the astrologer,” Rathe answered, and Monteia nodded.

“Good luck to him, then. All right, what happened?”

Biatris and Asheri exchanged glances, and the older girl said, “Not a whole lot, really. Asheri asked if he read stars, and what he’d charge to read ours. And he said it’d be a demming for both of us, and asked what our stars were. I told him mine, and he said that, since I knew mine so well, he could give me a proper reading, with his orrery. So we went between a couple of stalls where it was quiet, and he did. He didn’t say much, though, not much more than I could’ve gotten from a broadsheet.”

“I told him mine, too,” Asheri said, “and he gave me a hard time about them, kept on about was I sure that was right.” She made a face. “I think he could tell I was southriver born, and wanted to make sure I wasn’t lying. But I asked him if he thought I would ever be able to join the Embroiderers’ Guild, and he did a reading for that. He had a really fancy orrery, though.”

“I thought it looked pretty battered,” Biatris objected, and Asheri nodded.

“It was, but it was–well, more complicated than a lot of ones I’ve seen. It had a lot more rings to it.” She shrugged. “Anyway, then he warned us to be very careful, that the trouble was almost over, but that we couldn’t relax yet. And that was the end of it.”

“Did he give you anything?” Rathe asked.

“Oh, gods.” Biatris reached into the pocket under her skirt. “He said it was a charm against the current troubles.” She produced a disk of dark wax, marked with the same sort of symbols Rathe had seen on the other charms. He took it from her, turning it over in his hand, and looked at Asheri.

“Did you get one, too?”

She was nodding already, held out a second wax disk. “It’s funny, I thought it looked a little different–” She broke off, eyes widening, and Rathe held the two disks in the light from the window.

“They are different,” Monteia said, and came to look over Rathe’s shoulder.

He nodded, turning the disks in the light. Asheri’s was a different color, more green than black, though still very dark, and the symbols embossed on its surface seemed to be arranged in a different order. “I think Istre should see these right away,” he said, and heard the shadow of fear in his own voice.

Monteia nodded. “I agree.” She looked at the runners. “And I think you should stay here, the lot of you, at least until we know what’s happening.”

Rathe pocketed the charms. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, and hurried out into the afternoon heat.

b’Estorr was not in his rooms, but a grey‑gowned student volunteered that she thought the necromancer was at the library. Rathe thanked her, and made his way back across the wide yard to the massive building that housed the university’s library. It looked as formidable as many fortresses, thick walls and narrow windows, and the narrow lobby was cold even in the summer heat, the stones hoarding the chill. Statues of Sofia and Donis and Oriane and the Starsmith stood in orderly ranks above the barred doors that led to the library proper, staring past the mere mortals who walked below them. The proctor on duty, tall and painfully thin, shook her head when Rathe asked to be admitted.

“I’m sorry, we can’t let just anyone in–”

“It’s an emergency,” Rathe said. And one partly of my making. He killed that thought, and fixed the woman with a stare. “Can you send for him?”

She hesitated, then nodded, and reached under her table for a bell. She rang it, and a few minutes later one of the heavy doors creaked open, admitting a student as round as the proctor was thin.

“Would you fetch Magist b’Estorr, please?” the proctor asked. “This–”

“Tell him Nicolas Rathe.”

The proctor nodded. “Tell him Master Rathe is here, and that it’s an emergency.”

The student’s eyes widened, but she faded back through the door without a murmur. Rathe fought the instinct to pace, made himself stand still, counting the signs carved across the tops of the doorways, until at last the central door flew open again.

“Nico! What’s happened?” b’Estorr hurried toward him, his dark grey gown flying loose from his shoulders.

“I sent the runners to the fair,” Rathe said. “And Asheri came back with a charm that’s different.”

b’Estorr drew breath sharply. “Let me see.”

Rathe held the disks out wordlessly, and the necromancer took them from him, held them side by side in the dim light.

“It’s active,” he said at last. Rathe flinched, and b’Estorr shook his head. “No need to panic, not yet, but I’d like to take a closer look at them. My place?”

“Fine,” Rathe said, and retraced his path through the yard. If I’ve put Asheri in danger, he thought, gods, what will I do? I thought–you thought the danger would come from the astrologers, he told himself, and you were wrong. Now you have to make it right.

In b’Estorr’s rooms, the necromancer flung the shutters wide, letting the doubled afternoon sunlight into the room. He set the disks on the table, side by side in the sunlight, and Rathe caught his breath again. In the strong light, the difference in color was very clear, Asheri’s more green than black, and the different pattern of the symbols was starkly obvious. b’Estorr barely glanced at them, however, but went to the case of books and pulled out a battered volume. He flipped through it, glancing occasionally at the disks, and finally set it aside, shaking his head.

“I don’t recognize the markings, except generally, and they’re not in Autixier. The closest thing–” He reached for the book again, opened it to a drawing of a square charm. Rathe looked at it, and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Istre…”

The necromancer went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The closest one listed is that, and that’s kind of, well, archaic. It’s meant to bind one’s possessions–”

“It’s to track her,” Rathe said with sudden conviction. “Gods, Istre, I’ve practically handed her to them.”

b’Estorr nodded slowly, still staring at the charms. “You could be– I think you are right,” he said. “It could act as a marker, help someone find her later.”

And that would make sense, Rathe thought. The astrologers to identify the children, someone else to steal them away, later, when they thought they were safe, could be taken unawares. He shook the fear away. “I took it from her within an hour of the reading–she gave it to me. Can they track her without the charm?”

“I don’t know,” b’Estorr answered. “This is very powerful–more powerful than I would have expected. She should change her clothes, at the very least not wear them again until this is resolved. It might be better to burn them.”

“Sweet Tyrseis,” Rathe said. Asheri would be hard put to afford a second set of clothes; he and Monteia between them might be able to provide something, but it would be expensive. If Houssaye could follow the astrologer, of course, track him back to his lair, that might do something, but there was no guarantee that the pointsman would succeed. Rathe shook his head. “Istre, I thought the real danger would be from the astrologers themselves, not something like this. How in all the hells can we protect her?”

b’Estorr lifted the charm again, studying the markings. “That she gave it to you, and you gave it to me–that should help. And then, as I said, get rid of the clothes she was wearing. Burning would be best, but I know what clothing costs.”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll tell her that, certainly.”

“And she should be very careful.” b’Estorr looked up, shaking his head. “Which she and you know already, I know. I wish there were more I could do, Nico.”

“You’ve done a lot,” Rathe answered. He forced a smile. “Now we know a little more of how they’re being stolen, and how they’re being chosen–though, as Monteia says, the hows don’t get us anywhere right now.”

“Whoever’s doing this,” b’Estorr said, “must be very powerful.”

“Magistically or politically?” Rathe asked.

“Either.” b’Estorr gave him an apologetic look. “Not that you didn’t know that, too, but this charm is a pretty piece of work–not at all like the others–and it must cost money to field this many astrologers.”

Rathe nodded. “I just wish that narrowed the possibilities.”

He took a low‑flyer back to Point of Hopes, wincing at the fee but desperately afraid that Asheri or the others might have left before he could reach them with his warning. As he paid off the driver at the main gate, he could see the knot of runners still gathered in the stable doorway. The younger ones, Laci and Surgi and Lennar, were playing at jacks, while Fasquelle jeered at them from the edge of the trough. Asheri was there, too, setting stitches in a square of linen. It was a practice piece, Rathe knew, against the day she could afford a place in the embroiderers’, and he could taste the fear again at the back of his mouth.

“Asheri,” he said, and she looked up, automatically folding the cloth over her work. “I need to talk to you.”

“All right,” she said, sounding doubtful, and followed him into the station.

Monteia looked up as they arrived, and Rathe saw, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, that Houssaye was with her.

“No luck?” he asked, and the other pointsman shook his head.

“He went back toward the caravans, but I lost him there. They seem to have a gift for vanishing. I’m sorry, Nico.”

Rathe drew breath, and Monteia said firmly, “You did the best you could. What did you find out from the university, Nico?”

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Rathe answered. He looked at Asheri. “Asheri, I’m sorry I ever got you into this. The charm he gave you, it’s some kind of a marker. I think you’re in serious danger.”

“A marker?” Monteia echoed, and Rathe looked back at her.

“That’s what Istre said. Something to help someone find a child they want to steal.”

“Gods,” the chief point murmured, and Rathe saw her hand move in a propitiating gesture. “What do we do?”

“I gave you the marker,” Asheri said, her voice suddenly high and thin. “I don’t have it anymore, surely that makes it all right.”

“It helps,” Rathe answered. “But Istre said you should also change your clothes. He said you ought to burn these, or at least put them away, don’t wear them until we’ve caught these people.”