Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“All of it?” Eslingen asked, startled–this was the last thing he’d expected from Caiazzo–and the trader nodded.

“Well, as much as you have to, which, knowing Rathe, will be most of it. It was clearly self‑defense there in the square, and on my orders, so neither you nor I need to worry about that, but somebody’s bound to be asking questions about those bodies.” Caiazzo nodded slowly, as much to himself as to the others. “Yes, tell him what’s been happening–my people set upon in the streets, my business interfered with. That should keep him busy. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help put a stop to whatever is going on with de Mailhac.”

Rathe woke to the sound of knocking, gentle but persistent, and lay for a moment in the cool dawn light trying to place its source. It was someone at his door, he realized at last, and dragged himself out of his bed, groping for shirt and breeches. The knocking was still going on, a steady beat, not quite loud enough to wake the neighbors, but insistent. Rathe shivered, still only half awake, and reached for the knife that he had left hanging in its scabbard over the back of the chair.

“Who is it?” he called, and crossed to the door.

“It’s Istre, Nico.”

Rathe lifted the bar, and pulled open the heavy door. The magist looked as dishevelled as Rathe could ever remember seeing him, shadows heavy under his eyes, magist’s robe discarded for a coat that didn’t quite seem to fit across the shoulders. He hadn’t shaved, either, though the fair stubble was hardly noticeable at first glance, and Rathe stepped back automatically. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve found it, Nico. I know what the children are being used for.”

Rathe took a deep breath, feeling as though he’d been hit in the gut. “What?” he said, and b’Estorr stepped past him, reaching into his pocket to produced a small drawstring purse. He untied the strings, and poured a small triangle out onto the tabletop, where it lay gleaming in the early sunlight. Rathe stared at it for a moment. “Istre…”

b’Estorr nodded. “It’s gold, Nico. Actually, it’s coin aurichalcum. An impure form of true aurichalcum, more pure than most ordinary coins, but not nearly as pure as the real thing. Magists use it in their work.”

He picked up the little wedge and handed it across. Rathe took it gingerly, turning it over in his fingers. The shortest end was curved, and there were letters running along that curve, as well as what looked like part of an embossed design in the center. He looked up sharply. “This looks like part of a coin.”

b’Estorr nodded again. “It is. That’s where most of us get it, from great crowns.”

“Gods, I’ve never seen one,” Rathe said, and looked at the wedge of metal with even more respect. The great crown was the largest of Chenedolle’s coins, each one worth a hundred pillars–more than many people saw in their lifetime. “But what does this have to do with the children?”

b’Estorr dropped into the nearest chair. “Aurichalcum is gold, common gold, that’s been mined in a particular process. Everyone knows that much, but not many people outside the university know how. The process itself is what makes it magistically active, and that process requires people, special people. To turn raw gold into aurichalcum, each step of the process must be performed by pure beings who have the proper zodiacal relationship to their task–which, in practice, means children or carefully trained and watched celibates, each of whom is chosen for the job according to her or his birth signs.”

Rathe sank down on a stool opposite b’Estorr, set the piece of aurichalcum back on the table. “Children,” he whispered. “Gods, but why? Who would be doing such a thing?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. It’s crazy, it makes no sense to me at all, but that’s what everything points to. It’s the only thing these children could work together on. Someone has stolen them to process aurichalcum.”

Rathe looked from the wedge of gold, bright in the rising sun, to b’Estorr. “If magists use it…”

b’Estorr spread his hands. “I know, Nico, I know, and I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think why, or who. Gods know, we’re all limited by the sheer cost of coin aurichalcum, but that’s nothing compared to the effort to process the stuff. It’s false economy. And utterly mad.”

“Stealing children’s pretty mad, Istre,” Rathe said, and the necromancer made a face. “Whoever’s doing this is pretty crazy anyway. If the motive is crazy, well, it kind of fits, doesn’t it?”

“So all we have to do,” b’Estorr said dryly, “is find a gold mine. As I recall, there are gold mines aplenty in the Silklands, and in the Ile’nord, the western hills of Chenedolle, in southern Chadron, and in the Payshault, all of which are within reasonable striking distance of Astreiant.”

Rathe shook his head. “No, it has to be someplace that has good roads–they were buying draft horses, not pack animals.” If it was them, of course, a little voice added, but he shoved the thought away. It had to have been the astrologers who were buying the horses, or their allies; they couldn’t afford for it not to be.

b’Estorr nodded. “All right, that probably rules out the Silklands. Anyone sensible would go by water. But the rest–how can you choose?”

“I know,” Rathe said. “Does this connect with the clocks, Istre?”

“It could,” b’Estorr answered. “Aurichalcum–especially the purer forms–well, it’s not just politically potent. I suppose it would be possible to use it to turn the clocks, but why…”

He let his voice trail off, and Rathe nodded in morose agreement. There was a little silence, the only sound the rumble of an early wagon on the street below. The air that came through the half‑open window was damp, and smelled of the distant river; Rathe cocked his head, and thought he could hear the chime of the tower clock at the head of the Hopes‑point Bridge. “There haven’t been any new disappearances in days,” he said at last. “Does this mean they have all the kids they need?”

b’Estorr shrugged, got restlessly to his feet, and then stopped, the movement suspended, as though he’d simply needed to move and was now at a loss for something to do. “They could have. From the nativities I’ve seen, for the children who are missing, yes, I think most of the process is covered. But I don’t know, Nico, I wish before Aidones that I did.” He sighed heavily. “So what do we do now?”

Rathe threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I’ll go to Monteia–hells, I’ll go to the surintendant, and I’ll tell them this, and we’ll all look at each other, and say, wonderful, what now? Aside from anything else, we don’t have the right to pursue it, not outside the city, so we’d have to work with the local nobles, but since we don’t even know where the children are–” He broke off, shaking his head, aware of the futility of his anger. b’Estorr had given him more information than they had been able to gather over the past few weeks, but it still wasn’t enough. “I feel like a bastard asking this, after all you’ve done, but is there anything more you can do? Anything more you can tell us?”

b’Estorr crossed to the window, pushed the shutter open, and leaned out into the morning air. “When was the last disappearance?”

Rathe shook his head. “I’m not sure–five days ago, I think. I can check with the station. Does that matter?”

b’Estorr turned back to face him. “I don’t know. And I hate having to keep saying that. But it might help. I can do some more research, see if anything shows itself–I’ll certainly consult my colleagues. They’ll need to know about it for the clocks, anyway.”

Rathe nodded. “I appreciate it. Look, will you come with me to Monteia? You understand what’s happening here better than I do.”

“Of course,” b’Estorr said, and scooped the wedge of gold back into its bag.

Neither man spoke as they made their way from Rat he’s lodgings to the station at Point of Hopes. Rathe caught himself walking faster and faster, as though hurrying might help, might make up for how long it had taken them to figure out what was going on. b’Estorr’s discovery was utterly vital, the first piece of information that made sense of the child‑thefts. If only it hadn’t come too late. Surely not, he told himself, and made himself slow his pace again. If nothing else, they could protect the children who hadn’t been taken, first by arresting the hedge‑astrologers and then by concentrating their efforts on the vulnerable ones. Asheri was one of those, but she had more sense than many a woman grown, and they would be able to deploy the full resources of the station to keep her safe. And surely, surely, knowing why the children had been stolen would help them find the missing ones.

The station courtyard was empty, none of the runners in sight there or in the stables. Rathe caught his breath–he had expected to find Asheri waiting, sitting in the early sun on the edge of the dry trough where she could get the best of the light for her sewing–and shoved open the main door. Jiemin, this morning’s duty point, looked up, startled by the violence of his entrance.

“Nico …?”

“Where’s Asheri?” Rathe demanded, and Jiemin shook her head.

“I haven’t seen her yet. It’s early, Nico, she probably slept in.”

“But I told her to be here by now,” Monteia said, from the door of her workroom. She shut it behind her, shaking her head, and looked from Rathe to the necromancer. “What’s up, Nico?”

Rathe ignored the question for a moment, crossed to look out the back door. The garden was empty even of laundry, and he turned back into the room, barely able to keep the fear at bay. “Istre thinks he knows why the children are being taken. Asheri–”

Monteia cut him off. “Why?”

b’Estorr said, “They all have stars that make them useful– appropriate–for processing aurichalcum.”

Monteia frowned. “Queen’s gold?”

b’Estorr nodded, his blue eyes grave. “And aurichalcum is dangerously powerful, especially now with the starchange approaching.”

Monteia swore under her breath. “And Asheri?” she said, to Rathe.

“She said she knows her nativity to the minute,” he answered, voice suddenly ragged, “but I don’t. I never asked, and she never told me. Her sister might know.”

“Go,” Monteia said. “Both of you–please,” she added tardily, to b’Estorr. “See if she’s at home, find out what her stars are, and get her here where we can take care of her.”

Rathe nodded, and was out the door almost before she’d stopped speaking, b’Estorr on his heels. Asheri lived on the southern edge of Point of Hopes, in the warrens east of the junction of the Customs Road and Fairs’ Road. He had been there before,, and led the way through the labyrinth of narrow streets, barely able to keep from running as he saw the peeling face of the clock that oversaw this corner of the city. It had been reset, though, since the clock‑night: as they turned down the alley that led to a cluster of narrow houses, it struck the half hour, and its tones were echoed from the distant towers of Point of Dreams.

Asheri’s house was no different from any of the half dozen that circled the well‑house at the center of the open space, a plain building one room and a hallway wide, with a strip of muddy garden running beside and in front of the stone sill. A tall woman, unmistakably Asheri’s kin, the sister she had lived with since their mother’s death, had strung a line between two poles, and was hanging laundry, temporarily overshadowing a straggling patch of vegetables. Among the clothes already pinned to the line was the apron Asheri had worn the day before, and Rathe caught his breath again.

“She didn’t burn them,” he said, and heard b’Estorr swear.

The woman looked up at their approach, her eyes narrowing, but her hands never stopped moving on the wet cloth. Somewhere, in one of the other houses, Rathe thought, a child was wailing; even as he looked, he heard a voice exclaiming a rough endearment, and the crying took on a new, muffled rhythm, as though someone had picked up the child and was bouncing it.

“Mijan, where’s Asheri?”

“Missing her already?” Mijan answered, and smiled. “You knew she was meant for better than running your errands. She’s gone.”

“Gone where?” Rathe demanded, and heard b’Estorr swear again.

Mijan set a much‑mended skirt back in her basket, her expression suddenly wary, folded her arms across her thin chest. “To the embroiderers. Last evening at seven o’clock. You know that’s what she wanted, more than anything, that’s why she worked for your lot.”

“She didn’t have the fee,” Rathe said bluntly, and Mijan shook her head.

“No more did she, but she won one of the lottery‑places–you know, they hold four places a year for those who don’t have the means.”

“They hold those at the Spring Balance,” Rathe said, through gritted teeth, “and the Fall Balance. Never at Midsummer, Mijan, you know that. And so did she.”

Mijan was looking genuinely frightened now. “I know, I’m not stupid. But the woman–she was respectable, Rathe, a guildswoman to her fingertips–she said that one of the apprentices they’d chosen this spring couldn’t continue in the place, was sick or something, the family was sick, and Asheri was at the top of the list, the next in line. She passed all the tests, you know, it was just her number wasn’t quite high enough.”

“Which house, Mijan, did you think to ask that? Which master?” Rathe heard his voice rising, didn’t care. “You let her go, when children are disappearing every day?”

“That’s precisely why I let her go,” Mijan shouted back. “Do you think I haven’t worried enough about her, running gods alone know where through every quarter of the city, when children are being stolen in broad daylight? She’s a thousand times safer with the embroiderers than she ever was with your lot.”

Rathe flinched, recognizing the truth of that, and b’Estorr put a hand on his shoulder. “If she’s with the embroiderers, mistress. Asheri knows her nativity, I know that. May we get a copy?”

“Why?” Mijan looked from one man to the other. “Who in Demis’s name are you? Nico I know, but you…”

Rathe took a breath, controlled the anger bred of fear and guilt. “His name’s Istre b’Estorr, Mijan, he’s with the university. A necromancer. And, no, we don’t think any of them are dead, but he’s been helping us, and we know why the children are being taken. And I’m very much afraid Asheri’s one of them.”

“She’s with the embroiderers,” Mijan whispered.

Rathe shook his head. “I devoutly hope so, but–it’s a bad time for coincidence. I need her nativity–please, Mijan. You know I wanted–want–nothing more than for Asheri to find a place in the guild. Let me make sure she has the chance.”

“She’s there, I tell you,” Mijan repeated, but her eyes were wet with sudden tears. “I did what you told us, we washed the clothes, and locked them away, she was wearing my second‑best skirt–and furious she was, too, to think the masters would see her without her having the chance to take it in. I should’ve known, we never have luck.” She shook her head, wiped a hand across her face with angry force. “Her chart’s inside–you’ll have to copy it, though, I won’t let you take it away.”

“Fine,” Rathe said, still struggling with his anger. It wasn’t so much Mijan he was angry at–how could she, how could any southriver housekeeper, pass up the chance to see a kinswoman decently established?–or even Asheri, for taking a chance, but the astrologers and their respectable‑looking accomplice, for playing on the one source of hope children like her had. And that must have been how they lured the others away, he thought. The horoscopes, the questions the children asked, would have given the astrologers a very good idea of what they would have to offer to overcome the children’s fears–give them a chance at their hearts’ desire, and they were young enough to take the chance, even the cleverest, most wary ones. Like Asheri, he added, and Mijan reappeared in the doorway, a wooden tablet in her hand. She gave it to Rathe, who handed it to b’Estorr, trying to ignore Mijan’s small noise of protest. b’Estorr studied it for a moment, then reached into his pocket for a flat‑form orrery, adjusting the rings to the appropriate positions. His mouth tightened then, and he handed the tablet back to Mijan.

“It fits,” he said. “It fits, Nico. She has the key stars, she’s perfect for their operation.”

“What?” Mijan cried, and Rathe took her by the shoulders, gently now.

“No one will hurt her, she’s too valuable. We know why they took her, and some of where, and we will find her, I promise.” He took a deep breath, hoping he could make that true. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?”

Mijan took a deep breath, swallowing her tears. “No. No need. I’ll be fine. Just–find her, Rathe. They said, she’d won a place. It was so much what she wanted, they seemed all right, how could I think… ?” Her voice trailed off, and she shook herself hard. “I’ll be all right,” she said again, as much to convince herself as anyone, and looked back at Rathe. “And if she’s with the embroiderers all this time, I will cut your heart out.”

“If she is,” Rathe answered, “I’ll hand you the knife myself.”

He turned away without waiting for an answer, knowing she didn’t believe it any more than he did. b’Estorr fell into step beside him, stretching his long legs to keep up.

“What now?”

“The embroiderer’s hall,” Rathe answered. “Just in case. But I don’t think she’ll be there.”

There was only a single master in evidence this early in the day, and she greeted them with a certain puzzlement. Rathe explained what they wanted, and even though he’d expected it, felt his heart sink as she shook her head.

“No, we haven’t taken in any new lottery‑prentices. We do redraw if someone drops out, but that hasn’t happened in years–” She broke off as the two men turned away, Rathe calling his thanks over his shoulder.

“Back to Point of Hopes,” he said, and b’Estorr touched his arm.

“The river’s faster from here,” he said. “University privilege.”

They found a boatman more quickly than Rathe would have thought possible, but even so, he fidgeted unhappily until the boat drew up at the Rivermarket landing. Monteia was pacing the length of the main room as they burst through the door, but she stopped at once, seeing Rathe’s face.

“Inside,” she ordered, and jerked her head toward the workroom. Rathe started to follow, but b’Estorr caught his sleeve, handed him the orrery. Rathe took it, careful not to disturb the settings, and preceded the chief point into little room.

“Bad?” she asked, and shut the door behind them.

Rathe nodded. “They’ve taken her. They offered her a place in the embroiderers, the one thing she wanted badly enough to take chances for, and they’ve got her. And, Astree’s Web, it’s my fault. She would never have done this if I hadn’t asked her–”He broke off then, knowing how pointless this was, but Monteia shook her head anyway.

“You don’t know that, Nico. It’s the time of year to have your stars read, and Asheri always was–is–a saving creature. Tell me what happened.”

Rathe took a deep breath, and set the orrery on the worktable. Quickly, he ran through what Mijan had told him, finished with b’Estorr’s analysis. “She’s important to the process, he says, so they shouldn’t hurt her. But, gods, we have to find her.”

Monteia nodded, her expression remote. “I’ll send to Fairs again, tell him what’s happened today–I already told him to arrest any astrologers he found, and why, but I haven’t heard anything yet. This should make him move a little faster, though.” She shook her head. “It’s times like these I wish Astreiant still had walls. I’ll send people to ask at the gates and the inns along the main highway, see if anyone saw her or someone taking a child with them, but I can’t say I’ve a lot of hope for it.”

They hadn’t found any of the other children this way, there was little likelihood Asheri would be any different. Rathe swallowed his anger, said, “There has to be something else we can do.”

Monteia looked at him. “If you think of something, Nico, let me know.”

“I’m sorry.” Rathe shook his head. “She’s a good kid–and it’s my doing, Chief. This one’s my responsibility.”

Eslingen took the river way from Customs Point to Point of Hopes, the early sun warm on his back through the heavy fabric of his second‑best coat. The weight of it, and the stains on the dark green linen, annoyed him unreasonably; if he was going to go to Rathe with this particularly questionable story, he would have preferred to look his best. Inside the station’s wide main room, the duty point looked up at him, blankly at first, and then with recognition.

“Is Rathe around?” Eslingen said, before the woman could say something unfortunate, and she grinned.

“He’s withthe chief point now–Eslingen, isn’t it? You can wait if you want, but it’s a busy morning.”

“Already?” Eslingen murmured, but turned away from the table before she had to answer. A fair‑haired man in a dark red coat, shirt open at the throat, was sitting on the bench that stretched along one short wall, reading through a sheaf of broadsheets. Not the sort of person I’d’ve expected to see here, Eslingen thought, not a merchant but not a knife, either, and only then saw the anvil and star of the Starsmith pinned to the fair man’s cuff. A poet or an astrologer, the soldier decided, or maybe a magist out of his robes, and he smiled. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said, and settled himself on the bench beside the fair‑haired man, keeping a scrupulous distance between them.

The man looked up, his face unsmiling but not unwelcoming, and nodded. “Looking for Nico?”

Eslingen nodded. “A friend of his, are you?”

“I do some work for him from time to time.”

Eslingen looked again at the badge on the man’s cuff. “An astrologer?”

The man shook his head. “A necromancer, actually,” he said, and offered his hand. “Istre b’Estorr. I’m at the university.”

For a wild moment, Eslingen wondered how Rathe could have found out about the bodies already, and have had the foresight to call in a necromancer for something that wasn’t even in his jurisdiction. He had never liked the idea of necromancers, no soldier did–no matter what the scholars said, he thought, some of those deaths had to be untimely. b’Estorr tipped his head to one side, and Eslingen shook himself, took the hand that was held out to him. “My name’s Eslingen, Philip Eslingen. Late of Coindarel’s Dragons.”

“Oh. And currently Hanselin Caiazzo’s knife,” b’Estorr said.

Eslingen looked at him warily, wondering how in all hells he could have known that, wondering, too, what ghosts he might be carrying that the other could feel. b’Estorr smiled faintly, as though he’d guessed the thought.

“Nico mentioned you once, said he owed you a good turn. I’m glad to meet you. It’s made a lot of people much easier to know that Caiazzo has a capable knife to back him again.”

“So I heard,” Eslingen said. “Are you working for Rathe now?”

b’Estorr nodded, the smile vanishing. “I’m afraid so–”

He broke off as the door to the workroom opened, and Rathe burst out again. “Monteia’s sending to Fairs, we’ll see if Claes can’t find one of these damn astrologers, make him tell us what’s going on–” He broke off, seeing Eslingen. “Philip. Sorry, what are you doing here?”

Eslingen looked back at him. “I need to talk to you–Caiazzo sent me–but if this is a bad time–what’s happened?”

Rathe took an unsteady breath. “Asheri, one of our runners. She’s disappeared–been stolen, like the others. And we know a large chunk of how, and why, but still not who, or where they’re being taken.”

“Gods,” Eslingen said.

“So unless it’s really important,” Rathe went on, “you’ll have to wait.”

Eslingen hesitated. “It is important,” he said at last, “but I think I can wait, at least until you’ve gotten this settled.”

Rathe gave him a fleeting smile of thanks, looked at b’Estorr. “Is there any way we can narrow down the location of the mine? Something in the kids’ stars, anything?”

Eslingen froze, his eyes widening. A mine and the missing children in the same breath, and a crazy magist in Mailhac… He took a deep breath. “What’s this about a mine?” Rathe turned on him, eyes angry, and Eslingen held up a hand. “What I was sent to say, it may be more important that I thought. What mine, Rathe?”

“The children who’ve been taken, they all have the right stars to work the process that turns gold into aurichalcum,” the pointsman answered, impatiently. “It’s the only thing we’ve found that binds them together, but now we have to figure out where that gold mine could be.”

Eslingen swore. “Look, Rathe, last night Caiazzo met a man–” He broke off, shaking his head, tried to reorder his thoughts. “There’s an estate in the Ajanes, Mailhac, it’s called, the woman who ostensibly owns the title actually owes Caiazzo a lot of money, and she pays it out of the take of a gold mine that’s part of the estate.”

“Which explains where Caiazzo’s cash comes from. Rathe said, but his eyes were wary. ”And I hear he’s had trouble with money this season.”

Eslingen nodded. “The gold hasn’t come in the way it should. And from what the messenger said, it won’t be. There’s a magist living on the estate, apparently he promised to increase the take, but that was just to get her confidence. According to Mal–the messenger, it’s him, the magist, who’s running everything, and keeping all the gold on the estate. The rumor was, he may be making use of it himself.”

“Gods,” the necromancer murmured, and Rathe waved him to silence.

Eslingen went on, “Caiazzo’s man was attacked on his way here– that’s what I was really sent here for, to tell you who’d left a pair of bodies in the Little Chain Market, and to claim self‑defense, which it was. I was also supposed to tell you about the Ajanine situation, make it clear that, whatever de Mailhac thinks she’s doing, Caiazzo has nothing to do with it.” He shook his head. “But this… this is worse than any of us imagined. I don’t want Caiazzo hanged for a high treason he’s not committing. He’s been going mad from the want of gold, it could be a disaster if he doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t want queen’s gold, he wants spending gold.”

“Caiazzo has a magist in his household, doesn’t he?” Rathe said. “She must have suspected something when she heard the news.”

“She did,” Eslingen answered, “she mentioned aurichalcum, but she thought it was political. Something to do with the starchange and maybe with the clocks–which, as I said, is why I’m here.”

“She would have needed to know the children’s nativities to make the connection,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe nodded.

“Yeah, I can see that. But, gods, now we know–” He broke off as the door to the workroom opened again, and Monteia stepped out, waving a sheet of paper to dry the ink.

“Know what?” she asked, and Rathe bared teeth in a feral grin.

“Where the children are.”

“Where?”

“An estate called Mailhac, in the Ajanes.” Quickly, Rathe outlined Eslingen’s information. “It fits, Chief, and too well to be a coincidence. This has got to be where they are.”

Monteia nodded thoughtfully. “A noble. That would explain how she could afford all these hired hands, or how this magist could, with a noble name to back him.” She looked at Eslingen. “I suppose I believe you when you say Caiazzo’s not involved.”

“If he were,” the soldier answered, “I wouldn’t be here.”

“True enough,” Monteia said.

“We have to send someone after them,” Rathe said, “and I want it to be me. Gods, if we move fast enough, Asheri’s only been gone since last evening, we might be able to overtake them.”

Monteia shook her head. “I can’t send you, Nico, and it’s not because I don’t agree with you. We don’t have the authority outside Astreiant, you know that. That’s the queen’s business.”

“If we can convince her, or her ministers or whoever, intendants probably, to act in time,” Rathe said, bitterly.

“Which is why I want you–and Master b’Estorr and Master Eslingen, if he’s willing–to go to the surintendant,” Monteia went on as though he hadn’t spoken, though Eslingen suspected from the set of her lip that she was barely holding her own temper in check. “Tell him what we’ve found, and see what he can do.”

Rathe nodded, tightly. “Sorry, Chief.”

Eslingen sighed. “Caiazzo is simply going to love this.”

“Caiazzo,” Rathe said, “will appreciate not being hauled up on treason charges. Come on.”

They took a low‑flyer, and Rathe paid without demur. As they climbed out of the carriage outside the Tour, Eslingen glanced uncertainly up at the thick stone walls. It looked more like a fortress–more like the gatehouse it had once been, the strongest point in the city walls–than a court of justice, and he couldn’t help wondering just how much of the old ways still prevailed within those walls, in spite of all the boasting. Caiazzo would not be pleased, he was sure of that, and wished for an instant that there had been time to contact the trader, ask what he wanted done. But Rathe was right, time was short, especially if there was to be any chance of overtaking this last victim. He took a deep breath, and followed the others into the dimly lit building.

Rathe spoke quietly to the first green‑robed clerk he saw, and within minutes, they were ushered into the surintendant’s room. Eslingen glanced around once, quickly, impressed in spite of himself by the delicately painted paneling, fruited vines climbing pale willow trellises, and the obviously expensive furniture. Then the man behind the desk cleared his throat, and Eslingen blinked, startled. The surintendant wore plain black, unrelieved by any lace, just the pale linen at collar and cuffs, and his thinning hair was cut unfashionably short. He raised one sandy eyebrow in chill query, and Eslingen found himself wondering whether the furniture or the clothes represented the man’s real taste.

“We know what’s happening to the children, sir,” Rathe said, and Eslingen saw the older man blink.

“Then you had better sit down, hadn’t you? Magist b’Estorr I know, primarily by reputation, but this gentleman?”

Eslingen met the cold stare calmly. “Philip Eslingen, lieutenant, late of Coindarel’s Dragons, currently of the household of Hanselin Caiazzo.”