Point of Hopes (24 page)

“
Maybe not, but Astreiant is a
populists’ city, and her majesty has always made it her business to
stay in tune with the mood of her people. You don’t ignore the
rumblings.” Rathe paused. “So you lot think it’s
political?”

“
One way or another, that’s the
consensus,” b’Estorr answered. He hesitated. “There’s also been
talk of freelance astrologers, that they might be involved, but I’m
inclined to write that off as professional jealousy.”

“
Oh?” In spite of himself, Rathe
found his attention sharpening. “I’ve seen one or two of them, or I
think I have. What do you know about them?”

b’Estorr shrugged. “That’s pretty much all, Nico. I
understand the Three Nations complained to the arbiters—the
students usually make a good bit of money doing readings at the
fair, and this, quite simply, cuts into their profits.”

He sounded more amused than anything else, and Rathe
nodded. “So your vote is still for politics?”

“
I’m not so sure. I think someone’s
taking advantage of the uncertainty of the star-change—but stealing
children? I can’t imagine why. Or for what purpose.”

Rathe sighed and set the now-empty bowl back on the
tray. “No, and that’s the problem. It’s crazy, stealing children,
and even as madness, it doesn’t make sense. I have nativities for
some of ours, by the way.”

“
I’ll get started on it right
away.” b’Estorr’s face was wry. “Who knows, something may come of
it.”

“
Right,” Rathe answered, and knew
he sounded even less enthusiastic than the other man. He reached
into his purse, found the folded sheet of paper, and slid it across
the worktable to the magist. “Those are the nativities we have, and
the days they disappeared. We made a guess at the time, but that’s
all it is.”

b’Estorr unfolded it, skimming the careful notation.
“At least these kids knew their stars—to the quarter hour, too.
That’s a help.”

“
It’s the only luck we’ve had.”
Rathe glanced at the sunstick again, and pushed himself to his
feet. It was more than time he was getting back to Point of Hopes.
“Let me know if you hear anything, even if it’s just a new rumor,
would you? Though it’s the last thing I want to hear, I think I
need to keep abreast of as much of the popular murmur as
possible.”

b’Estorr nodded, already engrossed in the first
calculations, and Rathe let himself out into the stairwell.

The day was hot already, and it still lacked an hour
to noon. Eslingen sat in the garden of the Brown Dog, coat hung
neatly on a branch of the fruit tree behind him, and wished that
the river breeze reached this far inland. The latest batch of
broadsheet prophecies lay on the little table beside him, half
read; the one on the top of the stack, a nice piece, better printed
than most, invoked transits of the moon and predicted that the
missing children would be found unharmed. Eslingen had lifted an
eyebrow at that. He hoped it was true, hoped that whoever had cast
this horoscope had some insight denied the rest of Astreiant, but
couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. The rest of the
prophecies blamed anyone and everyone, from the denizens of the
Court of the Thirty-two Knives to the owners of the manufactories,
and a few of them weren’t bothering even to keep up the pretense of
a prediction. One of those made oblique reference to the queen’s
childlessness, and suggested that a “northern tree might bear
better fruit.” Even Eslingen could translate that—the Palatine
Marselion, or her supporters, pushing her candidacy—and he shook
his head. Chenedolle’s monarchy had settled its laws of succession
long ago: the crown descended by strict primogeniture in the direct
line, but if there were no heirs of the body, the monarch named her
heir from among her kin, supposedly on the basis of their stars.
Marselion was the queen’s cousin, and her closest living relative,
but if I were queen, Eslingen thought, I wouldn’t look kindly on
these little games. Not with the city in the state it is.

“
How can you stand to read that
trash?”

Eslingen looked up to see Adriana looking down at
him. She had been working in the kitchen all morning, and the
stove’s heat had left her red-faced and sweating; she had unlaced
her sleeveless bodice, and pinned up the sleeves of her shift, but
it didn’t seem to have done much good.

“
I like to see what people are
thinking,” he answered, and shoved the jug of small beer toward
her. “Can you join me?”

She shook her head, but lifted the pitcher and drank
deeply. “I can’t stay, but I had to get out of the kitchen. Sweet
Demis, but it’s scalding in there.”

“
Pity you can’t serve cold food,”
Eslingen said.

“
Food served cold has to be cooked
first,” Adriana answered. “But tonight should be easier. Most
everything will be served cool, thank the gods—and Mother, of
course.”

“
Not quite the same thing,”
Eslingen said, straight-faced, and the woman grinned.

“
Though you’d never know it to
listen to her.” She picked up the first broadsheet, scanned it
curiously, her brows lifting in amused surprise. “I can’t believe
this got licensed.”

“
Look again,” Eslingen said and
Adriana swore softly.

“
Forged—Tyrseis instead of
Sofia.”

Eslingen nodded. “Someone has a sense of humor, I
think. I didn’t notice it until I read it and looked twice.”

“
Someone’s going to spend a few
months in the cells for this one,” Adriana said. “And they’ll have
earned it.”

“
Assuming the points can catch
her,” Eslingen said. “Or him, I suppose.”

“
Printing’s a mixed craft,” Adriana
answered. “Oh, they’ll call the point on this one easily enough,
they’re hard on poor printers, and it’ll make them look a little
better, seeing that they can’t catch whoever’s stealing the
children—or won’t.”

“
You don’t believe that,” Eslingen
said and was startled by his own vehemence. But it was impossible
to imagine Rathe standing idly by while his colleagues helped the
child-stealers, even more impossible to imagine him cooperating
with them. Of course, he told himself firmly, Rathe wasn’t all
pointsmen—wasn’t even a typical one, by all accounts.

Adriana made a face. “No, I don’t, not really. But
with everyone pointing the finger at us, it’s hard not to blame
someone else.” She sighed. “Gods, I don’t want to get back to work.
Let me have another drink of your beer, Philip?”

Eslingen nodded, watched the smooth skin of her neck
exposed as she tilted her head to drink. She saw him looking as she
lowered the jug, but only smiled and set it back on the table.

“
Thanks. Think of me, slaving away
to feed you—”

“
Philip!” Devynck’s voice cut
through whatever else her daughter would have said. “In here,
please, now!”

Eslingen shoved himself upright, wondering if she’d
finally decided to make known her feelings about any connection
with him, and hurried into the inn. He stopped just inside the
garden door, his hand going reflexively to the knife he still
carried. Devynck was standing by the bar, hands on her hips, the
waiters flanking her like soldiers. A lanky woman in a
pointswoman’s jerkin stood facing her, more pointsmen behind her—at
least half a dozen of them—and at her side was a small woman
Eslingen thought he should recognize. He frowned, unable to place
her, uncertain of his status, or Devynck’s, and the innkeeper
turned to him.

“
Philip. It seems that Chief Point
Monteia here has received a formal complaint about the Brown Dog.
She feels it her duty to investigate those complaints—” She glanced
back at the lanky woman, and added, grudgingly, “not unreasonably,
I suppose. She also feels it’s necessary to search the building and
grounds.”

Eslingen nodded once, fixing his eyes on the group.
The pointswoman—chief point, he corrected himself, Rathe’s superior
Monteia—just said, “Mistress Huviet here has lodged a complaint
with us, says you’re hiding the girl that’s missing from the Knives
Road. We’re obliged to take that seriously.”

“
And what business is it of
Mistress Huviet’s?” Devynck asked. “I don’t see Bonfais Mailet in
here claiming I’ve got his apprentice.”

Monteia gave a thin smile. “Mistress Huviet has kin
in the guild, a nephew, I believe, who’s a journeyman, and about
whom she’s worried.” The chief point’s voice was tinged with irony,
and Devynck snorted.

“
Not that Paas?” she demanded, and
Monteia nodded. “Then she should hope he’s taken, it’d save her in
the long run.”

The little woman drew herself up—rather like a
gargoyle, Eslingen thought, or more like a crow, something small,
and fierce, and dangerous when roused—and Monteia held up her
hand.

“
Aagte, that’s not funny at the
best of times, and times like these, I’m forced to take it
seriously. You’re not helping yourself with remarks like
that.”

Devynck made a face, but folded her arms across her
breast, visibly refusing to apologize. Monteia’s mouth tightened,
as though she’d bitten something bitter. “The complaint has been
made, and I will search this tavern with or without your
cooperation, Devynck.”

“
And what about the rest of the
taverns in Point of Hopes—hells, there are three others off the
Knives Road alone. Will you be searching them, Chief
Point?”

Monteia shook her head. “I’ve no cause, no
complaints against them.”

Devynck snorted. “Go on, then. Philip, go with them,
don’t let them drink anything they haven’t paid for.”

Monteia grinned at that, a fleeting expression that
lit her horselike face with rueful amusement, but Huviet bristled
again.

“
He’s in it as much as anyone, I
told you that. You can’t let him lead the search.”

“
I’m leading the search,” Monteia
corrected her. “And Aagte—Mistress Devynck—has a right to have one
of her people observe.”

Huviet compressed her lips, but Monteia’s tone
brooked no argument. The chief point nodded. “All right. We’ll do
this orderly, bottom to top, people. And if anything’s broken or
missing, it comes doubled out of your salary and fees.” She eyed
the group behind her, and seemed to read agreement, nodded again.
“Ganier, watch the front, no one in or out. Leivrith, the same for
the back.”

Devynck snorted again, and reached for the knot of
keys that hung at her belt. “Half your station? I’m flattered.” She
handed the keys to Eslingen. “They’re marked. Let them in wherever
they want to go, the only secret here is where I get my good
beer.”

“
Ma’am.” Eslingen looked at
Monteia, and the chief point sighed.

“
Right, then. We’ll start with the
cellars.”

Eslingen found that key easily enough—he’d seen it
before, a massive thing, passed from hand to hand as needed—and
unlocked the trap where the beer barrels were brought in, Monteia
lifted an eyebrow at that, and he wondered for an instant if she
knew there was a second, easier entrance from the garden. She said
nothing, however, just motioned for one of the pointsmen to raise
the trap, and swung herself easily down the ladder. Eslingen
followed, reached for the lantern that hung ready on the side of
the barrel chute. He fumbled in his pocket for flint and steel, but
before he could find it, one of the waiters came hurrying with a
lit candle, hand cupped around the flame. One of the pointswomen
passed it down to him. He lit the lantern and set it back in its
place, throwing fitful shadows. Monteia gave him another look, but
said nothing, just stepped back to let her people file past,
lighting their own candles as they went. The little
woman—Huviet—came last of all, bundling her skirts against the
cellar dirt.

“
Help yourself,” Eslingen said, and
wished instantly he’d chosen a less ambiguous phrase.

“
You should know better,” Monteia
answered, and nodded to her people. “All right, go to it. Make sure
there are no secret rooms—and remember what I said about
breakage.”

The cellar was large, and essentially undivided,
except for the pillars that held the floor above. Monteia’s people
moved through it with efficient speed, shifting the heavy barrels
and the racked wines only enough to be sure that nothing was
concealed behind them. Huviet followed close behind, peering over
their shoulder as each object was moved. With her skirts still
bunched up, and the lack of height that made her hop a little to
see past the taller pointsmen, she looked like nothing so much as
an indignant gargoyle in the uncertain light, but then Eslingen
caught a glimpse of her face, and his amusement died. She was
absolutely convinced of Devynck’s guilt—of all their guilt,
pointsman and Leaguer alike—and she wouldn’t be satisfied until a
child was found.

“
Nothing here, boss,” one of the
pointsmen announced, and Monteia nodded.

“
Upstairs.”

Eslingen trailed behind them, the keys jangling in
his hand, pausing only to be sure that the lantern was well out.
Monteia led her people into the kitchen—Adriana and the cookmaid
stood back against the garden wall, arms folded, saying nothing
even when one of the pointsmen nearly upset the stew pot—and she
herself ran a thin rod into the huge jars of flour. Huviet peered
over her shoulder, and into every corner, all the while darting
wary glances at Adriana and the scowling maid.