There was a distinct note of—something—in her voice, Eslingen thought. Disapproval? Contempt? Neither was quite right. “Aren’t they any good?” he asked, cautiously, and she made a face.
“It’s not that, they’re good, all right—they’d better be, or the university would have a lot to answer for. No, it’s just that… well, the fees are supposed to be a supplement, but they tend to charge what they can get, which can be quite a lot, and the students—well, they’re students. They think well of themselves. Extremely well of themselves, in actual fact, and not nearly so well of the rest of us.” She shrugged. “They’re all right, they just get my back up—get everybody’s backs up, really, but it’s mostly because they’re young and arrogant. If you can afford it, and you want the cachet of the university, such as it is, you can go to them.”
“And otherwise?”
Adriana’s smile was wry. “Otherwise, of course, there are the failed students who set themselves up casting charts for the printers, they’re easy enough to find, or ex-temple servants who claim they know what they’re doing, or—you get the idea.” She stopped then, tilting her head to one side. “Talk’s been of some new astrologers working the fair—not affiliated with either the temples or the university, and the word is they’re a lot cheaper than the Three Nations. Shame and all that, but a lot of people are cheering the change. It’s nothing important, it’s just nice to see the students taken down a peg or three. Loret had his stars read by one of them, and he seemed to think they knew what they were doing.”
“But where did they train? They must be connected with some temple,” Eslingen said. He’d never heard of a freelance astrologer who was any good—but then, this was Astreiant. Anything could happen here.
Adriana was shaking her head. “They don’t claim any allegiance. They read the stars, they say, and the stars belong to all gods and all women—and not just to the Three Nations. The arbiters must have approved them, or they’d have been chased off. So my advice to you, my Philip, is to save your money where you can, and see if you can find one of these astrologers to read for you.”
“And how do I find one?” Eslingen asked.
Adriana spread her hands, and the girl looked up from the hearth.
“They say they find you, if you want them.”
“Nonsense,” Adriana answered, and rolled her eyes at Eslingen.
“Well, they do,” the girl said, sounding stubborn, and Eslingen said quickly, “How do I tell them from the Three Nations?”
“They’re older, for one thing, or so I hear,” Adriana said. “I heard they dress like magists, but without badges, so look for black robes, not grey, and no temple marks.”
Eslingen nodded, intrigued in spite of himself. “I think I’ll look for them, then. Thanks.”
It was a long walk from Devynck’s to the New Fairground, almost the full length of the city, but Eslingen found himself enjoying it, in spite of the heat and the crowds. Hundreds of people jostled each other in the lanes between the brightly painted booths, or clustered in the open temporary squares to bargain over goods—spices, silks, wool cloth and yarn, dyestuffs, once stacks and stacks of beaten-copper pots—spread apparently piecemeal across the beaten dirt. It was already bigger than the Esling fairs he had attended as a boy; what, he wondered, would the real fair be like when it was fully open?
He had no idea how the booths were laid out, though it was obvious that like trades were grouped together, but let himself wander with the crowd, listening with half an ear for the chime of the clock at Fairs’ Point. He would have to head back to Devynck’s when it struck eleven, but until then, at least, his time was his own. He found Printers’ Row easily enough, a dozen or more tables set out under tents and awnings and brightly painted umbrellas, and stopped to browse. Already he recognized some of the house names and the printer’s symbols, thought, too, that he recognized some of the sellers, relocated temporarily from Temple Fair. The sheets tacked to the display boards or pinned precariously to the sides of the tents were the usual kind, a mix of weekly almanacs and sheets of predictions according to each birth sign as well as the more general prophecy-sheets. Most of the last dealt directly or obliquely with the missing children, and a good number of those blamed the League, but there was one big tent, its red sides faded to a dark rose, that seemed to deal entirely with politics. And impartially, too, Eslingen added, with an inward grin. Whoever sold or printed these sheets played no favorites; Leveller tracts hung side by side with sheets touting the merits of the various noble candidates. Among the nobles, the Metropolitan of Astreiant seemed to be the popular favorite—he could count half a dozen sheets openly supporting her, though whether that was genuine liking or mere proximity was impossible to tell. However, there were also a scattering of sheets pointing out the virtues of the various northern candidates. He picked out three of those, paid his demming, and stepped back to study them. Marselion’s was the least interesting, full of more bluster than scholarship, and the one supporting Palatine Sensaire was crudely done, a mere half dozen verses beneath a stock blockprint of a seated woman. But Belvis’s was something different, and Eslingen paused, frowning, to read it again. It was better printed than the others, and if the verses told the truth, Belvis certainly had the appropriate stars. He knew little about her, except that she was from the Ile’nord, but the broadsheet writer had clearly gone out of her way to reassure Astreianters wary of the old-fashioned north. Palatine Belvis, it implied, kept to the best of both worlds; besides, the stars favored her, and Astreiant should do well to accept the inevitable. Eslingen’s eyebrows rose at that, and he glanced automatically for the imprimatur. It was there, if blurred, and he smiled, and tucked the papers into his cuff.
The clock struck the quarter hour, and he made a face, recalling himself to his real business. If he wanted to have his stars read, he would have to hurry, at least if he wanted the job done properly—and the way the broadsheets were running, he thought, I might do well to reconsider Cijntien’s offer. He glanced at another as he passed, and controlled his temper with an effort. This one openly blamed the League cities, claiming that the children were being stolen for revenge, and possibly to form the backbone of a new army that would avenge the League’s defeat. From the size of the remaining stack, it hadn’t sold as well as its neighbors, but even so, it was all he could do to control his anger. The League Wars had ended twenty years before, and had been about trade; since then, League and Kingdom had been close allies, and there were plenty of Leaguers like himself who’d shed their own blood in the queen’s service. He shoved past a stocky man who was reaching for another sheet, and turned down the nearest path between the stalls.
His anger cooled as quickly as it had flared, and he paused at the next intersection, looking for some sign of the astrologers Adriana had mentioned. He saw a trio of grey-gowned students clustered by a food stall, but before he could consider approaching them, an older woman tapped one of them on the shoulder, only to have her coins waved away. Apparently, Eslingen thought, the students were otherwise engaged at the moment. He turned away, too, threaded his way past a group of blue-coated apprentices, and found himself in a row of linen-drapers. In spite of himself, he sighed at the sight of the bolts of expensive fabric, wishing he could afford a shirt from them, and then, at the end of the row of shops, he caught sight of a man in a black scholar’s gown. The sleeves were empty of badges, and he stood deep in conversation with a woman and a boy, a plain disk orrery held to the sunlight. One of Adriana’s astrologers? he wondered, and moved closer. The man was ordinary enough looking, middle-aged, middling looks, his rusty black robe open to reveal a plain dark suit and equally plain linen. There was no temple badge at his collar, either, and Eslingen took a step closer. Even as he did, the woman nodded, and turned away. The boy followed more reluctantly, looking back as though he had wanted to ask something more. Eslingen smiled in sympathy—the woman, the boy’s mother, probably, hadn’t looked like the sort to spend her hard-earned coin
s on more than the absolute necessities, which was probably why she was consulting one of the freelances rather than a student or a Temple astrologer.
“Pardon me, magist,” he said. He didn’t know if the astrologer was indeed actually a magist as well, doubted it, in fact, but there was no harm in inflating the man’s rank.
The astrologer gave a slight smile. “No magist, sir, but an astrologer, and a good one.” He tilted his head. “Are you looking to have a reading done?”
His accent was pleasant, Chenedolliste, but without the city’s sharp vowels. Eslingen smiled back, and said, carefully, “Indeed, I was wanting that, the temper of the times being what they are, but I was also wondering what temple you served.”
The astrologer seemed to study him for a long moment, the smile widening almost imperceptibly. “No temple, sir, the stars are free to all. But, as we serve no one master, our fees are low—and fixed.”
Eslingen hid a sigh—he had hoped to talk the price down a little, on the grounds that the astrologer had no affiliation—and said, “How much?”
“Two demmings for a man grown,” the astrologer answered promptly. “In advance.”
The price was much lower than he had expected, and Eslingen blinked. It probably wouldn’t be a brilliant reading—in his experience, one generally got what one paid for—but at that price, he could hardly refuse. “Agreed,” he said, and reached into his purse for the coins.
The astrologer accepted them calmly. “A wise course, sir— especially given that you’re a Leaguer, from your accent?”
Eslingen nodded, his expression wry. “As I said, the times being what they are…”
The astrologer smiled again, and lifted his disk orrery. “And when were you born, sir?”
“The fifth day of Sedeion, a little past half-past ten in the morning,” Eslingen answered. “In the second year of this queen’s reign.”
The astrologer nodded, and began adjusting the rings of the orrery.
It was double-faced, Eslingen saw; the other side would be already set to this day’s planetary positions, and the astrologer would take his reading from a comparison of the two. “Do you know the time any more closely—was it closer to the half hour, or to the next quarter?”
Eslingen shook his head. “Past the half hour is all I know.” His mother had lost interest in keeping precise track after her third or fourth child was born, and there had never been money for a decent midwife; he had been lucky to know this much.
“Unfortunate,” the astrologer said, almost absently, and held the orrery to his eyes. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise a precise accounting.”
Eslingen sighed, but said nothing. The astrologer turned the orrery from one side to the other, then went on briskly. “Well. You were born under the Horse and the Horsemaster, good signs for a soldier, and the sun is still in the Horse, which is also good for you, though it left the Horsemaster four days ago. The moon is against you just now, in the Spider and the Hearthstone, but that will change with the new moon, when it returns to the Horse. Astree stands in the Horse and Horsemaster still, which is good for seeing justice done—” He smiled at that, thinly, and Eslingen’s smile in return was wry. “—but it and the sun stand square to the winter-sun. Seidos is well aspected for you, both at your birth and presently; I’d say you were due to rise in the world, possibly through your trade.” He shook his head then, and slipped the orrery back into his pocket beneath the rusty gown. “With the moon and the winter-sun against you, I would advise you to stay away from lunar things for the next few days, at least until the new moon. Don’t travel by water until then, and be cautious once the true sun’s down. All of that should end by the new moon, and you should see a change of fortune then.”
And that, Eslingen thought, was that. It wasn’t much, when you boiled it down to the essentials—be careful after sundown, a reasonable enough statement in a large city, and a chance that he would change his status, possibly through his trade, with the new moon. But it was something, and the statement that Astree was placed to insure that justice would be done was a little reassuring. “Thanks,” he said aloud, and the astrologer gave an odd, almost old-fashioned bow.
“My pleasure to serve,” he said, and turned away.
Eslingen watched him go, and was startled at how fast the man seemed to vanish in the crowd, despite the conspicuous black robe. Still, it made sense to be inconspicuous when the trade was new, especially when they were undercutting an established group. More power to you, he thought, and heard the Fairs’ Point clock strike the hour. He turned back toward the Old Brown Dog, and hoped that the astrologer’s prediction was right about things changing at the new moon.
Rathe left the Old Brown Dog in an odd mood. He believed what the recruiter had said, that he wouldn’t take children when he could get adults, believed, too, that he would only want the ones with Seidos in their stars, or at least practice with horses, if he were to take children. But it was quite obvious that Jasanten hadn’t quite trusted him, and wondered if he should make further inquiries about the recruiter. It was probably nothing, he decided—if nothing else, he couldn’t see a one-legged man having much success taking children against their will—but he made a mental note to speak to Eslingen again, find out what he knew about Jasanten. Devynck’s new knife seemed a decent sort, and, more than that, he seemed to have the happy faculty of resolving potentially difficult situations without bloodshed. He’d never thought of that as a soldier’s skill before, but he suspected Devynck would be glad of it.
The tower clock at the north end of the Hopes-point Bridge struck the hour, and he quickened his pace. He wanted to talk to Foucquet before she left for the judiciary, which meant, practically speaking, any time before nine o’clock. If she had been willing to ask Fourie to intervene in the matter of this missing clerk, rather than going through the usual channels, she would certainly be willing to be a little late to the courts to talk to him. And after that… he sighed, contemplating the day’s work. After that, he would swing through Temple Fair, see if he could track down some of the broadsheets that had so annoyed Monteia. Publishing without a license was a nuisance in good times, but in bad, and these were beginning to be undeniably bad times, the unlicensed printers seemed to take positive glee in spreading predictions of disaster.
Foucquet lived in the Horsegate District, outside the city walls, an easy walk from the judiciary and the lesser courts that met at the Tour de la Cité. Rathe had been there many times before, first in Foucquet’s service, and then during his time at University Point, but he always took a guilty pleasure in walking the wide, well-swept street, walled on either side by the multi-colored bricks of the grand-clerks’ houses. Most of them had gardens attached, nothing as extensive as the park-lands of the Western Reach, but enough to perfume the air with the hint of greenery. Rathe lifted his head as he passed,under the shadow of a fruit tree. The flowers were long gone, the fruit hard green knobs among the darker leaves, but he could imagine the scent of their ripening. He heard children calling behind an iron gate, and glanced sideways to see a girl, maybe six or seven, gesturing imperiously over the head of her hobbyhorse, directing a trio of younger children as though she were a royal marshal. Their nursemaid saw him, too, and the sharpened stare and quick frown were enough to erase his pleasure. No children that young had gone missing—yet—but the woman was wise to take no chances. He moved on, never breaking stride, but he was aware of the woman’s eyes on him for some time after, and looked back at the corner to see her standing in the gate, watching warily.
Foucquet’s house was in the middle range, better than her mother’s house had been, certainly, but far from the most expensive the Horsegate had to offer. Rathe rang the bell at the side door, the appellant’s door—there was no point in alienating her household just now—and nodded to the red-robed clerk who came scurrying to answer. “Nicolas Rathe, Point of Hopes,” he said. “I need to speak with Her Excellency.”
The clerk’s eyes
widened. “You haven’t—” she began, and Rathe shook his head.
“No, mistress, no word. I just need to get some information.”
The clerk relaxed slightly, her disappointment evident, but held the door a little wider. She was young for her post, a bright-eyed, round-cheeked girl with a complexion like milk and roses, copper-gilt hair tucked imperfectly under her tall cap. “Come in, pointsman. Her Excellency’s just dressing.”
Rathe followed her down the narrow hall, past familiar painted panels, flowers, and fruiting trees that were almost invisible in the morning shadow, and then up the curved main staircase to the first floor. Foucquet was waiting in her bedroom, arms lifted to let one of her women lace the stiff corset into place over shirt and petticoats. A second woman was waiting with skirt and bodice, and a clerk sat on a low tabouret, reading from a sheaf of notes. She broke off as Rathe appeared, and Foucquet waved her away.
“All right, we can finish that later, thank you. What do you want with me this time, Rathe?” She gestured to the hovering maid, who dropped the massive skirt over her head, fastening it deftly over the flurry of petticoats. Foucquet shrugged on the bodice offered by the second woman, stood still while she fastened the dozens of buttons.
“I wanted to talk to you about this missing clerk of yours,” Rathe answered.
“Ah.” Foucquet nodded to the second maid, who had collected the massive scarlet robe of office and stood waiting with it. “No, leave that for now. All of you, that’s all for the moment, thank you. Tefana, warn me at the half hour, if we’re not done by then.”
“Yes, Excellency,” the older clerk answered, collecting her papers. The younger clerk and the maids followed her from the room, the last of the maids closing the double doors behind her. Foucquet crossed to her dressing table, skirts rustling, seated herself in front of the array of pots and brushes.
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