That shot told, Eslingen saw, and hid a grin. Paas hesitated, obviously not appeased, but unable to think of anything to say. In the silence, a bulky man in a butcher’s apron stepped forward. “You give us your word on that, Chief Point? It’s my apprentice who’s missing.”
“Among others,” Monteia said, not ungently. “You have my word, Mailet. The girl’s not here.”
The man nodded, not entirely convinced, but reluctant to challenge her directly. “Very well.” He waded into the crowd of journeymen, caught one by the collar. “You, Eysi, who gave you permission to leave your work? Get on home with you, and don’t disgrace me further.”
The rest of the crowd began to disperse with him, the journeymen in particular looking sheepish and glad to get out from under the chief point’s eye, but one woman held her ground, then walked slowly across the dirty street until she was standing face to face with the chief point. It was the boy’s mother, Eslingen realized, with a sinking feeling, what was her name, Lucenan.
“So what are you going to do about this place, Monteia?” she asked.
“Do about it?”
“A Leaguer tavern, frequented by soldiers, in and out of work— times like these, we don’t need them in our midst.”
“Children have disappeared from every point in Astreiant,” Monteia said. “Closing one tavern’s not going to stop that.”
“I’ve nothing against Leaguers,” Lucenan said, “but these people fill children’s heads with the most amazing nonsense about a soldier’s life. Running after soldiers, who knows what our children might stumble into, even if it’s not the soldiers who are stealing them? It’s a risk having them here.”
Monteia nodded slowly. “I know you, mistress. And your son. He’s of an age where he will go off and explore, and if he’s soldier-mad, gods know how you’ll stop him, without you tie him to your doorpost. And you’re frightened, and I wish I could say it was without cause. I’m frightened, too—I’ve a son his age myself, and a daughter not much younger. But you know as well as I that Devynck doesn’t encourage him—she sent him home to you, didn’t she, and she’ll probably have to do it again.” She smiled suddenly. “Admit it, Anfelis, you’re mostly annoyed that Devynck’s complained against him.”
Lucenan blinked, on the verge of affront, and then, slowly, smiled. “I’m not best please about that, Ters, no. But that’s not what’s behind this. I am worried—I’m more than worried, I’m frankly terrified. I don’t want to lose Felis.”
“I know,” Monteia said. “All I can tell you is, the child-thief isn’t here—Felis is probably as safe here as he is at home. Given the complaints between the two of you, the boy will be as well looked after as if he was Aagte’s own.”
That surprised another rueful smile from Lucenan, but she sobered quickly. “It’s the streets in between I’m worried about, as much as anything.”
“We’re doing what we can,” Monteia answered, and the other woman shook her head.
“It’s not enough, Chief Point.” She turned away before Monteia could answer.
“And don’t I know it,” Monteia muttered, and stepped back into the tavern. “Well, you heard that, Eslingen. I don’t think you’ll have a lot to worry about, barring something new. It’s mostly the Huviets who are causing the trouble, and they’re not well loved here.”
“I hope you’re right,” Eslingen answered.
“And if I’m not—hells, if you have any troubles,” Monteia began, and Eslingen finished for her.
“I’ll send to Point of Hopes. I assure you, you’ll be the first to hear.”
Business was slow that night, and Eslingen, watching the sparse gathering from his usual corner, didn’t know whether it was a good or a bad sign. Among the broadsheets he had bought that morning was a plain diviner, listing the planetary positions for the week, with brief comments, the sort of thing senior students at the university cobbled together to raise drinking money, but nevertheless he slipped it out of his cuff and scanned it yet again. It was the night of the new moon—if the astrologer at the fairgrounds had been correct, he was due to change his job soon. He smiled. He suspected that the astrologer’s timing was off: he had a new job, related to his work, already. And in any case, it was the general readings he was interested in. The sun and the moon both lay square to the winter-sun; the first was normal, defined the time of year, but the second added to the tension between the mundane and the supernatural. He shook his head, thinking of the missing children—one more indication that there was something dreadfully wrong—and scanned the list of aspects again. The moveable stars lay mostly in squares, particularly Areton, ruler of strife and discord, squaring Argent—and there go the merchants’ profits, Eslingen added silently—and the Homestar and Heira. More tension there, for home and society, and with Areton in the Scales and Sickle, there was a real promise of trouble. He made a face, and refolded the paper, tucking it back into the wide cuff of his coat. It was showing signs of wear, and he grimaced again, looked out across the almost-empty room.
Most of the soldiers were gone, either hired on to one of the companies just to get out of the city, or else they’d taken themselves and their drinking to the friendlier taverns along the Horsegate Road, closer to the camp grounds. And who could blame them? Eslingen thought. But it makes for a lonely night. Jasanten was still there, ensconced at his usual table, but he’d already given Devynck his notice, was planning to move to the Green Bell on the Horsegate as soon as possible. It would be easier recruiting there, he said, but they all knew what he really meant.
The rest of the customers were Leaguers, friends of Devynck’s— the brewer Marrija Vandeale was still there, her group of five, including a well-grown young man who had to be her son, the largest in the inn. Eslingen shook his head again, and walked over to the bar, more for something to do than because he really wanted another pitcher, even of Vandeale’s best. Adriana came to meet him, faced him across the heavy wood with a crooked grin.
“Not a good night,” Eslingen said, not knowing what else to say, and the woman’s smile widened briefly.
“No. Mother’s furious.” She nodded to the edge of the paper sticking out above the edge of his cuff. “Any good news there?”
“It depends,” Eslingen said, sourly.
“How’s business?” Adriana asked, and matched his tone exactly.
“I wouldn’t ask.”
Adriana glanced over his shoulder at the almost-empty room. “I hardly need to.” She reached across the counter for his mug. “What about the children, does it say anything about them?”
Eslingen shrugged, and tucked the diviner deeper into his cuff. “Not a lot—as you’d expect, I suppose. Metenere trines the sun—and the moon, for that matter—which they say is a hopeful sign, but it’s inconjunct to the winter-sun and Sofia, which they say means there are still things to be uncovered before the matter is resolved.”
“That’s safe enough,” Adriana said, and set the refilled mug back in front of him. “Gods, you’d think the magists could do better than that.”
Eslingen nodded, took a sip of beer he didn’t really want. “Or the points. I wonder if they’re consulting the astrologers?”
“They generally do. When they’re not searching taverns,” Adriana answered, and grinned. “Your friend Rathe, he has friends at the university, or so I’m told. Above his station, surely.”
“No particular friend of mine,” Eslingen said, automatically, and only then thought to wonder at his own response. I wouldn’t mind calling him a friend, though.
Adriana’s eyebrows rose. “And below yours?” She turned away before he could answer, disappeared through the kitchen door.
Eslingen stared after her for a moment—he hadn’t expected her to defend any pointsman—then shrugged, and made his way back to his table. He doubted there would be any call for his services tonight, since the locals seemed to be staying well clear after the abortive search, but he left the beer untouched, and tilted his stool until h
is back rested against the wall. Monteia had handled the situation well, particularly getting that red-faced butcher on her side, he acknowledged silently. If they got through the evening without trouble, things should be all right.
The clock struck midnight at last, its voice clear in the still air, and Devynck appeared to call time on the last customers. They left in a group, Eslingen was glad to see, Vandeale and her household in the lead, and Devynck herself walked them to the door to wish them safe home. She pulled the heavy door closed behind them, turning the key in the lock, and Loret lifted the bar into its brackets. It looked thick enough to stand at least a small battering ram, Eslingen thought, and wondered if Devynck had foreseen the necessity. He stood then, stretching, and went to help Hulet with the shutters. Each had an iron bar of its own, holding the wood firm against the glass outside; they, too, would stand a siege, and he lifted the last one into place with a distinct feeling of relief. With the tavern secured for the night, all the doors and windows locked and barred, it was unlikely that the butchers’ journeymen would find a way to make trouble. Hulet stretched and loosened the ropes that held the central candelabra in place, lowering it so that Adriana could snuff the massive candles.
“Philip.” Devynck’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Go with Loret, make sure the garden gate’s barred before we close up for the night.”
“Right.” Eslingen trailed the yawning waiter out into the sudden dark. The winter-sun had set at midnight, and the air was distinctly chill, pleasant after the heat of the day. Loret fumbled with a candle and lantern, and Eslingen glanced up, looking for the familiar constellations, but a thin drift of cloud veiled all but the brightest stars. Then Loret had gotten his candle lit, and Eslingen followed its glow through the garden and down to the back gate. The bar was already up there, a chain and lock the size of a man’s fist holding it firmly in place, but Loret tugged at it anyway before turning back to the inn. Eslingen glanced along the walls, checking for trouble there. They were in good repair, and high, taller than himself by a good yard; he couldn’t remember if they were topped with spikes or glass, but would not have been surprised by either. In any case, they would be hard to climb without ladders: it’s good enough, he told himself, and followed Loret back to the tavern. Nonetheless, he was careful to lock the door behind him at the top of the stairs, and to bar his own door after him. The banked embers at the bottom of the stove were dead, not even warm to the touch. He considered finding flint and steel, rekindling them, but it was late, and it would be easier in the morning to borrow coals from the kitchen fire. He undressed in the dark, leaving his coat draped neatly over the chair, and crawled into the tall bed.
He woke to the sound of breaking glass, groped under his pillow for his pistol and found only the keys to his chest. He had them in his hand before he was fully awake, and flung back the covers as he heard another window break. The sound was followed by shouts, young, drunken voices, and then he heard another shout from inside the inn: Devynck, waking her people to the trouble. He dragged on his breeches as another window shattered, and stooped to his clothes chest. He hastily unlocked the lid and dragged out his pistol and the bag that held powder and balls. There was no time to load it; he jammed it instead into the waistband of his breeches, the metal cold on his skin, and caught up his knife on the way to the door.
Jasanten was ahead of him in the hall, balanced awkwardly on his crutch, a long knife in his free hand. “What in all hells—?”
“Don’t know,” Eslingen answered, and unlocked the stairway door. “Stay here, keep an eye on things.”
“Like I could go anywhere fast,” Jasanten answered, but stopped at the head of the stairs, bracing himself against the frame. Eslingen pushed past him, scanning the garden. It was still dark, and quiet; most of the noise had come from the front of the inn.
“Devynck?” he called, more to give her warning than to find her, and pushed open the tavern door.
A thick pillar candle guttered on the end of the bar, throwing uneven shadows across the wide room and the empty tables. Devynck, ghostly in shift and unbound hair, stood by the main door, a caliver in her hands as she peered cautiously through a newly opened shutter. Slow match smouldered in the lock, a bright point of red. Adriana stood at her mother’s back, a half-pike balanced capably in her hands, her legs bare beneath the short hem of her nightshirt.
“They’re gone, the little bastards,” Devynck said, and turned away from the window. “No thanks to you, Philip.”
“No thanks to any of us, Mother,” Adriana said, and Devynck made a noise that might have been meant as apology.
“All clear out back,” Hulet said, and Eslingen jumped as the two waiters appeared behind him.
“So what happened?” he asked, cautiously.
Devynck disengaged the slow match from the lock, and set the caliver down before answering, holding the still-lit length of match well clear of her loose nightclothes. “Someone—and I daresay we can all guess who—came down the street and broke in our front windows. Areton’s spear, what do I have to do to make a living in this city? I’ll have the points on them so fast they’ll think lightning fell on them.”
“We can’t prove it was Paas,” Adriana said. “Unless you got a better look at them than I did.”
“Who else could it have been?” Devynck demanded, but she sounded less certain.
“Do you want me to go to the station?” Eslingen asked. “Rathe— and Monteia—said we should tell them if there was trouble.”
Devynck shook her head. “No one of mine is going out on the streets tonight. I doubt we’ll have any more trouble, anyway, they got what they wanted.”
“Whatever that was,” Hulet said, and shook his head. Behind him, Loret nodded, stuffing his shirt into the waistband of his trousers.
“I could go to Point of Hopes,” he offered, and Devynck glared at him.
“I said no one, and I meant it. It’s, what, it lacks an hour to dawn, that’s time enough, once the sun’s up and there are sensible people on the streets, to send to the points.” She fixed her eyes on Eslingen’s waist. “Is that a lock, Philip—and if it is, I trust you’ve got permission to carry it in the city?”
Eslingen felt himself flush, and was grateful for the candlelight. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten Astreiant’s laws. “Well—”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Devynck said, sourly. “Well, my lad, you can come with me to Point of Hopes, then, and I’ll see if I can’t get Monteia to grant you a writ for it. After tonight, I think she’ll be willing enough.”
“How bad is the damage?” Eslingen asked.
“All our front windows smashed,” Devynck answered, “and a nice profit the glaziers’ll make off of me for it. I haven’t taken the shutters down to see how many panes were actually broken—time enough for that in the morning.” She looked around the dimly lit room. “Hulet, you and Loret stay up, keep an eye on things. If they come back, give me a shout, and you, Loret, run to Point of Hopes. But I don’t think they will.”
Eslingen shivered, suddenly aware of how cool the air was on his bare chest and back. Adriana gave him a sympathetic glance, hugging herself, the half-pike still tucked in the crook of her arm.
“Right,” Devynck said, briskly. “Back to bed, all of you. Philip, I’ll leave for Point of Hopes at eight, and I want you with me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eslingen answered, and took himself out the garden door. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he thought, hearing the tower clock strike the half hour. At least he could get another few hours sleep before he had to face the pointsmen.
Jasanten was still waiting at the top of the stairs, the knife—longer than the city regulations, Eslingen was willing to swear—still poised in his hand. He relaxed slightly, seeing the younger man, and said, “So the alarm’s past?”
“For tonight, or so Devynck says.” Eslingen sighed, and eased the pistol from his waistband. “Some of the local youth, she thinks, broke in
the front windows.”
“Not good times,” Jasanten said, and stood out of the doorway, balancing himself awkwardly on his crutch. “Not good times at all.”
And likely to get worse before they get better, Eslingen thought, remembering the diviner. “Get some sleep, Flor,” he said, and went back into his own room, locking the door behind him. He hesitated for an instant, looking at the unloaded pistol, but in the end decided not to load it. Devynck knew her neighbors, or so he would trust; still, he set it on the table in easy reach before he undressed and climbed back into bed.
He woke to the noise of someone knocking on the door, and groped blearily for the pistol before he realized that the sun was well up. He swore under his breath—he was already late, if the sun was that bright—and Adriana’s voice came from beyond the door.
“Philip? Mother says you should hurry. I brought shaving water and something for breakfast.”
“All the gods bless you,” Eslingen said, scrambling into shirt and breeches, and unlocked the door. Adriana looked remarkably awake and cheerful, considering the night, and he couldn’t repress a grimace.
She grinned, and set a bowl and plate down on the table, lifting the plate away to reveal the hot water. Eslingen took it gratefully, washed face and hands and carried it across to the circle of polished brass that he used as a mirror. In full light, and with care, he could shave, and it was cheaper than the barber’s—not to mention, he added silently, running the razor over the stone, safer, given current sentiment. “Do you think there’s any chance of my getting a dispensation, or have I lost a good pistol?” he said, and began cautiously to shave.
In the mirror, he saw Adriana shrug. “Mother’s had one for years, for the same reason she’ll give for you, to protect her property against people who don’t like Leaguers. Monteia—no, it wasn’t Monteia, it was Wetterli, he was chief point before Monteia—he gave it to her when she first came here. It wasn’t long after the League wars, people weren’t always friendly.”
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