Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

  “So it’s not harmful,” Rathe said.

  b’Estorr shook his head again. “Not likely. It’s not helpful, either, and if the girl paid money for it, well…”

  Rathe waved that away. “What would you say if I told you I’d found another child—obviously not one of the missing—who’d gotten a charm from another one of these astrologers?”

  “I’d be—intrigued,” b’Estorr said. “Can I see it?”

  Rathe shook his head regretfully. “The boy didn’t have it, said he’d lost it, but from the sound of it, it was pretty much the same as this one. What makes it really interesting, though, is that half the kids who’ve gone missing from Point of Hopes had their stars read before they vanished, and probably by one of the hedge-astrologers.”

  “You’re right,” b’Estorr said. “That’s very interesting.” He lifted the charm again, holding it to the light. “Mind you,” he went on, reluctantly, “it could just be coincidence—these aren’t very effective, and maybe they just didn’t work.”

  “It has to mean something,” Rathe said. “We don’t have anything else to go on.” He took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Oh?” b’Estorr gave him an odd look, and set the charm down again. “I wonder if it’s the same thing we’ve been noticing, with these nativities.”

  Rathe bared teeth in an angry smile. “It could be. And there’s one in particular that clinches it for me. When I was at the fair this afternoon, I ran into a woman I know, a pickpocket, part of a dynasty, really, working out of the old Caravansary. They’d lost one of their apprentices, told me about it a couple weeks back.”

  “I thought the ’Serry was in Point of Sighs,” b’Estorr said.

  “It is.” Rathe shrugged. “What were they going to do, go to Sighs and say, please help us, one of our apprentice pickpockets is missing?”

  “But you’ve asked around,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe nodded.

  “And when I ran into Cassia, I mentioned the horoscopes, and she said it was a shame Gavaret—that’s the boy—wasn’t getting the same chance as the rest of the kids. I didn’t think there’d be a chance of getting a nativity on him, and I said so, but she had it. And it’s very detailed, Istre, close to the minute.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his tablet and read from the dark wax. “Born on Midsummer Eve fourteen years ago in Dhenin. The mother said he crowned as the town clock struck midnight and was born at the half hour. You don’t get much better than that, not even in nobles’ houses. And all of our missing kids, every last one of them, have nativities just as precisely noted. It’s not natural, and it’s got to mean something.”

  b’Estorr was nodding even before he’d finished. “It’s not just your kids, Nico. We—those of us here who’ve been doing the horoscopes for the stations—we’ve all noticed it. All of the children, eighty-four of them, for Dis’s sake, know their births to better than a quarter hour. Your pickpocket—he’s just one more.” He leaned back. “Of course, we haven’t found anything else in common, but we are looking.”

  “There’s another oddity here, too,” Rathe said quietly. “The boy who’d lost his charm, he’s northriver born—son of a judiciary clerk, in fact. But he doesn’t know his birth stars, only to the hour. And he’s not missing, even though he did talk to one of these astrologers, though I haven’t got a shred of real evidence that they’re involved.”

  “Can’t you do something?” b’Estorr asked. “Ban them from the fair—hells, can’t you arrest them on suspicion? I’d think the city would be delighted to see that happen.”

  Rathe shook his head. “The arbiters control the fair, and they say they can’t ban them because people think of them as a good thing, and a good alternative to the Three Nations, for that matter.”

  “Ah.” b’Estorr sat back in his chair, frowning.

  “And as for arresting them, gods, I’d like nothing better,” Rathe went on. “We don’t have the authority.”

  “If you don’t, who does?” b’Estorr snapped, and Rathe held up his hand.

  “Bear with me, will you? It’s complicated. The points are relatively new here, we started out with the writ to keep the peace, and the rest, everything else we do, has developed from that.”

  “Including tracking down lost property—and children?” b’Estorr asked.

  “It’s all a matter of the queen’s peace, isn’t it?” Rathe answered. “The theory being that if a woman’s household and her property aren’t safe, then she’s more likely to break the peace trying to preserve them—which I’ll admit is a good argument. But that’s where our authority comes from, not anything else. Right now, yeah, we spend most of our time trying to figure out who’s done what to whom, and even why, but we don’t really have the queen’s warrant for that. And if we tried to arrest the hedge-astrologers, well, you’ve seen the broadsheets. People would cry we were blaming them to save ourselves, and the judiciary would probably uphold them as a matter of the queen’s peace.”

  “So where does that leave you?”

  b’Estorr asked, after a moment.

  Rathe sighed. “Confused. Why would astrologers be stealing children, anyway?”

  “Stealing children who know their nativities to better than a quarter hour,” b’Estorr corrected, frowning again. “We’ve been trying to see what these nativities have in common, but maybe we’re going at it backwards.” He looked up sharply, the blue eyes suddenly vivid. “Maybe the astrologers already know the link, and they’re picking out the children accordingly.”

  “Which would explain why only the ones who know their stars closely are missing,” Rathe agreed, “but it doesn’t tell us why they’re wanted.”

  “No.”

  b’Estorr lifted one shoulder. “Finding that’s just a matter of time and effort, though, sorting through books. Look, thousands of magistical procedures require the worker to have a specific horoscope—it’s like any job, only more so, and we all trade off, depending on when we were born, do a favor here, get a favor there.” He broke off, shaking his head at his own distraction. “But there aren’t that many for which you’d want children—for most of them, in fact, children would be all wrong. And the sheer number involved is unusual. That’s got to help narrow it down.”

  “If you say so,” Rathe said, dubiously. He looked down at the charm again, thinking of what Monteia would say when he told her about this, and then remembered something else she had told him that morning. “There may be another problem, Istre. There haven’t been any real disappearances over the past few days, not since the twentieth of the Gargoyle. We were thinking it was good news, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “You’re thinking they—whoever they are—have gotten everyone they need,” b’Estorr said. He shook his head. “You’d think someone would have noticed someone trying to hide eighty children somewhere.”

  “Unless they were taken out of the city,” Rathe answered. “And they must’ve been, someone would’ve seen them. The city’s been looking too hard not to.”

  “Well, then, you’d think someone would notice anyone trying to herd eighty-four, no, eighty-five with your pickpocket, eighty-five children anywhere, it has to be harder than trying to hide them,” b’Estorr muttered.

  “They must have been moved in small groups,” Rathe said, and stopped. Even so, the only people who could hope to hide, or travel with, large numbers of children would be people who were expected to travel, and that meant another trip to the fair. He had friends among the caravaners, could ask them what they’d heard. He sighed then, thinking of the one hedge-astrologer he’d seen. “The astrologers are still around, though who knows for how long.” He stopped then, staring at the books that filled one tall case and overflowed onto the table beside it. The candlelight trembled on the rubbed gilt of the bindings, drew smudged highlights from the heavy leather. If this were an ordinary crime, he thought, something southriver, stolen goods, say, or pimping, we’d send someone to buy from them, see what happened. Could I
do that here? I’d have to send a runner, none of the points at Hopes could pass for apprentice-age, and that’s bad enough—unless Istre could provide some sort of protection? He said, slowly, “Istre, is there anyway you, or someone here, could protect a child from being stolen?”

  “If we could,” b’Estorr said, sourly, “don’t you think we’d’ve done it?”

  “I mean, knowing they’re looking for something—”

  “Without knowing what,” b’Estorr said, “there’s damn all I can do.” He looked at the pointsman. “Why?”

  Rathe made a face. “I told you, we’d have to catch them actually doing something before we can claim the point on them. I was thinking about offering them some bait. If any of our runners know their stars well enough, or even if they don’t, maybe we could fake a nativity for them, we could send them to the fair, see what the astrologers do about them.” He saw b’Estorr’s startled look, and looked disgusted with himself. “Yeah, I know, it’d be dangerous. I’d take everyone I could from Point of Hopes—hells, I’ll borrow from Fairs, if Claes’ll let me—and make damn sure the kids never get out of our sight. But it’s something to do, before they all disappear back to wherever they took the kids.”

  b’Estorr was silent for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “It might work—but don’t try faking nativities, to do it right takes time, and unless you do it very carefully, they’ll know something’s off. It’s a risk, of course, but what are the odds they’ll have the right conjunction?” He leaned back in his chair again, stretching to reach a sheaf of scribbled papers. “Right now, I’d say don’t use anyone who has Areton in the Anvil—that’s the one thing I’ve seen more of than I’d expect. Of course, that means about as much as saying most of them have sun or moon in a mutable sign, anything or nothing.”

  Rathe nodded, and scratched the prohibition into his tablet. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

  b’Estorr shook his head, his pale hair gleaming in the candlelight. “I wish there were, but, as I told you, there isn’t a pattern. Just—have them be very careful. Anyway, you say you’ll be watching them?”

  “Oh, yes,” Rathe said, grimly. And if none of our kids know their stars well enough, someone from Dreams or Sighs will, he added silently. And I’ll make very sure they come home safe again. He stood and stretched, hearing the muscles crack along his spine. “Thanks for dinner, Istre, but I’d better go now, if I want to get home before second sunset.”

  “I’ll let you know if I—we—figure out anything,” b’Estorr said, and smiled. “Whatever the hour.”

  “Thanks,” Rathe said again, and let himself out into the dimly lit stairway. It wasn’t much, he thought, but it was more than he’d had before. Monteia wouldn’t like it—hells, he thought, I’m not sure I like it—but it stands a chance of working. He lengthened his stride, heading through the shadowed streets toward the Hopes-point Bridge. And I’m very much afraid it’s a chance we’ll have to take.

  9

  « ^ »

  the winter-sun had passed the zenith, was declining toward the housetops across the wide road. Eslingen eyed it cautiously, wishing there were more clocks in Point of Hearts, guessed that he and Denizard had been waiting for more than an hour. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly nice tavern, the service deft and discreet—Point of Hearts was living up to its reputation as the neighborhood for assignations—and the wine excellent, but still, he thought, whoever it is we’re waiting for should have been here by now.

  A shadow fell across the table, and he looked up to see Denizard returning from the open doorway. She was frowning, her fingers tapping against the bowl of her wine glass, and one of the waiters hurried to her side.

  “Is everything all right, madame?”

  Denizard forced a smile, nodded. “Fine, thanks.” She glanced at the table, littered now with emptied plates. “You can bring us another serving of the cakes, however.”

  “At once, madame.” The waiter bowed, and hurried away.

  Denizard made a face, and reseated herself, settling her skirts neatly around her.

  “No sign of—?” Eslingen, asked, and left the sentence delicately unfinished.

  The magist sighed. “No. And if he’s not here by now, I doubt he’s coming.”

  Eslingen waited, but no more information seemed to be forthcoming. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Can you tell me, I mean? I’m generally more useful when I have some idea of the circumstances I’m dealing with.”

  Despite his best efforts, the words came out more sharply than he’d intended, and Denizard gave him a hard glance. “You’re not indispensable, however, Eslingen.”

  Eslingen held up his hands. “Agreed. But, until you dispense with me…” He gave her his best smile, and, to his surprise, the magist smiled back reluctantly.

  “True. And Hanse said I should use my discretion.” She glanced around again, and Eslingen looked with her. The tavern was hardly crowded, most of the drinkers clustered at the far side of the wide room by the unlit fireplace. A man and a woman, the woman in a wide-brimmed hat and hood that effectively hid her face, sat at a corner table, leaning close, their plates forgotten. Conspirators or clandestine lovers, Eslingen guessed, and not much interested in anything except each other.

  “It’s the Ajanine property,” Denizard said. She kept her voice low, but didn’t whisper. “Hanse—and Madame Allyns, but mostly Hanse; he takes the risk for her—has owned this land for four years now, and we’ve never had any trouble, but this year…” She shook her head again. “This year, we haven’t seen our gold, or had word from the so-called landame. The mine is seigneurial, the landame has full control of the takings. So she pays her debt in gold, and we—Hanse has the funds he needs to finance his caravans and caravels. But this year, Maseigne de Mailhac hasn’t done her part.”

  Which explained a great deal, Eslingen thought. It explained Rouvalles’s impatience, and Caiazzo’s temper, and probably even the old woman in the Court. He said aloud, “You can’t mean we’re waiting for the gold. Not just the two of us.”

  “I thought you were good, soldier,” Denizard answered.

  “No one’s that good.”

  Denizard grinned. “At least you’re honest. We’re waiting for one of Hanse’s men, he sent him north a good month ago, and he should have been back some days since.” She shook her head, the smile fading. “There’s something very wrong at Mailhac, Eslingen, that’s for sure. And I’m very much afraid Hanse is going to have to send one of us to deal with the situation.”

  Eslingen nodded, but said nothing. Denizard sighed again, and pushed herself away from the table, went to the door again to peer out into the soft twilight. Eslingen watched her go, turning the stem of his wine glass in his hand, and wondered what he should do with this knowledge. He had promised Rathe word of anything strange about Caiazzo’s business, and part ownership of an Ajanine gold mine—an Ajanine gold mine located of necessity on noble land—was certainly out of the ordinary. Except, he added, with an inward grin, maybe for Hanselin Caiazzo. He had known from Rathe’s own words that Caiazzo’s dealings weren’t all legal, but he was only just beginning to understand the scope of the longdistance trader’s operations, legitimate as well as not. Perhaps an Ajanine manor wasn’t so far out of Caiazzo’s usual range as he’d thought.

  He leaned back as the waiter returned with the dish of cakes, replacing the previous dishes with quick deference. He liked Caiazzo’s service, liked the sober elegance of the house and his own place in it, suspected he would be aping the cut of Caiazzo’s coat for years to come. He didn’t want to give it up—and why should he, especially for Rathe, whom he’d known less than a solar month?—and he’d be lucky if the job was all he lost if he betrayed Caiazzo to the points. He remembered the old woman in her empty shop at the heart of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, and shivered, trying to blame it on the evening air. If she found out he’d betrayed Caiazzo, he’d be fighting off her bravos for the rest of the year, an
d think himself lucky to escape to the border fighting. Besides, illegal Caiazzo’s dealings might be— were, he corrected himself, unmistakably outside Chenedolle’s laws— but they had nothing whatsoever to do with the missing children. That was all he’d promised Rathe; unless and until he found any indication Caiazzo was dabbling in that, he would keep Caiazzo’s business strictly to himself.

  As Rathe had expected, Monteia didn’t like the idea of using the runners to force the hedge-astrologers into the open. She shook her head when he had finished, and leaned back against the window frame, her long face very sober.

  “It’s a long shot, Nico, a very long shot,” she said at last. “I think you’re right, this has to be the reason these kids are being taken, but to risk our runners…” She shook her head, her voice trailing off into silence.

  “Can you think of a better way of stopping them?” Rathe asked, and Monteia shook her head again.

  “Not offhand, no. But I want to try. I owe them that much, Nico.” She drew herself up, planted her elbows on the table. “I’m going to draft a letter to all the points, and to Claes in particular—that might get his attention better than just sending you to talk to him.”

  Rathe made a face, but admitted that Monteia was probably right. Claes was ready to be annoyed with Hopes over his presence in the fair the day before; better to follow protocol than to risk angering him just when they would need him most.

  “On the other hand,” Monteia went on, “there’s one thing you said that we can follow up on, and we haven’t yet. If the kids aren’t in the city, then where are they?”

  “They have to have been taken away,” Rathe said. “We’d’ve found them otherwise.”

  Monteia nodded. “I agree. And I know you’ve got friends in the caravans.”