“In a manner of speaking,” Rathe said. “I did Monferriol a favor once.”
“Then he can do you one,” Monteia said. “Give a shout for Andry and Houssaye, will you?”
Rathe did as he was told, and a moment later the pointsmen appeared in the doorway, looking puzzled.
“Come on in,” Monteia said, “and close the door. I’ve got work for you.”
The two filed in, wedging themselves into the space between Rathe’s chair and the wall, and Houssaye shut the door carefully behind him.
Monteia nodded. “All right. Nico, you’ll take the caravans at the fair, since you know Monferriol. Andry, I want you and Houssaye to take the river, Exemption Docks to the Chain. We’re looking for any way that these child-thieves could have taken the kids out of the city— anything out of the ordinary, someone leaving too soon or too late, hiding his cargo, anything at all.”
The pointsmen exchanged glances, and then Andry said, cautiously, “We’ve done a lot of that already, Chief. And so far, nobody’s noticed anything.”
“Well, do it again,” Monteia answered. She hesitated, then said, almost reluctantly, “We may have something to go on. Nico and his necromancer friend have found something all the kids have in common, though the gods alone know why it matters. All of them knew their stars to better than the quarter hour. You can pass that on as you see fit—it may calm some people down—but be careful with it.”
Andry nodded, his face thoughtful, and Houssaye said, slowly, “I don’t think the river-folk are involved, Chief. I’ve spoken to friends of mine in Hearts and Dreams, and they say they’ve been keeping a close watch on the Chain. Nobody’s gone upriver without being searched.”
That was not good news, Rathe thought. The Sier was a major highway for trade, but if the upriver traffic was being searched, then that left only the downriver, and that led to the sea and the Silklands. He shivered in spite of himself at the thought of the missing children being taken out of Chenedolle entirely, and saw from Andry’s expression that the same thought was in his mind as well.
“Look anyway,” Monteia said. “Gods, if they were taken to sea—” She broke off again, not wanting to articulate the thought, but the three men nodded. She didn’t need to articulate it: they had no authority outside Astreiant, but at least anywhere in Chenedolle they could appeal to the royal authority. If the children were outside the kingdom, the gods only knew whether the local rulers would listen to them. And, worst of all, least to be spoken, there was the chance that the children had simply been taken to sea and abandoned to the waves. In ancient times, Oriane’s worship had demanded those sacrifices; Rathe crossed his fingers, praying that no one had decided to revive those customs.
“Our best chance is probably the caravans or the horsemarket at the Little Fair,” Monteia said briskly, and Rathe shook away his fears. “Nico, I’m sorry to be asking you to handle it alone, but it’s more discreet that way. I don’t want to antagonize Fairs if I can avoid it.”
Rathe nodded. “I’ll be careful,” he said and Monteia nodded.
“Right. Be off with you, then.”
Rathe made his way to the fair by the Manufactory Bridge, skirting the fairgrounds proper until he reached the quarter where the caravaners camped. It was busy, as usual; he had to wait while an incoming train, a good two dozen packhorses, all heavily laden, plus attendants, made their way up the main street and were turned into a waiting corral. He followed them toward the stables, walking carefully, and felt a sudden pang of uncertainty. The arriving caravan was obviously one of the ones working the shorter routes—to Cazaril in the south, say, or across to the Chadroni gap. They came in almost daily throughout the fair, and most of them would stay a few days beyond the official closing, to ensure they sold all their goods. The ones working the longer routes, however, would almost certainly leave earlier, well before the end of the fair, especially if they had to take a northern route. And Monferriol was a northern traveller. Bonfortune send I haven’t missed him, Rathe thought, and in the same instant saw a familiar blue and yellow pennant flying over one of the tents set up outside the stables. Monferriol worked for a consortium of small traders, had a knack for taking his principals’ goods safely through the Chadroni Gap, across Chadron itself, and into the Vestara beyond, keeping just ahead of the worst weather until he reached Al’manon-of-the-Snows. He wintered there, and returning to Astreiant with the first thaws, bringing the first shipments of the northern goods, wools, uncured leathers, wine, and all the rest. Of necessity, his timing was precise, and his awareness of his surroundings exquisitely tuned: he would know if anyone had left ahead of him, and where they were going, and why.
He turned toward the stables, stopped the first hostler he saw who carried Monferriol’s yellow and blue ribbons. “Is Monferriol about?”
The woman looked up at him, took in the jerkin and truncheon, and sighed. “Oh, gods, did he forget to pay his damned bond again? I wish he’d stop playing these games with you lot, the rest of us have work to do.”
Rathe shook his head. “I’m not from Fairs’ Point, I’m from Point of Hopes—and I’m a friend of Jevis’s, just wanted to say hello.”
The hostler pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak of dust along one cheekbone. “I think you’ll find him in the factors’ tent, pointsman.”
“If he’s busy—”
She looked at him, her mouth twisting into a gap-toothed grin. “Do you know a single factor who’s up at this hour, or at least here? I don’t, and I don’t think I’d want to. No, he’s just gloating over the route again, the bastard. You know where it is? Right, the fancy one.” She turned back to the corral even as she spoke, and Rathe turned toward the factors’ tent.
It was elaborate, he thought, but then, the consortium probably had to make more of a display than established traders like Caiazzo or older consortia like the Talhafers. And it was bright, crimson canvas— not much faded, yet—flying a bright yellow pennant with Monferriol’s blue ferret rampant in a circle. He could hear a toneless, rumbling humming through the walls, and pulled the flap aside.
“Jevis? Planning new tortures for your people?”
“Gods above, boy, don’t scare me like that, I thought you were the competition,” Monferriol bellowed, and Rathe saw that, indeed, he did have a knife in his hand. Rathe’s expert eye gauged it as just within the city’s legal limits. It might be a little longer, but not enough to make it worth a pointsman’s while to question it.
“Is business getting that cutthroat?” he asked, and Monferriol dropped back onto his high stool, snorting. He was a huge man, tall and heavy-set, hair and beard an untidy hedge.
“Isn’t it always? That bastard Caiazzo’s got the eastern route sewed up, and a damned good caravan-master he has too, but he can’t touch me in the north, for all he keeps trying.”
“That’s something to be satisfied with, surely,” Rathe said, mildly. He knew perfectly well that Monferriol and his consortium had been trying to make inroads into the eastern route for the last few years.
“It’s something to keep me awake nights,” Monferriol answered, and looked back at the maps spread out on the table beside him. “Though why I should lie awake when none of my principals do, I bloody well don’t know.”
“It’s their money and they trust you?” Rathe guessed, and Monferriol made a face.
“More to the point, it’s my blood and my reputation on the line, every time we cross the blighted Gap. Godless people, the Chadroni.” He looked down at the maps, shaking his head. “It figures Caiazzo would have one for his master.”
“Then why do it?” Rathe asked. He should get to his own business, he knew, but the sheer scale of Monferriol’s affairs—and ego—always fascinated him.
“Why? Gods, boy, because I can. Because I’m the best there is at managing a caravan through the Gap and Chadron and the Vestara. Why in all hells are you a pointsman? Because you’re good at it, and if you didn’t do it, someone else would, an
d get all the glory—or else muck it up and leave you fuming at them for a pack of incompetents.”
And that was true enough, Rathe reflected, and not what he’d expected to hear. He saw an almanac open beside the map, and nodded to it. “What are the temples forecasting for this winter?”
Monferriol stuck out his lower lip as he looked down at the little book. “Heavy snows in the Gap, they’re saying, the worst in memory. Of course, last year they predicted a mild winter, and we all know how accurate that was.”
Rathe grinned. The previous winter had been unusually bad, with snow before Midwinter in Astreiant itself.
“So,” Monferriol said, and swung around so that his back was to the table. “What can I do for you, Nico?”
“I need your—advice, your expert knowledge,” Rathe said. “It’s about the children.”
“Oh, that. That’s a bad business. What are you lot doing about it?”
“What we can,” Rathe answered. “What I want to know from you is whether you’ve noticed anything odd among the caravans this fair.”
“We’re an odd lot,” Monferriol answered, but Rathe thought he looked wary. “What did you have in mind?”
“Has anyone changed their usual plans, left earlier than expected, not come in till late, anything?”
Monferriol’s face screwed up in thought. He was acting, Rathe thought suddenly, and bit back his sudden anger. Before either man could speak, however, the flap was pulled back again. “Gods above,” Monferriol roared, and Rathe thought there was as much relief as anger in his tone. “What is this, a waystation? Oh, it’s you, Rouvalles. What do you want.”
The newcomer lifted an eyebrow, but said, equably enough, “I’ve come about those extra horses you wanted. I can spare you two, but you’ll pay.”
“I always do when I deal with the godless Chadroni,” Monferriol muttered.
The other man—Rouvalles—lifted a shoulder in a shrug. He was almost as tall as Monferriol, his long hair drawn back with a strip of braided leather that had probably come from a broken harness. “They’re good horses and you know it.”
“Better than those last screws you sold me?”
“Those screws are pure Vestaran blood, Jevis, but if you don’t want them you don’t, and there’s no point in my forcing them on you.” Rouvalles glanced at Rathe, nodded politely. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“How in the name of all the gods, and poor Bonfortune above all, does Caiazzo ever turn a profit with you?” Monferriol demanded, rolling his eyes to the tent’s peak. “You won’t bargain, you won’t even allow the possibility of haggling—”
“I don’t have time to haggle,” Rouvalles said, cutting through the tirade with what sounded like the ease of long practice. “I’m already two weeks late, as you damn well know. You can have the horses or not, it makes no difference to me.”
“Money came through finally, did it?” Monferriol asked, and Rouvalles shrugged.
“As you also know.”
“So you’re Caiazzo’s caravan-master,” Rathe interjected. He hoped he sounded casual, but doubted it.
Rouvalles glanced at him, the smile ready enough, but the pale eyes cool and assessing. “You know Hanselin, then—oh, I see. Pointsman.” He grinned suddenly, and the humor looked genuine. “Then I guess you would know him. Yes, I’m his caravan-master, and no, I’m not spiriting any children out of Astreiant. You can check my camp if you like, but you wouldn’t find any children there in any case, they’re useless on a long route like mine.”
“Fairs’ Point already spoke to you, then,” Rathe said, apologetically, and was surprised when Rouvalles shook his head, one dirty gold curl escaping from the tied leather.
“No. Hanse’s new knife, in actual fact, which should count in Hanse’s favor. Have you been looking in his direction, pointsman? It wouldn’t be like him, you know.”
“I do know,” Rathe agreed. “You said you’re late leaving the city. You haven’t noticed anyone who’s left early, or in a hurry, or just been acting odd?”
Rouvalles shook his head again. “Not that I’ve noticed.” He looked at Monferriol. “So, Jevis, you want the horses?”
“I want the damn horses, yes.”
“All right, then, I’ll have them brought round once you send the money. How many children are you missing, pointsman?”
Monferriol slid off his stood. “Oh, very funny, Rouvalles, indeed. Would you get out?”
“No, I’m curious.” Rouvalles lifted a hand, and Monferriol subsided, muttering. Gesture and response seemed automatic: the Chadroni was almost aristocratic, for a caravaner, Rathe thought, and stilled his own instinctive rebellion. “How many?”
“Throughout the city, eighty-five. Why?” He fixed his eyes on Rouvalles, and the Chadroni looked away.
“You should probably ask Jevis why he’s buying horses so late in the season.”
“You bastard,” Monferriol flared, and Rouvalles glared at him.
“I’ve heard the same story from half a dozen people, and if you lot won’t go to the points you brag of in every other city in the world— well, by all the gods, I will.”
“Jevis?” Rathe looked at Monferriol, and the big man threw up his hands.
“There’s no law against selling horses, for Bonfortune’s sake. And there’s no reason to think this had anything to do with the children.”
“Except,” Rouvalles said, “that this pointsman is asking about anything out of the ordinary. And by Tyrseis, this is just that.”
Rathe looked from one to the other. “One of you can start from the beginning and explain. Jevis?”
Monferriol looked distinctly abashed. “It’s nothing, really—almost certainly. But, oh, a week or two ago, maybe seven, eight days, a man came to me and wanted to buy a pair of draft horses. Suitable for pulling a baggage wagon—hells, I thought he was a damn mercenary, there are enough of them around these days. But he offered me half again what the beasts were worth, and when I hesitated—I thought I’d heard him wrong—he upped the price again. So I sold them, and even at his prices—” He jerked his head at Rouvalles. “—I’ll still make a profit.” He stopped then, glaring first at Rouvalles and then at the pointsman.
Rathe shook his head. “Interesting, but I don’t see—”
Rouvalles stirred, and Monferriol said hastily, “The thing is, the same thing’s happened to a dozen of us, a man coming and wanting to buy draft horses. And offering too good a price to turn him down. It hasn’t been the same man, always, but still, well, it got some of us wondering. They’re not traders, that’s for sure, but beyond that, who knows? We didn’t know if we should go to the points or not. Nico, it might have been something ordinary.”
Rathe nodded, absently, his mind racing. A dozen traders, selling one or two horses each—that would easily be enough to transport eighty-five children. The only question was, where had they been taken? He said, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who this person was?”
Monferriol shook his head. “I told you, I thought he was a mercenary, the successful kind. He dressed like an upper servant, mind you, nice coat, nice manners.”
“What did he look like?” Rathe asked, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when the big man shrugged.
“Ordinary. I’m sorry, boy, he was—well, middling everything. You know the sort, sort of wood-colored.”
Rathe grinned in spite of himself, in spite of the situation. He knew exactly the sort of man Monferriol was describing, brown-haired, brown-skinned, brown-eyed, utterly unremarkable features—the points took dozens of them for thieving every year, and released half of them for lack of a victim to swear to them. “What about you?” he said to Rouvalles, and the Chadroni shook his head.
“All I know is what I’ve heard from Jevis and some others. I don’t use draft horses, you can’t take carts over the land-bridge.”
Rathe sighed—that would have been too much good luck—and looked back at Monferriol. “Jevis, I’m going to tell you this once
, and I want you to do it for me. Consider it the favor you owe me.”
“We’ll see,” Monferriol said, but nodded.
“Go to Fairs’ Point with this,” Rathe said. “Get together everybody who’s sold to these people, and go to Guillot Claes, he’s the chief at Fairs’, and tell him what you’ve told me. They’ve probably left the city, but it’s worth trying to find them, and this is Fairs’ business, not mine.”
“You couldn’t keep us company,” Monferriol said, without real hope, and Rathe shook his head.
“It would look better if it was just you.”
“Right.” Monferriol made a face. “Bonfortune help me, but I’ll do it.”
“Thanks,” Rathe said, and included Rouvalles in his nod.
The Chadroni smiled, the expression a little melancholy. “It’s a bad business, this,” he said. “Not to mention bad forbusiness. I hope you find them.” He looked back at Monferriol. “Send the money, and I’ll send the horses. And sooner would be better than later, I’m going to be busy the next few days.”
“You’ll get your money,” Monferriol growled. Rouvalles waved a hand, acknowledgement and farewell, and ducked back out the tent flap. Monferriol looked at Rathe. “I would’ve gone to the points sooner, Nico, but—hells, I didn’t realize, none of us did, just how many horses were being bought this way.”
“Go now,” Rathe said, gently. “Claes will be grateful, I’m sure of that. It’s one of the first solid things we’ve had.”
“I hope you catch the bastards,” Monferriol answered. “Hanging’s too good for them.”
“We’re doing what we can,” Rathe answered, and followed Rouvalles out of the tent. And that was more than he’d thought they’d be able to do yesterday, he thought, as he made his way back toward Point of Hopes, but still not enough.
Monteia was waiting in the station’s main room, fingers tapping impatiently on the edge of the worktable. She rose as he came in, saying, “Well?”
“More news, Chief,” he answered. “Monferriol says that some people—not traders, not anything he recognized—have been buying draft horses from various of the caravaners. A lot of horses, Chief, enough to pull enough wagons to carry eighty-five children.”
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