Denizard’s voice broke through his reverie. “It’s become political, Hanse. And that’s a game you don’t play.”
Caiazzo dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stood there for a long moment, unmoving, then lowered them and turned back into the light. For an instant, he looked older than Eslingen would have thought possible. “All right,” he said, softly. “All right. Eslingen—in the morning, I want you to go to Rathe—since he got you this job, maybe he’ll give you a break on this one. Go to Rathe, tell him about this night’s business.”
“All of it?” Eslingen asked, startled—this was the last thing he’d expected from Caiazzo—and the trader nodded.
“Well, as much as you have to, which, knowing Rathe, will be most of it. It was clearly self-defense there in the square, and on my orders, so neither you nor I need to worry about that, but somebody’s bound to be asking questions about those bodies.” Caiazzo nodded slowly, as much to himself as to the others. “Yes, tell him what’s been happening—my people set upon in the streets, my business interfered with. That should keep him busy. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help put a stop to whatever is going on with de Mailhac.”
Rathe woke to the sound of knocking, gentle but persistent, and lay for a moment in the cool dawn light trying to place its source. It was someone at his door, he realized at last, and dragged himself out of his bed, groping for shirt and breeches. The knocking was still going on, a steady beat, not quite loud enough to wake the neighbors, but insistent. Rathe shivered, still only half awake, and reached for the knife that he had left hanging in its scabbard over the back of the chair.
“Who is it?” he called, and crossed to the door.
“It’s Istre, Nico.”
Rathe lifted the bar, and pulled open the heavy door. The magist looked as dishevelled as Rathe could ever remember seeing him, shadows heavy under his eyes, magist’s robe discarded for a coat that didn’t quite seem to fit across the shoulders. He hadn’t shaved, either, though the fair stubble was hardly noticeable at first glance, and Rathe stepped back automatically. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve found it, Nico. I know what the children are being used for.”
Rathe took a deep breath, feeling as though he’d been hit in the gut. “What?” he said, and b’Estorr stepped past him, reaching into his pocket to produced a small drawstring purse. He untied the strings, and poured a small triangle out onto the tabletop, where it lay gleaming in the early sunlight. Rathe stared at it for a moment. “Istre…”
b’Estorr nodded. “It’s gold, Nico. Actually, it’s coin aurichalcum. An impure form of true aurichalcum, more pure than most ordinary coins, but not nearly as pure as the real thing. Magists use it in their work.”
He picked up the little wedge and handed it across. Rathe took it gingerly, turning it over in his fingers. The shortest end was curved, and there were letters running along that curve, as well as what looked like part of an embossed design in the center. He looked up sharply. “This looks like part of a coin.”
b’Estorr nodded again. “It is. That’s where most of us get it, from great crowns.”
“Gods, I’ve never seen one,” Rathe said, and looked at the wedge of metal with even more respect. The great crown was the largest of Chenedolle’s coins, each one worth a hundred pillars—more than many people saw in their lifetime. “But what does this have to do with the children?”
b’Estorr dropped into the nearest chair. “Aurichalcum is gold, common gold, that’s been mined in a particular process. Everyone knows that much, but not many people outside the university know how. The process itself is what makes it magistically active, and that process requires people, special people. To turn raw gold into aurichalcum, each step of the process must be performed by pure beings who have the proper zodiacal relationship to their task—which, in practice, means children or carefully trained and watched celibates, each of whom is chosen for the job according to her or his birth signs.”
Rathe sank down on a stool opposite b’Estorr, set the piece of aurichalcum back on the table. “Children,” he whispered. “Gods, but why? Who would be doing such a thing?”
b’Estorr shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. It’s crazy, it makes no sense to me at all, but that’s what everything points to. It’s the only thing these children could work together on. Someone has stolen them to process aurichalcum.”
Rathe looked from the wedge of gold, bright in the rising sun, to b’Estorr. “If magists use it…”
b’Estorr spread his hands. “I know, Nico, I know, and I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think why, or who. Gods know, we’re all limited by the sheer cost of coin aurichalcum, but that’s nothing compared to the effort to process the stuff. It’s false economy. And utterly mad.”
“Stealing children’s pretty mad, Istre,” Rathe said, and the necromancer made a face. “Whoever’s doing this is pretty crazy anyway. If the motive is crazy, well, it kind of fits, doesn’t it?”
“So all we have to do,” b’Estorr said dryly, “is find a gold mine. As I recall, there are gold mines aplenty in the Silklands, and in the Ile’nord, the western hills of Chenedolle, in southern Chadron, and in the Payshault, all of which are within reasonable striking distance of Astreiant.”
Rathe shook his head. “No, it has to be someplace that has good roads—they were buying draft horses, not pack animals.” If it was them, of course, a little voice added, but he shoved the thought away. It had to have been the astrologers who were buying the horses, or their allies; they couldn’t afford for it not to be.
b’Estorr nodded. “All right, that probably rules out the Silklands. Anyone sensible would go by water. But the rest—how can you choose?”
“I know,” Rathe said. “Does this connect with the clocks, Istre?”
“It could,” b’Estorr answered. “Aurichalcum—especially the purer forms—well, it’s not just politically potent. I suppose it would be possible to use it to turn the clocks, but why…”
He let his voice trail off, and Rathe nodded in morose agreement. There was a little silence, the only sound the rumble of an early wagon on the street below. The air that came through the half-open window was damp, and smelled of the distant river; Rathe cocked his head, and thought he could hear the chime of the tower clock at the head of the Hopes-point Bridge. “There haven’t been any new disappearances in days,” he said at last. “Does this mean they have all the kids they need?”
b’Estorr shrugged, got restlessly to his feet, and then stopped, the movement suspended, as though he’d simply needed to move and was now at a loss for something to do. “They could have. From the nativities I’ve seen, for the children who are missing, yes, I think most of the process is covered. But I don’t know, Nico, I wish before Aidones that I did.” He sighed heavily. “So what do we do now?”
Rathe threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I’ll go to Monteia—hells, I’ll go to the surintendant, and I’ll tell them this, and we’ll all look at each other, and say, wonderful, what now? Aside from anything else, we don’t have the right to pursue it, not outside the city, so we’d have to work with the local nobles, but since we don’t even know where the children are—” He broke off, shaking his head, aware of the futility of his anger. b’Estorr had given him more information than they had been able to gather over the past few weeks, but it still wasn’t enough. “I feel like a bastard asking this, after all you’ve done, but is there anything more you can do? Anything more you can tell us?”
b’Estorr crossed to the window, pushed the shutter open, and leaned out into the morning air. “When was the last disappearance?”
Rathe shook his head. “I’m not sure—five days ago, I think. I can check with the station. Does that matter?”
b’Estorr turned back to face him. “I don’t know. And I hate having to keep saying that. But it might help. I can do some more research, see if anything shows itself—I’ll certainly consult my colleagues. They’ll need to know about it fo
r the clocks, anyway.”
Rathe nodded. “I appreciate it. Look, will you come with me to Monteia? You understand what’s happening here better than I do.”
“Of course,” b’Estorr said, and scooped the wedge of gold back into its bag.
Neither man spoke as they made their way from Rat he’s lodgings to the station at Point of Hopes. Rathe caught himself walking faster and faster, as though hurrying might help, might make up for how long it had taken them to figure out what was going on. b’Estorr’s discovery was utterly vital, the first piece of information that made sense of the child-thefts. If only it hadn’t come too late. Surely not, he told himself, and made himself slow his pace again. If nothing else, they could protect the children who hadn’t been taken, first by arresting the hedge-astrologers and then by concentrating their efforts on the vulnerable ones. Asheri was one of those, but she had more sense than many a woman grown, and they would be able to deploy the full resources of the station to keep her safe. And surely, surely, knowing why the children had been stolen would help them find the missing ones.
The station courtyard was empty, none of the runners in sight there or in the stables. Rathe caught his breath—he had expected to find Asheri waiting, sitting in the early sun on the edge of the dry trough where she could get the best of the light for her sewing—and shoved open the main door. Jiemin, this morning’s duty point, looked up, startled by the violence of his entrance.
“Nico …?”
“Where’s Asheri?” Rathe demanded, and Jiemin shook her head.
“I haven’t seen her yet. It’s early, Nico, she probably slept in.”
“But I told her to be here by now,” Monteia said, from the door of her workroom. She shut it behind her, shaking her head, and looked from Rathe to the necromancer. “What’s up, Nico?”
Rathe ignored the question for a moment, crossed to look out the back door. The garden was empty even of laundry, and he turned back into the room, barely able to keep the fear at bay. “Istre thinks he knows why the children are being taken. Asheri—”
Monteia cut him off. “Why?”
b’Estorr said, “They all have stars that make them useful— appropriate—for processing aurichalcum.”
Monteia frowned. “Queen’s gold?”
b’Estorr nodded, his blue eyes grave. “And aurichalcum is dangerously powerful, especially now with the starchange approaching.”
Monteia swore under her breath. “And Asheri?” she said, to Rathe.
“She said she knows her nativity to the minute,” he answered, voice suddenly ragged, “but I don’t. I never asked, and she never told me. Her sister might know.”
“Go,” Monteia said. “Both of you—please,” she added tardily, to b’Estorr. “See if she’s at home, find out what her stars are, and get her here where we can take care of her.”
Rathe nodded, and was out the door almost before she’d stopped speaking, b’Estorr on his heels. Asheri lived on the southern edge of Point of Hopes, in the warrens east of the junction of the Customs Road and Fairs’ Road. He had been there before,, and led the way through the labyrinth of narrow streets, barely able to keep from running as he saw the peeling face of the clock that oversaw this corner of the city. It had been reset, though, since the clock-night: as they turned down the alley that led to a cluster of narrow houses, it struck the half hour, and its tones were echoed from the distant towers of Point of Dreams.
Asheri’s house was no different from any of the half dozen that circled the well-house at the center of the open space, a plain building one room and a hallway wide, with a strip of muddy garden running beside and in front of the stone sill. A tall woman, unmistakably Asheri’s kin, the sister she had lived with since their mother’s death, had strung a line between two poles, and was hanging laundry, temporarily overshadowing a straggling patch of vegetables. Among the clothes already pinned to the line was the apron Asheri had worn the day before, and Rathe caught his breath again.
“She didn’t burn them,” he said, and heard b’Estorr swear.
The woman looked up at their approach, her eyes narrowing, but her hands never stopped moving on the wet cloth. Somewhere, in one of the other houses, Rathe thought, a child was wailing; even as he looked, he heard a voice exclaiming a rough endearment, and the crying took on a new, muffled rhythm, as though someone had picked up the child and was bouncing it.
“Mijan, where’s Asheri?”
“Missing her already?” Mijan answered, and smiled. “You knew she was meant for better than running your errands. She’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Rathe demanded, and heard b’Estorr swear again.
Mijan set a much-mended skirt back in her basket, her expression suddenly wary, folded her arms across her thin chest. “To the embroiderers. Last evening at seven o’clock. You know that’s what she wanted, more than anything, that’s why she worked for your lot.”
“She didn’t have the fee,” Rathe said bluntly, and Mijan shook her head.
“No more did she, but she won one of the lottery-places—you know, they hold four places a year for those who don’t have the means.”
“They hold those at the Spring Balance,” Rathe said, through gritted teeth, “and the Fall Balance. Never at Midsummer, Mijan, you know that. And so did she.”
Mijan was looking genuinely frightened now. “I know, I’m not stupid. But the woman—she was respectable, Rathe, a guildswoman to her fingertips—she said that one of the apprentices they’d chosen this spring couldn’t continue in the place, was sick or something, the family was sick, and Asheri was at the top of the list, the next in line. She passed all the tests, you know, it was just her number wasn’t quite high enough.”
“Which house, Mijan, did you think to ask that? Which master?” Rathe heard his voice rising, didn’t care. “You let her go, when children are disappearing every day?”
“That’s precisely why I let her go,” Mijan shouted back. “Do you think I haven’t worried enough about her, running gods alone know where through every quarter of the city, when children are being stolen in broad daylight? She’s a thousand times safer with the embroiderers than she ever was with your lot.”
Rathe flinched, recognizing the truth of that, and b’Estorr put a hand on his shoulder. “If she’s with the embroiderers, mistress. Asheri knows her nativity, I know that. May we get a copy?”
“Why?” Mijan looked from one man to the other. “Who in Demis’s name are you? Nico I know, but you…”
Rathe took a breath, controlled the anger bred of fear and guilt. “His name’s Istre b’Estorr, Mijan, he’s with the university. A necromancer. And, no, we don’t think any of them are dead, but he’s been helping us, and we know why the children are being taken. And I’m very much afraid Asheri’s one of them.”
“She’s with the embroiderers,” Mijan whispered.
Rathe shook his head. “I devoutly hope so, but—it’s a bad time for coincidence. I need her nativity—please, Mijan. You know I wanted—want—nothing more than for Asheri to find a place in the guild. Let me make sure she has the chance.”
“She’s there, I tell you,” Mijan repeated, but her eyes were wet with sudden tears. “I did what you told us, we washed the clothes, and locked them away, she was wearing my second-best skirt—and furious she was, too, to think the masters would see her without her having the chance to take it in. I should’ve known, we never have luck.” She shook her head, wiped a hand across her face with angry force. “Her chart’s inside—you’ll have to copy it, though, I won’t let you take it away.”
“Fine,” Rathe said, still struggling with his anger. It wasn’t so much Mijan he was angry at—how could she, how could any southriver housekeeper, pass up the chance to see a kinswoman decently established?—or even Asheri, for taking a chance, but the astrologers and their respectable-looking accomplice, for playing on the one source of hope children like her had. And that must have been how they lured the others away, he thought. The horosc
opes, the questions the children asked, would have given the astrologers a very good idea of what they would have to offer to overcome the children’s fears—give them a chance at their hearts’ desire, and they were young enough to take the chance, even the cleverest, most wary ones. Like Asheri, he added, and Mijan reappeared in the doorway, a wooden tablet in her hand. She gave it to Rathe, who handed it to b’Estorr, trying to ignore Mijan’s small noise of protest. b’Estorr studied it for a moment, then reached into his pocket for a flat-form orrery, adjusting the rings to the appropriate positions. His mouth tightened then, and he handed the tablet back to Mijan.
“It fits,” he said. “It fits, Nico. She has the key stars, she’s perfect for their operation.”
“What?” Mijan cried, and Rathe took her by the shoulders, gently now.
“No one will hurt her, she’s too valuable. We know why they took her, and some of where, and we will find her, I promise.” He took a deep breath, hoping he could make that true. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?”
Mijan took a deep breath, swallowing her tears. “No. No need. I’ll be fine. Just—find her, Rathe. They said, she’d won a place. It was so much what she wanted, they seemed all right, how could I think… ?” Her voice trailed off, and she shook herself hard. “I’ll be all right,” she said again, as much to convince herself as anyone, and looked back at Rathe. “And if she’s with the embroiderers all this time, I will cut your heart out.”
“If she is,” Rathe answered, “I’ll hand you the knife myself.”
He turned away without waiting for an answer, knowing she didn’t believe it any more than he did. b’Estorr fell into step beside him, stretching his long legs to keep up.
“What now?”
“The embroiderer’s hall,” Rathe answered. “Just in case. But I don’t think she’ll be there.”
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