He came around the table as he spoke, caught the journeyman by the arm and shoulder, a grip that looked a little like linked arms but made the slighter man gasp sharply. He started to pull away, and Eslingen tightened his hold. The journeyman winced, subsiding, and Eslingen propelled him toward the door, talking all the while.

“No? Well, you’re probably right, you’ve probably had all you want tonight. I hope you have a pleasant sleep and not too hard a morning.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other young men from the table of butchers all on their feet, but hesitating, not quite certain what to do, and he favored them with a broad, slightly silly smile. “I think he was just going, don’t you? And one of you should probably see him home, there’s good chap, thank you. Devynck would want it that way, I’m sure.”

The senior journeymen exchanged glances, and then the older of the two nodded. “I’ll see him home, thanks.”

Eslingen nodded and smiled, but kept his grip on the younger man until he was actually in the doorway. The senior journeyman followed him, the rest of the butchers trailing after him, pausing opposite Eslingen. The wind from the street was cool and smelled of the middens outside the butchers’ halls, the sharp green scent of vegetables.

“You were paid off today? Sergeant, is it?”

“Lieutenant,” Eslingen answered. “I was. I give you my word on it.”

The senior journeyman looked at him for a moment longer, then, slowly, nodded. “Come on, Paas, let’s get you home.”

Eslingen released the journeyman’s arm, and let the rest of them file out past him into the street. They went quietly enough, embarrassed more than anything, and he was careful not to say or do anything more. Let them forget as quickly as possible that Paas disgraced himself, he thought, and that’ll do more to keep the peace than any threats or arguing. As the last of them left, he turned back into the tavern, glancing around the room more out of habit than because he expected more trouble. The conversations were already returning to normal, nearly everyone more concerned now with their drinks or a last order of food. He’d pulled it off, then, and as neatly as he’d ever done. He allowed himself a slow breath of relief, and Devynck said, “Not bad.”

Eslingen blinked, startled–he hadn’t seen her there in the shadows, or the big waiter, Loret, who was tucking a cudgel back under the strings of his apron–and Devynck went on, “I don’t suppose you’d care to make a habit of it? Defusing the trouble, not starting it, that is. I’d pay you or take it off your rent.”

Whatever else happened, Eslingen thought, he had not been expecting an offer of employment, but he wasn’t stupid enough to turn it down, not when he’d already decided to stay in Astreiant for the summer. He nodded slowly. “I’d be interested, sergeant, but I’d rather talk terms in the morning.”

“Good enough,” Devynck said, and turned away. “Your beer’s on the house tonight.”

“Thanks,” Eslingen answered, and allowed himself a wry smile. It was a cheap enough gesture: he wouldn’t be drinking that much now, not if he wanted to impress her. And he did want to impress her, he realized suddenly. He wanted this job, wanted to stay in the city, though he couldn’t entirely have said why. He shook his head, accepting his own foolishness, and started back to his table and Cijntien.

3

« ^ »

the list of missing children reported to all the points station arrived within three days–a measure in and of itself of the seriousness with which all the Points were taking the problem, Rathe thought– and was enough to silence even the most skeptical of the pointsmen. There were eighty‑four names on the list, a little less than half of them from the five northriver points–no, Rathe realized, more than half, if you counted Point of Hearts as northriver. Which it was, technically; the district lay on the north bank of the Sier between the North Chain Tower and the Western Reach, but it was southriver in population and temperament. Still, he thought, that was not what any of them had expected. Logically, if children were going missing, either as runaways or because they were taken, they should come from southriver, where there were fewer people of influence to protest their vanishing. Or else, he added silently, turning over the last closely written sheet, I would have expected to hear of someone paying out money for the return of an heiress. And there had been none of that; just the opposite, in fact, merchant parents coming to the points stations to report the loss of daughters and sons, and to demand that the points find their missing offspring. There hadn’t been much of that in Point of Hopes, yet; the majority of their complainants had admitted, however grudgingly, that their children might well have run away–except, of course, for Mailet and the Quentiers.

Rathe sighed, set the list back in its place–Monteia had ordered it pinned in a leather folder chained to the duty desk, to keep the names and descriptions ready to hand–and reached for his daybook, moving into the fall of light from the window to skim through the pages of notes. There had been no sign of Gavaret Cordiere in any of the northriver cells–he had even made a special trip across the river to Fairs’ Point to ask Claes in person, but the man had just shaken his head. Not only hadn’t they arrested any boy matching Cordiere’s description, they hadn’t made point on any pickpockets for nearly four days. And it wasn’t that the pointsmen and women were taking fees, Claes added, with a quick grin; it was more that the pickpockets had stopped working. And that, both men agreed, had to be a bad sign– doubly bad, Claes had said, when you matched it with the new band of astrologers who were working the fairgrounds. The arbiters had declared they could stay, but no one needed any more mysteries just now. Rathe had agreed and left Cordiere’s description in the station, but he wasn’t relishing telling Estel Quentier of his failure.

“Rathe? Have you gotten the Robion girl’s stars yet?”

Rathe looked up to see Monteia standing just outside the wedge of light, a thin, dark‑clad shadow against the dark walls. “I was going this afternoon. I wanted to check everything else first.”

“No luck, then.”

Rathe shook his head, barely stopped himself from glancing again through the pages of notes as though he might find something new there. He had been to the local markets, and to every early‑opening shop on the Knives Road, as well as searching out the rag‑pickers and laundresses who served the street, all without noticeable result. “A woman who does laundry for the Gorgon’s Head says she thinks she saw a girl in green going down Knives toward the Rivermarket, but she can’t remember if it was Demesday or Tonsday that she saw it–or last year, for that matter. And a journeyman sneaking in late thinks he might have seen a girl in green going south, away from the river, but he says freely he was too drunk to remember his mother’s name.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Nothing at the Rivermarket?” Monteia went on.

“Not so far. I’ve been through once myself, no one remembers her, but it was a busy morning. I’ve asked Ganier to keep an ear out, though.” Ganier was the pointswoman who had semiofficial responsibility for the complaints that came from the district’s markets.

Monteia nodded. “On your way back from Mailet’s–or to it, I don’t care–I’d like you to stop in the Old Brown Dog. I hear Aagte Devynck has hired herself a new knife, and I’d like to see what you think of him. And make sure he understands our position on troublemakers.”

Rathe frowned, and Monteia shrugged. “I’m sending Andry to collect his bond, unless you want the fee.”

You know I don’t, Rathe thought, but said only, “Thanks anyway. I’ll talk to him.”

“It’s not like Aagte to hire outside help,” Monteia said, her voice almost musing. “I hope we’re not in for trouble there. Not right now.”