“That’s not likely to do you much good,” Mailet grumbled. Rathe said nothing–he knew that as well as anyone; it was axiomatic in dealing with astrologers that as the focus of the question narrowed the certainties became smaller–and the butcher sighed, and opened the book. He flipped through the pages, scowling now at the lines of ink that were fading already from black to dark brown, finally stopped on a page close to the end. “Here. This is her indenture, her chart’s there at the bottom of the page.”

Rathe pulled out his tablet, and swung the ledger toward him to copy the neat diagram. It was, he admitted silently, almost certain to be an exercise in futility. Most southriver children knew the date and the place of their birth, but were less clear about its time. Not many common women would have the coin to pay someone to keep track precisely, and their midwives would have enough to do, tending the birth itself, and after, to make it unlikely that the time would be noted with the quarter‑hour’s accuracy the astrologers preferred. He himself knew his stars to within a half hour, and counted himself lucky at that; most of his friends had known only the approximate hour, nothing more. He incised the circle and its twelve divisions with the ease of long practice–even the poorest dame schools taught one how to construct that figure–and glanced at the drawing in the ledger. The familiar symbols were clear enough, the planets spread fanlike across one side of the wheel, but to his surprise there were numbers sketched beside each of the marks, and along the spokes that marked the divisions of the houses. He looked up.

“It’s very complete. Is it accurate?”

Mailet shrugged. “I suppose–I assume so. She was born on the day of the earthquake in twenty‑one, and she told me her mother heard the clock strike five the moment she was born. Her aunt, the one who paid her indenture, had the chart drawn for her as an apprenticeship gift.”

Rathe nodded. He remembered the earthquake himself, the way the towers of the city had staggered; it hadn’t done much damage, but it had terrified everyone, and untuned all the city clocks so that the temple of Hesion had been jammed for a solar month afterward, and the grand resident had built a new tower from the offerings. No one would forget that date, and the astrologers would know the stars’ positions by heart. “This was copied from that chart, the one her aunt bought her?” he asked, and Mailet nodded. “Did she take it with her, or would it be in her room?”

“She carried it around with her like a talisman,” Mailet answered. “You’d think it named her some palatine’s missing heiress.”

Rathe sighed. He would have to hope that whoever copied it into the indenture had been accurate–or pay to have the chart drawn again, which would be expensive. He drew the symbols one after the other, then copied the numbers, checking often to make sure he had it right. Nothing looked unusual, there were no obvious flaws or traps, and he sighed again and closed the tablets. “Thank you,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet.

“For all the good it does you,” Mailet answered, but his expression softened slightly. “Let us know if you find anything, pointsman. Send to us, day or night.”

“Of course,” Rathe answered, and let himself back into the hall.

The Old Brown Dog lay just off the Knives Road, on the tenuous border between Point of Hopes and Point of Dreams, and neither station was eager to claim it. In practice, it fell to Point of Hopes largely because Monteia was able to deal with Devynck woman to woman. Or something, Rathe added silently, watching a flock of gargoyles lift from a pile of spilled seeds beside a midden barrel. Maybe they’d simply settled on an appropriate fee between them.

The main room was almost empty at midafternoon, only an ancient woman sitting beside the cold hearth, her face so wrinkled and shrunken beneath her neat cap that it was impossible to tell if she were asleep or simply staring into space. A couple of the waiters were playing tromps, the table between them strewn with cards and a handful of copper coins, and a tall man sat in the far corner reading a broadsheet prophecy, feet in good boots propped up on the table in front of him. Good soldier’s boots, Rathe amended, and his gaze sharpened. Devynck liked to hire out‑of‑work soldiers, and this just might be her new knife. The stranger looked up, as though he’d heard the thought or felt Rathe’s eyes on him, and lowered the broadsheet with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He was handsome, almost beautiful, Rathe thought, with the milk white Leaguer complexion that was so fashionable now, and long almost‑black hair. In the light from the garden window, his eyes were very blue, the blue of ink, not sky, and he’d chosen the ribbons on his hat and hair to match the shade. And that, Rathe thought, recalling himself to the job at hand, bespoke a vanity that, while not surprising, was probably not attractive.

“I’m here to see Aagte,” he said, to the room at large, and the handsome man’s smile widened slightly. One of the waiters put his cards aside with palpable relief–he’d been losing, Rathe saw, by the piled coins, and scurried through the kitchen door. He reappeared a moment later, held the door open with a grimace that wasn’t quite a smile.

“She says, come on back,” he said, and Rathe nodded, and stepped through into the hall that led to the kitchen. The smell of food was much stronger here, onions and oil and garlic and the distinctive Leaguer scent of mutton and beer, not unpleasant but powerful; through the open arch he could see Devynck’s daughter Adriana helping to scour the pans for the night’s dinner. She saw him looking, and grinned cheerfully, her hands never pausing in their steady motion. Rathe smiled back, and a side door opened.

“So, Rathe, what brings you here?” Devynck’s eyes were wary, despite the pleasant voice. She beckoned him into the little room– another counting room, Rathe saw, though a good deal smaller than Mailet’s–and shut the door firmly behind him.

“A few things,” Rathe answered easily. “Nothing–complicated.”

“That would be a first.” Devynck leaned against the edge of her work table, which looked as though it had seen service in the kitchens, the top scarred with knife marks. There was only one chair, and Rathe appreciated the delicate balance of courtesy and status. She wouldn’t sit, and keep him standing, but neither would she stand when he sat.

“I understand you have a new knife,” he went on.

Devynck nodded. “You probably saw him when you came in. His name’s Philip, Philip Eslingen. Just paid off from Coindarel’s Dragon’s.”

“Is that a reference?” Rathe asked, with exaggerated innocence, and Devynck gave a sour smile.

“To some of us, anyway. Coindarel’s no fool, and he doesn’t hire fools.”

Rathe’s eyebrows rose, in spite of himself. Coindarel was known to choose his junior officers for their looks, and the man in the main room was easily pretty enough to have caught the prince‑marshal’s eye.

Devynck sighed. “Not for his sergeants–not for the men who do the real work, anyway. And Philip came up through the ranks.”

“It wasn’t his sleeping habits that worried me,” Rathe answered. “I hear you had a little trouble here the other night.”

“We did not,” Devynck answered promptly, “and that’s precisely why I hired the man. There could’ve been trouble, easy, but he nipped it in the bud.”

“What I heard–what’s being said on the Knives Road,” Rathe said, “is that he was talking about missing butcher’s brats before he could’ve known about it.”

Devynck sighed again, and shook her head. “Paas. He’s a bad lot, that one, be a journeyman all his life–if he doesn’t drink himself right out of the guild.”

“So what happened?”

“You’d have to ask Philip for the details,” Devynck answered, “but what I saw was, Paas came over to their table–Eslingen was drinking with a man, looked like an old friend. I don’t know his name, but he’s a Leaguer, too, works for one of the caravan‑masters. But anyway, they were drinking, and Paas comes over their table, says something I don’t hear except for the tone.” She smiled suddenly. “And the next thing I know, Philip’s got him by the arm and is leading him gently out the door. The rest of the butchers’ boys went with him, pretty well abashed. Everyone knows Paas drinks too much.”