Rathe nodded. “I’ll want to talk to Eslingen, of course–Monteia wanted me to be sure he understood the situation, anyway, with the fair and all.”

“Reasonable enough,” Devynck answered.

“And I wanted to say, if you hear anything, anything at all, that might have to do with the missing children, I expect to hear from you.”

Devynck’s eyes narrowed. “Did you think otherwise, Rathe?”

Rathe shook his head. “No. But people are starting to talk, up on the Knives Road. If you have any trouble, I also expect to hear from you.”

“That you certainly will,” Devynck said. “Who’ll be taking Philip’s bond?”

“Andry. You don’t mind if I talk to him?”

“Philip? No.”

“Thanks, Aagte.”

Devynck nodded, pushed herself away from the table. “I hope I won’t be seeing you, at least not by way of business, Nico.”

“So do I,” Rathe answered, and went back out into the main room. Eslingen–it had to be Eslingen, with those looks–was standing with the remaining waiter, flipping idly through the cards left on the table. “You’re Eslingen, I presume. Can we talk?”

The dark‑haired man nodded, letting the gesture serve for both answers, moved toward the windows. Rathe looked back at the waiter. “I think you’re wanted in the kitchen.” The man made a face, but moved slowly away, closing the kitchen door behind him. Beside the hearth, the old woman stirred slightly, then subsided again. “The chief point asked me to have a word with you, seeing that you’re new in Astreiant–and seeing that it’s fair time.”

“Ah.” Eslingen smiled, the expression consciously cynical. “How much?”

“You might hear me out,” Rathe answered.

“Sorry.” Eslingen reseated himself at the corner table, flipping the skirts of his coat out of his way, and gestured vaguely to the stool opposite. Rathe accepted the invitation with a nod, and leaned both elbows companionably on the table.

“What Monteia–she’s the chief at Point of Hopes–what Monteia wants is for this fair to go off peaceably. Like last year, if not better, in point of fact, which, since you weren’t here, you might want to ask Aagte about. And to that end, seeing as Aagte’s felt the need to hire a new knife–” Eslingen flushed at that, the color clear on his pale skin. So he thinks himself above that title, Rathe thought, but went on without comment. “–she, Monteia, has asked me to tell you that we don’t get a lot of trouble in Point of Hopes. Devynck’s is a soldiers’ place, true enough, but it doesn’t get what you might call soldiers’ business.” Rathe paused, eyeing the other man’s politely impassive face. “Which means, in plain words, if you run into trouble, send a kid to Point of Hopes. That’s the only way we can guarantee everyone will get treated properly, when it’s soldiers’ troubles, is taking the points and letting us bear witness.”

“And the fee for the service?” Eslingen asked, but he sounded less cynical than the words implied.

Rathe shrugged. “I don’t generally take fees.” He smiled suddenly, unable to resist. “You see, I like my points too much, or so they tell me–I get a great deal of satisfaction out of my job, and taking money to let someone go, well, that would spoil it, wouldn’t it? And there’s not much point in feeing me when it won’t buy you off, and when I already enjoy my work. You can ask Aagte for the truth of it, or anyone in the point, they’ll tell you.”

“I’ll probably do just that,” Eslingen said.

“A wise move.” Rathe leaned forward again. “I do have some questions for you, though.”

Eslingen made a face. “That butcher’s journeyman, right?”

Rathe nodded, not surprised that the man had guessed. He didn’t seem stupid, and it would be a stupid man who failed to make that connection. “You want to tell me what happened?”

Eslingen shrugged. “Not much.”

He went through it quickly, concisely–he told the story well, Rathe thought, plenty of detail but all in its place. It was the same story Devynck had told, the same that Mailet had recounted, barring the butcher’s automatic suspicion of the Leaguer woman. And it sounds to me, Rathe thought, as though he handled an awkward situation rather well. He said aloud, “So why’d you pick a ‘butcher’s brat’ for your example?”

Eslingen’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “I wish to all the gods I’d picked anything else. I don’t know–there were, what, near a dozen of them, butchers, I mean, sitting by the bar. I suppose that made it stick in my mind. That and being near the Knives Road.”

Rathe looked closely at him, but the Leaguer met his eyes guilelessly. It was a plausible explanation, Rathe admitted. And I have to say, I think I believe him. Stealing children, for whatever cause–it’s just not Devynck’s style, and she’d never put up with that traffic in her house. He nodded. “Fair enough. But remember, if you have trouble here, send to Point of Hopes. It’ll pay you better in the long run than feeing me.”

“I’ll do that,” Eslingen said again, and this time Rathe thought he meant it. He pushed himself to his feet, and headed for the door.

Eslingen watched him go, impressed in spite of himself. Rathe wasn’t much to look at–a wiry man in plain‑sewn common clothes, hands too big for his corded arms, with a scar like a printer’s star on one wide cheekbone and glass grey eyes with a Silklands tilt to them–but there was something in his voice, an intensity, maybe, that carried conviction. He shook his head, not sure if he was annoyed with himself or with the pointsman, and crossed to the kitchen door, pushing it open. “Oy, Hulet, you can come out now.”

“Thanks,” the waiter answered, without notable conviction. “Aagte wants to see you.”

“What a surprise. So who is he, the pointsman?”

The other man shrugged, and went to pick up the coins that lay still untouched on the table among the scattered cards. “Nicolas Rathe, his name is. He’s adjunct point at Point of Hopes.”

“How salubrious,” Eslingen murmured.

“Oh, Point of Hopes isn’t bad,” Hulet answered. “Monteia’s reasonable, for a chief point.”

Or bribeable, Eslingen thought. His experience with the points had been minimal, but unpleasant; for all their boasting, Astreiant’s vaunted points seemed to make a very good thing out of the administration of justice. He nodded again, and stepped through the kitchen door.

Devynck was waiting in the doorway of her counting room, arms folded across her chest. She jerked her head for him to enter, closed the door behind him, then seated herself behind the table. “So Point of Hopes is already taking an interest in your exploits. Did he tell you about Andry?”

Eslingen shook his head.

Devynck snorted. “Andry’s one of the pointsmen. He’ll be along to collect your–bond, he’ll call it. Tell me what he charges, I’ll pay half.”

Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, but said, “Thanks. Is this trouble?”

“Not the bond, no,” Devynck answered, “but these kids… that could be.”

Eslingen nodded at that, thinking about his own brief explorations in the neighborhood. The people hadn’t been precisely unfriendly, the bathhouse keeper and the barber had been glad of his custom, but he’d been aware of the eyes on him, the way that people watched him and any stranger. He’d walked across the Hopes‑point Bridge that morning to the Temple Fair, to visit the broadsheet vendors who worked there, and the talk had been all of this child and that one, gone missing from their shops or homes. Half the prophecies tacked to the poles of the stalls had dealt with the question, and the lines had been five or six deep to read and to buy. “People are worried.”

“And ready to blame the most convenient target,” Devynck said, sourly. She shook her head. “I can’t see the recruiters bothering, damn it. There’re usually too many people wanting a place, not the other way round.”

“Do you suppose it’s the starchange?” Eslingen asked, and Devynck looked sharply at him.