The astrologer gave a slight smile. “No magist, sir, but an astrologer, and a good one.” He tilted his head. “Are you looking to have a reading done?”

His accent was pleasant, Chenedolliste, but without the city’s sharp vowels. Eslingen smiled back, and said, carefully, “Indeed, I was wanting that, the temper of the times being what they are, but I was also wondering what temple you served.”

The astrologer seemed to study him for a long moment, the smile widening almost imperceptibly. “No temple, sir, the stars are free to all. But, as we serve no one master, our fees are low–and fixed.”

Eslingen hid a sigh–he had hoped to talk the price down a little, on the grounds that the astrologer had no affiliation–and said, “How much?”

“Two demmings for a man grown,” the astrologer answered promptly. “In advance.”

The price was much lower than he had expected, and Eslingen blinked. It probably wouldn’t be a brilliant reading–in his experience, one generally got what one paid for–but at that price, he could hardly refuse. “Agreed,” he said, and reached into his purse for the coins.

The astrologer accepted them calmly. “A wise course, sir– especially given that you’re a Leaguer, from your accent?”

Eslingen nodded, his expression wry. “As I said, the times being what they are…”

The astrologer smiled again, and lifted his disk orrery. “And when were you born, sir?”

“The fifth day of Sedeion, a little past half‑past ten in the morning,” Eslingen answered. “In the second year of this queen’s reign.”

The astrologer nodded, and began adjusting the rings of the orrery.

It was double‑faced, Eslingen saw; the other side would be already set to this day’s planetary positions, and the astrologer would take his reading from a comparison of the two. “Do you know the time any more closely–was it closer to the half hour, or to the next quarter?”

Eslingen shook his head. “Past the half hour is all I know.” His mother had lost interest in keeping precise track after her third or fourth child was born, and there had never been money for a decent midwife; he had been lucky to know this much.

“Unfortunate,” the astrologer said, almost absently, and held the orrery to his eyes. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise a precise accounting.”

Eslingen sighed, but said nothing. The astrologer turned the orrery from one side to the other, then went on briskly. “Well. You were born under the Horse and the Horsemaster, good signs for a soldier, and the sun is still in the Horse, which is also good for you, though it left the Horsemaster four days ago. The moon is against you just now, in the Spider and the Hearthstone, but that will change with the new moon, when it returns to the Horse. Astree stands in the Horse and Horsemaster still, which is good for seeing justice done–” He smiled at that, thinly, and Eslingen’s smile in return was wry. “–but it and the sun stand square to the winter‑sun. Seidos is well aspected for you, both at your birth and presently; I’d say you were due to rise in the world, possibly through your trade.” He shook his head then, and slipped the orrery back into his pocket beneath the rusty gown. “With the moon and the winter‑sun against you, I would advise you to stay away from lunar things for the next few days, at least until the new moon. Don’t travel by water until then, and be cautious once the true sun’s down. All of that should end by the new moon, and you should see a change of fortune then.”

And that, Eslingen thought, was that. It wasn’t much, when you boiled it down to the essentials–be careful after sundown, a reasonable enough statement in a large city, and a chance that he would change his status, possibly through his trade, with the new moon. But it was something, and the statement that Astree was placed to insure that justice would be done was a little reassuring. “Thanks,” he said aloud, and the astrologer gave an odd, almost old‑fashioned bow.

“My pleasure to serve,” he said, and turned away.

Eslingen watched him go, and was startled at how fast the man seemed to vanish in the crowd, despite the conspicuous black robe. Still, it made sense to be inconspicuous when the trade was new, especially when they were undercutting an established group. More power to you, he thought, and heard the Fairs’ Point clock strike the hour. He turned back toward the Old Brown Dog, and hoped that the astrologer’s prediction was right about things changing at the new moon.

Rathe left the Old Brown Dog in an odd mood. He believed what the recruiter had said, that he wouldn’t take children when he could get adults, believed, too, that he would only want the ones with Seidos in their stars, or at least practice with horses, if he were to take children. But it was quite obvious that Jasanten hadn’t quite trusted him, and wondered if he should make further inquiries about the recruiter. It was probably nothing, he decided–if nothing else, he couldn’t see a one‑legged man having much success taking children against their will–but he made a mental note to speak to Eslingen again, find out what he knew about Jasanten. Devynck’s new knife seemed a decent sort, and, more than that, he seemed to have the happy faculty of resolving potentially difficult situations without bloodshed. He’d never thought of that as a soldier’s skill before, but he suspected Devynck would be glad of it.

The tower clock at the north end of the Hopes‑point Bridge struck the hour, and he quickened his pace. He wanted to talk to Foucquet before she left for the judiciary, which meant, practically speaking, any time before nine o’clock. If she had been willing to ask Fourie to intervene in the matter of this missing clerk, rather than going through the usual channels, she would certainly be willing to be a little late to the courts to talk to him. And after that… he sighed, contemplating the day’s work. After that, he would swing through Temple Fair, see if he could track down some of the broadsheets that had so annoyed Monteia. Publishing without a license was a nuisance in good times, but in bad, and these were beginning to be undeniably bad times, the unlicensed printers seemed to take positive glee in spreading predictions of disaster.

Foucquet lived in the Horsegate District, outside the city walls, an easy walk from the judiciary and the lesser courts that met at the Tour de la Citй. Rathe had been there many times before, first in Foucquet’s service, and then during his time at University Point, but he always took a guilty pleasure in walking the wide, well‑swept street, walled on either side by the multi‑colored bricks of the grand‑clerks’ houses. Most of them had gardens attached, nothing as extensive as the park‑lands of the Western Reach, but enough to perfume the air with the hint of greenery. Rathe lifted his head as he passed,under the shadow of a fruit tree. The flowers were long gone, the fruit hard green knobs among the darker leaves, but he could imagine the scent of their ripening. He heard children calling behind an iron gate, and glanced sideways to see a girl, maybe six or seven, gesturing imperiously over the head of her hobbyhorse, directing a trio of younger children as though she were a royal marshal. Their nursemaid saw him, too, and the sharpened stare and quick frown were enough to erase his pleasure. No children that young had gone missing–yet–but the woman was wise to take no chances. He moved on, never breaking stride, but he was aware of the woman’s eyes on him for some time after, and looked back at the corner to see her standing in the gate, watching warily.

Foucquet’s house was in the middle range, better than her mother’s house had been, certainly, but far from the most expensive the Horsegate had to offer. Rathe rang the bell at the side door, the appellant’s door–there was no point in alienating her household just now–and nodded to the red‑robed clerk who came scurrying to answer. “Nicolas Rathe, Point of Hopes,” he said. “I need to speak with Her Excellency.”