The clerk’s eyes widened. “You haven’t–” she began, and Rathe shook his head.

“No, mistress, no word. I just need to get some information.”

The clerk relaxed slightly, her disappointment evident, but held the door a little wider. She was young for her post, a bright‑eyed, round‑cheeked girl with a complexion like milk and roses, copper‑gilt hair tucked imperfectly under her tall cap. “Come in, pointsman. Her Excellency’s just dressing.”

Rathe followed her down the narrow hall, past familiar painted panels, flowers, and fruiting trees that were almost invisible in the morning shadow, and then up the curved main staircase to the first floor. Foucquet was waiting in her bedroom, arms lifted to let one of her women lace the stiff corset into place over shirt and petticoats. A second woman was waiting with skirt and bodice, and a clerk sat on a low tabouret, reading from a sheaf of notes. She broke off as Rathe appeared, and Foucquet waved her away.

“All right, we can finish that later, thank you. What do you want with me this time, Rathe?” She gestured to the hovering maid, who dropped the massive skirt over her head, fastening it deftly over the flurry of petticoats. Foucquet shrugged on the bodice offered by the second woman, stood still while she fastened the dozens of buttons.

“I wanted to talk to you about this missing clerk of yours,” Rathe answered.

“Ah.” Foucquet nodded to the second maid, who had collected the massive scarlet robe of office and stood waiting with it. “No, leave that for now. All of you, that’s all for the moment, thank you. Tefana, warn me at the half hour, if we’re not done by then.”

“Yes, Excellency,” the older clerk answered, collecting her papers. The younger clerk and the maids followed her from the room, the last of the maids closing the double doors behind her. Foucquet crossed to her dressing table, skirts rustling, seated herself in front of the array of pots and brushes.

“You’ll forgive me if I go on making ready,” she said, “but I’m more than willing to answer any questions.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said. Her hands were painted, he saw without surprise, saw too the graceful movements with which she opened the tiny vials and began repairing blemished spots with the touch of a tiny brush. He had known forgers less deft, but then, Foucquet was always careful of her appearance.

“I would have thought you’d gotten the case from Point of Hearts,” Foucquet went on, and added a dot of gold leaf to the painted arabesques coiling across her right hand. “I told them what I thought when they were here.”

Rathe shook his head. “Haven’t had the chance, Excellency. The surintendant only told me last night you wanted me to handle this.”

Foucquet looked up sharply, her brush, laden this time with a drop of red paint bright as blood, poised in midair. “I–?” She broke off, touched the brush to its proper place in the design. “I didn’t make any such request, Nico. I know how jealous the points are of their territories. Besides, as I told Hearts, I have a shrewd idea where the boy’s gone.”

“You didn’t ask the sur to have me take the case?” Rathe asked.

“No.” Foucquet’s eyes narrowed, deepening the lines at their outer corners. “What’s he up to, Nico?”

“I wish I knew.” Rathe frowned. It was hard to see what Fourie might gain from assigning him to this particular case–if he’d wanted me to look into Caiazzo’s maybe‑connection to all of this, he could’ve just told me to do it, he added, with a feeling of genuine grievance. Or was he worried that someone would find out what I was supposed to be doing? If there’s a political dimension to all of this, which he seems certain there is, then maybe he’s wise to treat it this way. He put those concerns aside for later consideration, looked back at Foucquet. “You say you think you know what happened to the boy?”

Foucquet smiled, a rueful expression. “Albe’s theater‑mad–and talented, too, though his mother won’t see it. I think he ran away to join one of the companies. It’s not a bad time of year for it, they always need extra help for the fair.”

That was true enough, and Rathe nodded. “How would he know where to run, though? The players aren’t quite a closed guild, but they tend to stick together.” And they don’t much like northriver kids coming in and taking places away from their own, he added silently.

Foucquet sighed, stared for a moment at the paint now drying on her hands. “I have been–seeing–someone recently. An actress in Savatier’s troupe.”

“Her name?” Rathe reached for his tablets.

“Anjesine bes’Hallen. She lives in Point of Dreams.”

“Chadroni, by her name.” Rathe didn’t bother commenting on her residence; most players lived where they worked.

Foucquet nodded. “Born there, yes, but she’s lived here a long time.” She looked away again. “She was here the night Albe ran, he might have gone with her.”

“And you haven’t asked her?” Rathe knew he sounded incredulous, and Foucquet made a face.

“We’ve parted ways, and not entirely happily, either. And with Albe’s mother as set against it as she is, I didn’t want to cause her trouble. I confess, I’m not sorry to see you handling this, even if I didn’t ask for it.”

Rathe nodded. “What did you tell them at Hearts, about bes’Hallen?”

“That she and I were, or had been, friends,” Foucquet answered. “And I told them the boy wanted to be a player.”

“Well, that should give them plenty to work with,” Rathe said. “I’ll make a few inquiries of my own, if you’d like, though.”

“I’d be grateful,” Foucquet answered. “I’m afraid Hearts will be too blinded by these other children to look closely at Albe. And he’s still well under age, I suppose it’s his mother’s right to say what she’ll have him do.”

“I suppose,” Rathe said, with less conviction. He had met too many mothers, and fathers, too, who seemed determined to set their children’s feet on the wrong paths to agree easily with the judge‑advocate. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Foucquet said. “And, Nico. Do let me know what happens, whatever the hour. I won’t forgive myself if he’s not at the theaters.”

Rathe nodded, and Foucquet reached for a bell to summon one of her servants. The younger clerk appeared almost at once, quickly enough that Rathe half suspected her of listening outside the double doors. She said nothing, however, and let him out into the rising warmth of the morning with quick courtesy.

Rathe squinted at the sky, but there was no point visiting either theaters or actors until the second sunrise, and he was unlikely to get real sense from anyone until late afternoon. That left Caiazzo and the unlicensed printers on his book: the Pantheon was closer, and more or less on his way, and he knew one or two stall‑keepers in Temple Fair who should be able to give him some of the information he needed. He sighed, and started back toward the Horsegate.

It wasn’t a long walk to Temple Fair. Rathe made his way across the open square, dodging travellers and the usual crowd of idlers, and climbed the three steps to the gallery that surrounded the Pantheon itself. There, he leaned against the sun‑warmed stone, one booted foot braced against the wall, and tried to pretend that he was reading the crudely printed broadsheet nailed to the pillar in front of him. It was typical of its kind, obscure astrology married to bad poetry, embellished with an illustration of Areton in full armor confronting Dis‑Aidones across a shield marked with a device that might have been intended to be a map of the kingdom. The dozen‑plus‑three couplets analyzed the position of the Areton‑star in the heavens, and concluded that Chenedolle must stand adamant against unspecified enemies. It also predicted earthquakes at the equinox, but more as an afterthought. Rathe glanced automatically for the imprimatur, and found it–but then, he thought, either the printer or the astrologer had been careful to leave no grounds for refusal. Areton was a neutral god, patron of soldiers and sportsmen, and giver of courage; his worship was either specialized or cut across class and national boundaries, and his temples served as strongboxes for longdistance traders worldwide. If it had shown Seidos standing against the Starsmith, or one of the Seideian Heroes, or even Seidos’s Horse, then it would have been political: Seidos was the protector of the Ile’nord and of the nobility, and the Ile’norders had been vociferous in their support for Marselion. But Areton was safe.