Unfortunately, it was early enough that the broadsheet sellers hadn’t collected many browsers, and Rathe was conspicuous in his jerkin and truncheon. For a moment, he considered trying to hide at least the truncheon, but put that aside as impractical. Agere, and any of the others who were printing without a bond, would be watching for just that kind of trouble; better to keep out of sight, and think of something better. Before he could think just what, however, a voice called his name.

“Rathe! I hope you’re not poaching, my son.”

Rathe turned to see a stocky man, his truncheon thrust into a belt that strained over his barrel‑shaped body. His jerkin, white leather, not the usual brown or black, was stamped with a floral pattern that sat rather oddly on his bulk. “Chief Point,” he answered, warily. Anything that brought Guillen Claes to the fair in his own person had to be of significance; Claes preferred to leave the fairgrounds to his subordinates, and concentrate his attention on the rest of Fairs’ Point.

“So, if you’re not poaching, what possessed Monteia to give you a day off so early in the fair season?” Claes went on.

“It’s not poaching,” Rathe answered. “We’ve had some problems with illegal broadsheets being sold in Point of Hopes; I’ve traced one of the printers here.”

“You think,” Claes said, and Rathe grinned.

“I think. But I’m pretty sure.”

“Who?”

“The name I have is Agere,” Rathe said.

“Franteijn Agere,” Claes repeated. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I’ve also heard that she’s printing under Caiazzo’s coin,” Rathe went on, and the other man snorted.

“Also wouldn’t surprise me. But I’d be astonished if you proved a point on him.”

“Frankly, so would I,” Rathe answered. He glanced around, seeing only the usual early fair‑goers, mostly merchants, small and large, buying their goods before the general crowd. He thought he caught a glimpse of a black robe–one of the runners’ astrologers?–but it whisked out of sight behind a stall before he could be sure. He sighed and lowered his voice before going on. “I came here mostly to see what she was printing, see if she is the one we’re after, but there’s not enough of a crowd. And I’m a little conspicuous to do my own shopping. I was going to send one of our runners, but, seeing as you’re here, I wonder if I might borrow one of yours. We’d be willing to split the point.”

Claes nodded, appeased. “I trust you’ll remember that when the time comes.” He lifted a hand, and a skinny boy seemed to appear out of thin air. He was barefoot, toes caked with dirt, and shirt and breeches were well faded, imperfectly patched. He looked like any one of the dozens of urchins who gathered to run errands at the fairs, and Rathe nodded in appreciation of the disguise. The boy grinned back at him, showing better teeth than Rathe would have expected, but the eyes he fixed on Claes were wary.

“This is Guillot,” Claes said. “He’s one of our runners–not the best, not the worst.”

Rathe nodded, and fished in his purse for a couple of demmings. “I’m looking for a broadsheet, printed without license, and I think you’ll find it at Agere’s stall. That’s the one with the three gargoyles for its sign.”

The boy nodded. “I know Agere. Was it a particular sheet, or will any one do?”

“The one I want shows a horse and rider, a woman rider, and a tree behind her that’s full of fruit. I think they’re supposed to be apples.” Rathe held out the demmings, and Guillot took them eagerly. “Pick up any others that look interesting.”

Guillot nodded again, and scurried away, to disappear between a pair of canvas‑walled stalls. Claes watched him go, turned back to face the younger man only when he was out of sight. “How are things in Point of Hopes?”

“Nothing new,” Rathe answered. There was no point in pretending to misunderstand. “Our missing ones are still missing, and the locals are blaming a Leaguer tavern.”

“Which it isn’t?”

“Which it isn’t, at least not as far as I or Monteia can see,” Rathe said. “Anything new here?”

Claes shook his head. “Not a thing. I’ve been keeping a watch on the caravaners, of course, but there aren’t that many in yet–more coming in every day, of course, but the stalls aren’t more than half filled. And we’re watching the ship‑captains.” He shook his head again, mouth twisting into a bitter smile. “I’ve a pair of twins missing, I thought sure we’d find them on the docks–they’re river‑mad, the pair of them, but they’ve got Phoebe in the Seabull’s house.”

“Not good for travel by water,” Rathe said, and Claes nodded.

“So you can understand they wouldn’t find a riverman willing to take them on as apprentices. But then Jaggi–Jagir, his name is, he’s one of our juniors, bright, too–he tells me the Silklanders don’t read that configuration the same way, so I thought sure we’d found them.” He sighed. “But my people have been up and down the docks and not a sign of them. No one remembers them, and you’d think someone would, a pair of identical redheaded thirteen‑year‑olds.”

“Paid not to remember?” Rathe asked, without much hope.

“By whom? Besides, there are too many people on the docks. Someone would have noticed.”

Rathe nodded. Redhaired twins would surely be noticed. “I’ll have our people ask along the Factors’ Walk and the Rivermarket, just in case, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Nor will I,” Claes answered, sourly, then said, “but I would take it kindly, Rathe. Thanks. It’s just–we’ve got these printers, and then the bloody astrologers to deal with on top of it all.”

“And about those astrologers,” Rathe began grimly. Claes lifted a hand.

“Freelances, no temple, no training, and they’re infesting the grounds like a pack of black gargoyles,” he said. “The arbiters say they’re all right, but the Three Nations are getting mutinous. And that’s all we need, student riots, to round out a really exciting fair.”

Rathe nodded his agreement, and the boy Guillot appeared from between a different pair of stalls, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Sir? Were these the ones you wanted?”

Rathe took the smeared pages from him, flipped quickly through them. Agere was a better printer than Lebrune, but she’d obviously worked in haste. The images–woodcuts, from the look of them, easily made and as easily burned, eliminating evidence–lay crooked on the page, and here and there a letter sat askew, or had been put in upside down. The message, however, was clear enough: the stars said the queen should name her heir, and the clear implication was that she should name Palatine Marselion. “These are the ones.”

“They’ve all got a bond mark,” Guillot said.

“Forged,” Rathe said. “Look closer.”

The boy did as he was told, and grinned suddenly. Rathe smiled back–it took a certain sense of humor to replace the wand of justice carried by the hooded Sofia at the center of the seal with Tyrseis’s double‑headed jester’s stick–and looked at Claes. “As I said, we’ll split the point with you, but it doesn’t seem the best time to be playing politics.”

Claes nodded. “Leave Agere to me, Rathe. You catch your sellers, and we’ll be ready.”

“Thanks,” Rathe answered, and turned away. Neither man mentioned Caiazzo: proving his involvement, that it was his coin that paid for ink and paper, would require either a stroke of luck or a major mistake on Caiazzo’s part, and that was more than anyone dared hope for at this point.

Caiazzo lived in a low, sprawling house in the river district of Customs Point, a new‑style house, not one of the old half‑fortresses. Rathe ignored the discreet alley that led to the trades’ entrance and instead climbed the three broad steps that led to the main door. They were freshly washed, too, he noticed, as he let the striker fall, not just swept. But then, Caiazzo was a great believer in matching his surroundings. Rathe let his gaze run the length of the street, surveying the other houses that stood there. Caiazzo’s was exactly as well kept as the rest, his brickwork as neatly pointed, the glass in his windows no better– and no worse–than his neighbors. Strictly, geographically speaking, Customs Point was southriver, and more established merchants, even the ones who had been born here, would never dream of having their houses there. These were homes of the up‑and‑coming, people whose fortunes were still precarious, who still feared going back to reckoning their wealth in silver rather than gold. Caiazzo was better off than that, but he made his own rules, and he chose to live at the heart of his business, a bare five minutes’ walk from the wharves at Point of Sorrows. Which made a good deal of sense, Rathe thought, given how much of that business depends on the ability to slip goods and coin discreetly between one place and another. Caiazzo was southriver born and bred, and he hadn’t forsaken his heritage; some of his business methods were pure southriver, the sort honed and polished to perfection in the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives. Not that Caiazzo was just any court thug, Rathe added silently, and kicked a piece of mud off the freshly washed stone.