“Oh, it’s a comfort, I suppose,” Rathe said. “It’s just not a lot of help.” He winced at what he’d said. “I didn’t mean that, of course–”

“But it would be easier if you had something to work with,” b’Estorr finished. “Don’t worry, I won’t repeat it.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said. He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just that these disappearances are so–absolute. People are talking about children being stolen off the streets, but if it were that, gods, we’d have an easier time of it.” b’Estorr tilted his head. “But they are being stolen, surely.”

“Apparently, but there’s not a woman, or man, who can say they’ve actually seen a child being stolen. And you can be sure there’d be trouble if they did. We nearly had a riot over in Hopes, in the Street of the Apothecaries, no less, when a journeyman tried to drag home one of his apprentices, and people thought he was stealing the child.” Rathe sighed. “No, no one’s stealing them, Istre, at least not in the usual way. They just–disappear. They leave good situations, bad situations, no situations at all. They’re not runaways, that I’m sure of, not with what some of them–hells, most of them, all of them–leave behind. So, they don’t go willingly. But they’re not being seized off the streets. And we don’t know what is happening to them.”

“Some of them are legitimate runaways?” b’Estorr asked.

Rathe nodded. “We’ve found some of those, but it’s harder than ever to tell this year, since of course every parent, guildmaster, or guardian who loses a child would rather think they’ve been taken than that the child would want to run. So I’m getting less honest answers than usual, I think, from some quarters.” Like the surintendant, he added silently. Why he wants me concentrating on Caiazzo when there are plenty of more likely possibilities… but there weren’t any, that was the problem, and he pushed the thought aside. “But the upshot of it all is, Monteia, and I, are checking even the most outlandish possibilities.”

“Which brings you to me?” b’Estorr asked.

The tilt of his eyebrow surprised a grin from Rathe. “Not quite the way that sounded, but yes, sort of. First, is it possible that the children are dead even though no one’s reported touching their ghosts? Could somebody be binding them, or could they have been taken far enough away, and killed there?” b’Estorr was shaking his head, and Rathe stopped abruptly.

“It’s all possible, but not very likely,” the necromancer said. “What do you know about ghosts?”

“What everyone does, I suppose,” Rathe answered. He could smell, quite suddenly, baking bread, but the air that brought that scent was unreasonably cold. “They’re the spirits of the untimely dead, they can remember everything they knew in life except the day they died, and you can’t use their testimony before the judiciary unless two necromancers agree and there’s physical evidence to support their word.”

b’Estorr grinned. “I doubt everybody knows that last.”

Rathe snorted. “They know it by heart in the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives. I’ve had bravos caught red‑handed–literally–and tell me that.”

This time, b’Estorr laughed aloud. “I can’t imagine it would do much good, under those circumstances.”

“It depends on how large a fee they can manage,” Rathe answered.

“Ah.” b’Estorr’s smile faded. “The thing that matters, Nico, is the whys of all that. A ghost can’t remember the specifics of her or his death because–in effect–the murderer has established a geas over her that prevents her speaking. It’s possible, with effort and preparation–true malice aforethought–to extend that geas either to silence the ghost completely, or, more commonly, to bind her to the precise spot where she was killed. If you do it right, the odds that a necromancer, or even a sensitive, would stumble on that spot are vanishingly low. But I doubt that’s what’s happening. It takes too much time and effort to arrange, and if you’re missing, what, fifty children?”

“Eighty‑four,” Rathe answered. “That’s from the entire city.”

b’Estorr’s eyes widened. “Gods, I didn’t realize.” He shook his head. “There is one other possibility, though, that you may need to consider. Have you ever given any thought to the meaning of ‘untimely’ death?”

Rathe looked at him. “I assume it means ‘dead before your time,’ though I daresay you’re going to tell me otherwise.”

“It’s the question of who defines your time,” b’Estorr answered.

Rathe paused. “Your stars?”

“Stars can tell the manner and sometimes the place,” b’Estorr answered. “Not the time. No, the person who defines ‘untimely’ is ultimately the ghost herself. That’s why you’ll see ghosts of people who’ve died of plague or sudden illness, they simply weren’t willing to acknowledge it was time for them to die. That’s also why you don’t see many ghosts of the very old, no matter how they die–and why you don’t see ghosts of those who die in battle or in duel. In each case, those people had accepted the possibility of their death, and accepted it when it happened. Now some people, a very few, even though their deaths would be reckoned timely by any normal measure, simply won’t accept it, and they, too, become ghosts.”

“You mean they just say, ‘no, I’m not dead yet,’ and they’re not?” Rathe demanded.

“Not exactly, but close enough. It’s a question of how strong a life force they have, and what incentives they have to live, or, more precisely, not to die.” b’Estorr’s face grew somber, the blue eyes sliding away to fix on something out of sight over Rathe’s left shoulder. “The reverse is also true. There are people who simply don’t know when they should die, or don’t care, and whose deaths, even by bare murder, don’t seem to matter. They don’t become ghosts because they seem to accept that any death, from whatever cause, is fated.”

“Temple priests, and such?” Rathe asked. He couldn’t keep from sounding skeptical, and wasn’t surprised to see b’Estorr’s mouth twist in answer.

“Well, the ones that are contemplative, and there aren’t many of them left, these days. But the main group this covers is children.”

“Oh.” Rathe leaned back in his chair, aware again of the warm breeze drifting in from the yard, carrying with it a strong smell of dust and greenery. b’Estorr’s ghosts seemed to have moved off; he could feel the sunlight creeping across the toes of his boots, heating his feet beneath the leather. It made sense, painfully so: children weren’t experienced, didn’t know what they could and couldn’t expect from the world; they might well accept death as their lot, especially the ones born and bred southriver, where life was cheap… He shook his head, rejecting the thought. “Not all of them,” he said. “They can’t all have, I don’t know, given up? And some of them were old enough to know, and to be angry.” b’Estorr nodded. “I agree. It’s usually the youngest children, anyway, much younger than apprentice‑age, that this applies to. And even then, you occasionally run into someone who’s clever enough, strong enough–loved enough, sometimes–to know they shouldn’t be dead.” For an instant, his voice sounded distinctly fond, and Rathe wondered just what dead child he was remembering. And then the moment was gone, and he was back to business. “And in a group this large of older children–I doubt this is what’s happening. But I thought I should at least mention it, even as a remote possibility.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said.

“Thank me when I do something useful,” b’Estorr answered. There was a knock at the door, and he added, “Come in.”

The girl student pushed the door open with a hunched shoulder, her hands busy with a covered tray. At b’Estorr’s nod, she set it on the worktable, and disappeared again. b’Estorr lifted the covers, releasing a fragrance of onions and oil, and Rathe realized with a start that he was hungry.

“Help yourself,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe reached for a spoon and bowl. There was bread as well as the wedge of soft cheese and the bowl of noodles and onions, and he balanced a chunk of each on the edge of his bowl.