“There was one other thing Monteia wanted,” he said, around a mouthful of noodles, and b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.

“I might have known.” His smile robbed the words of any offense.

“Yeah, well, she was wanting to have horoscopes cast for our missing lads, for the days of disappearance when we know them, see if anything useful showed up that way,” Rathe said. “So I was wondering if you could tell me who would be best for the job.”

“I could do it myself, if you’d like,” b’Estorr answered. “Or there’s Cathala, she’s very skilled.”

“I’d rather you did it,” Rathe answered, “and thanks.”

“All I’ll need are the nativities, the best you can get me,” b’Estorr answered. “You must be hard up for information if you’re trying that.”

“We’ve damn all but rumors, and those dangerous ones,” Rathe said. “For us, a lot of suspicion is falling on a Leaguer who runs a tavern on the border with Point of Dreams. And, yes, it’s a soldiers’ haunt, and, yes, a lot of recruiting goes on there. But the people there are adamant that no commander’s going to be taking children at this time of year, when he could have his choice from the royal regiments that were just paid off.”

“There’s a great deal of sense to that,” b’Estorr said.

Rathe nodded. “Certainly, but it’s not what anyone wants to hear. They just want their kids back.” b’Estorr smiled in agreement. “No theories, then?”

“Oh, everyone has a favorite theory, we’ve a glut of them.” Rathe counted them off on his fingers. “The surintendant favors Hanselin Caiazzo, though the gods alone know what he’d do with eighty‑four children. The chief at City Point is looking askance at the manufactories, Temple Point has asked all of us southriver to check the brothels–which we’ve done, at least once–and in the meantime most of southriver is blaming northriver merchants. Exactly how, they’re not sure, but they’re positive it’s the rich who are doing it to them somehow. Leveller voices are being heard again. Oh, yes, and they’re not too sure the points aren’t involved, somehow or other.”

“I don’t quite see that,” b’Estorr said.

“At the very least, we’ve been fee’d to look the other way.”

“Oh. Of course.” There was a smile behind the necromancer’s voice, and Rathe smiled in reply.

“So what are the rumors up here, magist? What theories have the students and masters come up with?”

b’Estorr gave him a bland stare. “Do you think we have time to waste on idle gossip?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. There’s a lot of talk about the starchange, of course–you’ve probably heard variations on that theme as well. And when you add politics to the mix, people are in a mood to borrow trouble. Among the juniors there’s talk of dark maneuverings by one or more of the potential claimants.” b’Estorr frowned slightly, more pensive than annoyed. “Marselion seems to be high on everyone’s list– why is that, Nico?”

Rathe grinned. He had seen the Palatine Marselion and her train on her last visit to Astreiant, for the Fall Balance and its associated session of the Great Council. She had carried herself like a queen, and snubbed the city–even the northriver merchants, who had been prepared to welcome her–except for her distributions of alms. “She’s been too blatant in her ambition. She thinks it’s sewn up, or she acts like it is, and the people don’t like that.”

“Not that they have much say in the matter.” b’Estorr’s voice held a faint note of distaste, and Rathe’s grin widened fractionally. Chadron was, technically, an elective kingship, which contributed greatly to the death rate among its monarchs.

“Maybe not, but Astreiant is a populist’s city, and her majesty has always made it her business to stay in tune with the mood of her people. You don’t ignore the rumblings.” Rathe paused. “So you lot think it’s political?”

“One way or another, that’s the consensus,” b’Estorr answered. He hesitated. “There’s also been talk of freelance astrologers, that they might be involved, but I’m inclined to write that off as professional jealousy.”

“Oh?” In spite of himself, Rathe found his attention sharpening. “I’ve seen one or two of them, or I think I have. What do you know about them?”

b’Estorr shrugged. “That’s pretty much all, Nico. I understand the Three Nations complained to the arbiters–the students usually make a good bit of money doing readings at the fair, and this, quite simply, cuts into their profits.”

He sounded more amused than anything else, and Rathe nodded. “So your vote is still for politics?”

“I’m not so sure. I think someone’s taking advantage of the uncertainty of the starchange–but stealing children? I can’t imagine why. Or for what purpose.”

Rathe sighed and set the now‑empty bowl back on the tray. “No, and that’s the problem. It’s crazy, stealing children, and even as madness, it doesn’t make sense. I have nativities for some of ours, by the way.”

“I’ll get started on it right away.” b’Estorr’s face was wry. “Who knows, something may come of it.”

“Right,” Rathe answered, and knew he sounded even less enthusiastic than the other man. He reached into his purse, found the folded sheet of paper, and slid it across the worktable to the magist. “Those are the nativities we have, and the days they disappeared. We made a guess at the time, but that’s all it is.”

b’Estorr unfolded it, skimming the careful notation. “At least these kids knew their stars–to the quarter hour, too. That’s a help.”

“It’s the only luck we’ve had.” Rathe glanced at the sunstick again, and pushed himself to his feet. It was more than time he was getting back to Point of Hopes. “Let me know if you hear anything, even if it’s just a new rumor, would you? Though it’s the last thing I want to hear, I think I need to keep abreast of as much of the popular murmur as possible.”

b’Estorr nodded, already engrossed in the first calculations, and Rathe let himself out into the stairwell.

5

« ^ »

the day was hot already, and it still lacked an hour to noon. Eslingen sat in the garden of the Brown Dog, coat hung neatly on a branch of the fruit tree behind him, and wished that the river breeze reached this far inland. The latest batch of broadsheet prophecies lay on the little table beside him, half read; the one on the top of the stack, a nice piece, better printed than most, invoked transits of the moon and predicted that the missing children would be found unharmed. Eslingen had lifted an eyebrow at that. He hoped it was true, hoped that whoever had cast this horoscope had some insight denied the rest of Astreiant, but couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. The rest of the prophecies blamed anyone and everyone, from the denizens of the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives to the owners of the manufactories, and a few of them weren’t bothering even to keep up the pretense of a prediction. One of those made oblique reference to the queen’s childlessness, and suggested that a “northern tree might bear better fruit.” Even Eslingen could translate that–the Palatine Marselion, or her supporters, pushing her candidacy–and he shook his head. Chenedolle’s monarchy had settled its laws of succession long ago: the crown descended by strict primogeniture in the direct line, but if there were no heirs of the body, the monarch named her heir from among her kin, supposedly on the basis of their stars. Marselion was the queen’s cousin, and her closest living relative, but if I were queen, Eslingen thought, I wouldn’t look kindly on these little games. Not with the city in the state it is.

“How can you stand to read that trash?”

Eslingen looked up to see Adriana looking down at him. She had been working in the kitchen all morning, and the stove’s heat had left her red‑faced and sweating; she had unlaced her sleeveless bodice, and pinned up the sleeves of her shift, but it didn’t seem to have done much good.