“I like to see what people are thinking,” he answered, and shoved the jug of small beer toward her. “Can you join me?”

She shook her head, but lifted the pitcher and drank deeply. “I can’t stay, but I had to get out of the kitchen. Sweet Demis, but it’s scalding in there.”

“Pity you can’t serve cold food,” Eslingen said.

“Food served cold has to be cooked first,” Adriana answered. “But tonight should be easier. Most everything will be served cool, thank the gods–and Mother, of course.”

“Not quite the same thing,” Eslingen said, straight‑faced, and the woman grinned.

“Though you’d never know it to listen to her.” She picked up the first broadsheet, scanned it curiously, her brows lifting in amused surprise. “I can’t believe this got licensed.”

“Look again,” Eslingen said, and Adriana swore softly.

“Forged–Tyrseis instead of Sofia.”

Eslingen nodded. “Someone has a sense of humor, I think. I didn’t notice it until I read it and looked twice.”

“Someone’s going to spend a few months in the cells for this one,” Adriana said. “And they’ll have earned it.”

“Assuming the points can catch her,” Eslingen said, “Or him, I suppose.”

“Printing’s a mixed craft,” Adriana answered. “Oh, they’ll call the point on this one easily enough, they’re hard on poor printers, and it’ll make them look a little better, seeing that they can’t catch whoever’s stealing the children–or won’t.”

“You don’t believe that,” Eslingen said, and was startled by his own vehemence. But it was impossible to imagine Rathe standing idly by while his colleagues helped the child‑stealers, even more impossible to imagine him cooperating with them. Of course, he told himself firmly, Rathe wasn’t all pointsmen–wasn’t even a typical one, by all accounts.

Adriana made a face. “No, I don’t, not really. But with everyone pointing the finger at us, it’s hard not to blame someone else.” She sighed. “Gods, I don’t want to get back to work. Let me have another drink of your beer, Philip?”

Eslingen nodded, watched the smooth skin of her neck exposed as she tilted her head to drink. She saw him looking as she lowered the jug, but only smiled, and set it back on the table.

“Thanks. Think of me, slaving away to feed you–”

“Philip!” Devynck’s voice cut through whatever else her daughter would have said. “In here, please, now!”

Eslingen shoved himself upright, wondering if she’d finally decided to make known her feelings about any connection with him, and hurried into the inn. He stopped just inside the garden door, his hand going reflexively to the knife he still carried. Devynck was standing by the bar, hands on her hips, the waiters flanking her like soldiers; A lanky woman in a pointswoman’s jerkin stood facing her, more pointsmen behind her–at least half a dozen of them–and at her side was a small woman Eslingen thought he should recognize. He frowned, unable to place her, uncertain of his status, or Devynck’s, and the innkeeper turned to him.

“Philip. It seems that Chief Point Monteia here has received a formal complaint about the Brown Dog. She feels it her duty to investigate those complaints–” She glanced back at the lanky woman, and added, grudgingly, “not unreasonably, I suppose. She also feels it’s necessary to search the building and grounds.”

Eslingen nodded once, fixing his eyes on the group. The pointswoman–chief point, he corrected himself, Rathe’s superior Monteia–just said, “Mistress Huviet here has lodged a complaint with us, says you’re hiding the girl that’s missing from the Knives Road. We’re obliged to take that seriously.”

“And what business is it of Mistress Huviet’s?” Devynck asked. “I don’t see Bonfais Mailet in here claiming I’ve got his apprentice.”

Monteia gave a thin smile. “Mistress Huviet has kin in the guild, a nephew, I believe, who’s a journeyman, and about whom she’s worried.” The chief point’s voice was tinged with irony, and Devynck snorted.

“Not that Paas?” she demanded, and Monteia nodded. “Then she should hope he’s taken, it’d save her in the long run.”

The little woman drew herself up–rather like a gargoyle, Eslingen thought, or more like a crow, something small, and fierce, and dangerous when roused–and Monteia held up her hand.

“Aagte, that’s not funny at the best of times, and times like these, I’m forced to take it seriously. You’re not helping yourself with remarks like that.”

Devynck made a face, but folded her arms across her breast, visibly refusing to apologize. Monteia’s mouth tightened, as though she’d bitten something bitter. “The complaint has been made, and I will search this tavern with or without your cooperation, Devynck.”

“And what about the rest of the taverns in Point of Hopes–hells, there are three others off the Knives Road alone. Will you be searching them, Chief Point?”

Monteia shook her head. “I’ve no cause, no complaints against them.”

Devynck snorted. “Go on, then. Philip, go with them, don’t let them drink anything they haven’t paid for.”

Monteia grinned at that, a fleeting expression that lit her horselike face with rueful amusement, but Huviet bristled again.

“He’s in it as much as anyone, I told you that. You can’t let him lead the search.”

“I’m leading the search,” Monteia corrected her. “And Aagte– Mistress Devynck–has a right to have one of her people observe.”

Huviet compressed her lips, but Monteia’s tone brooked no argument. The chief point nodded. “All right. We’ll do this orderly, bottom to top, people. And if anything’s broken or missing, it comes doubled out of your salary and fees.” She eyed the group behind her, and seemed to read agreement, nodded again. “Ganier, watch the front, no one in or out. Leivrith, the same for the back.”

Devynck snorted again, and reached for the knot of keys that hung at her belt. “Half your station? I’m flattered.” She handed the keys to Eslingen. “They’re marked. Let them in wherever they want to go, the only secret here is where I get my good beer.”

“Ma’am.” Eslingen looked at Monteia, and the chief point sighed.

“Right, then. We’ll start with the cellars.”

Eslingen found that key easily enough–he’d seen it before, a massive thing, passed from hand to hand as needed–and unlocked the trap where the beer barrels were brought in. Monteia lifted an eyebrow at that, and he wondered for an instant if she knew there was a second, easier entrance from the garden. She said nothing, however, just motioned for one of the pointsmen to raise the trap, and swung herself easily down the ladder. Eslingen followed, reached for the lantern that hung ready on the side of the barrel chute. He fumbled in his pocket for flint and steel, but before he could find it, one of the waiters came hurrying with a lit candle, hand cupped around the flame. One of the pointswomen passed it down to him. He lit the lantern and set it back in its place, throwing fitful shadows. Monteia gave him another look, but said nothing, just stepped back to let her people file past, lighting their own candles as they went. The little woman–Huviet– came last of all, bundling her skirts against the cellar dirt.

“Help yourself,” Eslingen said, and wished instantly he’d chosen a less ambiguous phrase.

“You should know better,” Monteia answered, and nodded to her people. “All right, go to it. Make sure there are no secret rooms–and remember what I said about breakage.”

The cellar was large, and essentially undivided, except for the pillars that held the floor above. Monteia’s people moved through it with efficient speed, shifting the heavy barrels and the racked wines only enough to be sure that nothing was concealed behind them. Huviet followed close behind, peering over their shoulder as each object was moved. With her skirts still bunched up, and the lack of height that made her hop a little to see past the taller pointsmen, she looked like nothing so much as an indignant gargoyle in the uncertain light, but then Eslingen caught a glimpse of her face, and his amusement died. She was absolutely convinced of Devynck’s guilt–of all their guilt, pointsman and Leaguer alike–and she wouldn’t be satisfied until a child was found.