“What’s all this, then?”

The pointsmen stepped up to the door, but did not follow her into the street. Looking past them, Eslingen had to admit he admired their restraint. A group of maybe a dozen journeymen, all in butchers’ leather aprons, were gathered outside the door, and beyond them the respectable matrons of the neighborhood had gathered, too, along with a couple of master butchers. They looked less certain of the situation, torn between disapproval of the tavern and disapproval of the journeymen’s protest, but they made no move to haul their juniors home. Scanning their faces, Eslingen thought he recognized the woman whose son he’d sent home, and wondered whose side she would be on.

“Well?” Monteia demanded, and a familiar figure stepped out from among the journeymen.

“Have you taken the child‑thief?” Paas demanded. “Bring her out, let us see her.”

“There are no children here,” Monteia said, and pitched her voice to carry to the edges of the crowd. She ticked her next words off on her fingers, a grand gesture, calculated to impress. “There are no children, no sign that any children were here, no secret rooms, no suspicious anything. Nothing but a woman trying to go about her business like the rest of us. I have been through this building from cellar to attic, and there’s nothing here that shouldn’t be. And unless you, Paas Huviet, have more evidence than your mother did, I’ll thank you to keep your mouth closed. If you didn’t drink too much, you wouldn’t be thrown out of taverns.”

That shot told, Eslingen saw, and hid a grin. Paas hesitated, obviously not appeased, but unable to think of anything to say. In the silence, a bulky man in a butcher’s apron stepped forward. “You give us your word on that, Chief Point? It’s my apprentice who’s missing.”

“Among others,” Monteia said, not ungently. “You have my word, Mailet. The girl’s not here.”

The man nodded, not entirely convinced, but reluctant to challenge her directly. “Very well.” He waded into the crowd of journeymen, caught one by the collar. “You, Eysi, who gave you permission to leave your work? Get on home with you, and don’t disgrace me further.”

The rest of the crowd began to disperse with him, the journeymen in particular looking sheepish and glad to get out from under the chief point’s eye, but one woman held her ground, then walked slowly across the dirty street until she was standing face to face with the chief point. It was the boy’s mother, Eslingen realized, with a sinking feeling, what was her name, Lucenan.

“So what are you going to do about this place, Monteia?” she asked.

“Do about it?”

“A Leaguer tavern, frequented by soldiers, in and out of work– times like these, we don’t need them in our midst.”

“Children have disappeared from every point in Astreiant,” Monteia said. “Closing one tavern’s not going to stop that.”

“I’ve nothing against Leaguers,” Lucenan said, “but these people fill children’s heads with the most amazing nonsense about a soldier’s life. Running after soldiers, who knows what our children might stumble into, even if it’s not the soldiers who are stealing them? It’s a risk having them here.”

Monteia nodded slowly. “I know you, mistress. And your son. He’s of an age where he will go off and explore, and if he’s soldier‑mad, gods know how you’ll stop him, without you tie him to your doorpost. And you’re frightened, and I wish I could say it was without cause. I’m frightened, too–I’ve a son his age myself, and a daughter not much younger. But you know as well as I that Devynck doesn’t encourage him–she sent him home to you, didn’t she, and she’ll probably have to do it again.” She smiled suddenly. “Admit it, Anfelis, you’re mostly annoyed that Devynck’s complained against him.”

Lucenan blinked, on the verge of affront, and then, slowly, smiled. “I’m not best please about that, Ters, no. But that’s not what’s behind this. I am worried–I’m more than worried, I’m frankly terrified. I don’t want to lose Felis.”

“I know,” Monteia said. “All I can tell you is, the child‑thief isn’t here–Felis is probably as safe here as he is at home. Given the complaints between the two of you, the boy will be as well looked after as if he was Aagte’s own.”

That surprised another rueful smile from Lucenan, but she sobered quickly. “It’s the streets in between I’m worried about, as much as anything.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Monteia answered, and the other woman shook her head.

“It’s not enough, Chief Point.” She turned away before Monteia could answer.

“And don’t I know it,” Monteia muttered, and stepped back into the tavern. “Well, you heard that, Eslingen. I don’t think you’ll have a lot to worry about, barring something new. It’s mostly the Huviets who are causing the trouble, and they’re not well loved here.”

“I hope you’re right,” Eslingen answered.

“And if I’m not–hells, if you have any troubles,” Monteia began, and Eslingen finished for her.

“I’ll send to Point of Hopes. I assure you, you’ll be the first to hear.”

Business was slow that night, and Eslingen, watching the sparse gathering from his usual corner, didn’t know whether it was a good or a bad sign. Among the broadsheets he had bought that morning was a plain diviner, listing the planetary positions for the week, with brief comments, the sort of thing senior students at the university cobbled together to raise drinking money, but nevertheless he slipped it out of his cuff and scanned it yet again. It was the night of the new moon–if the astrologer at the fairgrounds had been correct, he was due to change his job soon. He smiled. He suspected that the astrologer’s timing was off: he had a new job, related to his work, already. And in any case, it was the general readings he was interested in. The sun and the moon both lay square to the winter‑sun; the first was normal, defined the time of year, but the second added to the tension between the mundane and the supernatural. He shook his head, thinking of the missing children–one more indication that there was something dreadfully wrong–and scanned the list of aspects again. The moveable stars lay mostly in squares, particularly Areton, ruler of strife and discord, squaring Argent–and there go the merchants’ profits, Eslingen added silently–and the Homestar and Heira. More tension there, for home and society, and with Areton in the Scales and Sickle, there was a real promise of trouble. He made a face, and refolded the paper, tucking it back into the wide cuff of his coat. It was showing signs of wear, and he grimaced again, looked out across the almost‑empty room.

Most of the soldiers were gone, either hired on to one of the companies just to get out of the city, or else they’d taken themselves and their drinking to the friendlier taverns along the Horsegate Road, closer to the camp grounds. And who could blame them? Eslingen thought. But it makes for a lonely night. Jasanten was still there, ensconced at his usual table, but he’d already given Devynck his notice, was planning to move to the Green Bell on the Horsegate as soon as possible. It would be easier recruiting there, he said, but they all knew what he really meant.

The rest of the customers were Leaguers, friends of Devynck’s– the brewer Marrija Vandeale was still there, her group of five, including a well‑grown young man who had to be her son, the largest in the inn. Eslingen shook his head again, and walked over to the bar, more for something to do than because he really wanted another pitcher, even of Vandeale’s best. Adriana came to meet him, faced him across the heavy wood with a crooked grin.

“Not a good night,” Eslingen said, not knowing what else to say, and the woman’s smile widened briefly.

“No. Mother’s furious.” She nodded to the edge of the paper sticking out above the edge of his cuff. “Any good news there?”

“It depends,” Eslingen said, sourly.