“I’ll take charge of that, Chief,” Rathe said, and there was a note in his voice that boded ill for the local journeymen.

“Good. And we’ll do what else we can. I’ll make sure our watchmen take in the Knives Road regularly.”

Rathe stirred at that, but said nothing. Even so, Monteia gave him a minatory look, and Eslingen wondered what wasn’t being said. He knew that the points were only an occasional presence on the streets and in the markets, mostly when there was trouble expected; this didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. But then, he added silently, nothing was ordinary right now, not with the children missing.

Devynck said, “Thanks, Tersennes, I appreciate what you’re doing for us. There is one other thing, though–two, really.”

Monteia spread her hands in silent invitation, and Devynck plunged ahead. “First, my caliver out there. It’s loaded, and I don’t want to ruin the barrel trying to draw it, not to mention the other hazards. So can I fire it off in your yard?”

“Gods,” Monteia said, but nodded. “What’s the other?”

Devynck jerked her head toward Eslingen. “Philip here–being a stranger to Astreiant and obviously not fully aware of its laws–”

“Of course,” Rathe murmured, with a grin, but softly enough that the Leaguer woman could ignore him.

“–has a pistol of his own in my house. Under the circumstances, rather than give it up, I’d like to post bond for him.”

Monteia shook her head, sighing. “And I can’t say that’s unreasonable, either. It won’t come cheap, though, Aagte, not with that monster you already keep.”

“I’m prepared to pay.” Devynck reached through the slit in her outer skirt, produced a pocket that made a dull clank when she set it on the worktable. “There’s two pillars there, in silver.”

Monteia made a face, but nodded. “I’ll have the bond drawn up– Nico, fetch the scrivener, will you? And in the meantime, you can fire off that gun of yours.”

The preparations for firing the caliver were almost more elaborate than for writing the bond. Eslingen lounged against the doorpost of the station, trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin as a pointswoman brought out a red and black pennant and hung it from the staff above the gatehouse. The duty pointsman recorded the event in the station’s daybook, and Monteia and Rathe countersigned the entry, as did Devynck. Rathe looked up then.

“Eslingen? We need another witness.”

“What am I witnessing to?” Eslingen asked, but went back into the station.

“That you know Devynck, that you know the gun’s loaded, that we’ve posted the flag–the usual.” Rathe grinned. “Not like Coindarel’s Dragons, I daresay.”

“We had more of this than you’d think,” Eslingen answered, and scrawled his name below Devynck’s. It did remind him of his time in the royal regiments, actually; there had been the same insistence on signatures and countersignatures for everything from drawing powder to receiving pay. It had made it harder for the officers to cheat their men, but not impossible, and he suspected that the same was true in civilian life.

“Right, then,” Monteia said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Eslingen followed her and the others out into the yard, and saw with some amusement that the thin girl and half a dozen other children had gathered at the stable doors. Most of those would be the station’s runners–a couple even looked old enough to be genuinely apprentices–but he could see more children peering in through the gatehouse. Monteia smiled, seeing them, but nodded to the pointswoman.

“Fetch a candle.”

The woman did as she was told, and Devynck carefully lit the length of slow match she had carried under her hat. She fitted it deftly into the serpentine, tightened the screw, primed the pan, and then looked around. “I’m ready here.”

“Go ahead,” Monteia answered, and behind her Eslingen saw several of the runners cover their ears.

Devynck lifted the caliver to her shoulder, aimed directly into the sky, and pulled the trigger. There was a puff of smoke as the priming powder flashed and then, a moment later, the caliver fired, belching a cloud of smoke. One of the children outside the gatehouse shrieked, and most of the runners jumped; Devynck ignored them, lowered the caliver, and freed the match from the lock. She ground out the coal under her shoe, and only then looked at Monteia.

“That’s cleared it.”

“One would hope,” Rathe murmured, and Monteia frowned at him.

“Right. Is the bond ready?”

“I’ll see.” Rathe disappeared into the points station, to reappear a moment later in the doorway holding a sheet of paper, which he waved gently in the air to dry the ink. “Done. Just needs your signature and seal.”

Monteia nodded, and went back inside. Eslingen looked at Devynck, who was methodically checking over her weapon. Behind her, the neighborhood children were dispersing, only a few still gawking from the shelter of the gatehouse. The runners, too, had vanished back into the shelter of the stables, and he could hear voices raised in shrill debate, apparently about the power and provenance of the gun.

“Here you are,” Rathe said, from behind him. “Careful, the wax is still soft.”

Eslingen took the paper, scanning the scrivener’s tidy, impersonal hand, and Monteia’s spiky scrawl at the base. Rathe hadn’t signed it, and he was momentarily disappointed; he shook the feeling away, and folded the sheet cautiously, written side out. The seal carried the same tower and monogram that topped the pointsmen’s truncheons. “Thanks.”

“And for Astree’s sake, the next time there’s trouble, send to us.”

“Have you ever tried to go against her?” Eslingen asked, and tilted his head toward Devynck, just sliding her caliver back into its sleeve.

Rathe smiled, the expression crooked. “I understand. I’ll probably be in this afternoon, to see the damage–just so you don’t worry when you see me coming.”

“I’ll try not to,” Eslingen answered, and turned away.

They made their way back to the Old Brown Dog as uneventfully as they’d left, but as they turned down the side street that led to the inn’s door, Devynck swore under her breath. Eslingen glanced around quickly, saw nothing on the street behind them, and only then recognized that the young man sitting on the bench outside the door was wearing a butcher’s badge in his flat cap. He met Devynck’s stare defiantly, but said nothing. Devynck swore again, and stalked past him into the inn.

Inside, Adriana was beside the bar, Loret and Hulet to either side. She whirled as the door opened, scowling, relaxed slightly as she saw who it was.

“Mother! I thought it was that Yvor.”

“What in Areton’s name is going on?” Devynck asked, and unslung her caliver with a movement that suggested she would prefer it to be unsheathed and loaded.

“You saw Yvor outside,” Adriana answered. “He and, oh, three or four of his friends came here, said they wanted to drink. I told them we weren’t open yet, and he said he’d wait.” She shook her head, looking suddenly miserable. “I thought he was a friend, at least.”

“Areton’s balls,” Devynck said. She looked at the two waiters, then at Eslingen. “Did they say anything else?”

“They just said they wanted beer,” Adriana said. She seemed suddenly to droop, her stiff shoulders collapsing. “Maybe I’m overreacting, but after last night…”

Devynck sucked air through her teeth, frowning. “The gods know, I don’t want to give them an excuse to cause us more trouble, but I can’t think they want to drink here for good purpose.”

“You should tell Monteia,” Eslingen said.

Devynck stared at him. “Tell her what, my neighbors want to buy my beer?”

“They made Adriana nervous,” Eslingen answered. “She’s not stupid or a coward, and none of us think they’re here just to drink.” Hulet nodded at that, but said nothing.

Devynck hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed. “All right. Loret, run to Point of Hopes–go out the back–and tell the chief point or Rathe exactly what’s happened. Tell her I’m concerned, after last night, and I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”