“That was Amerel Ghiraldy,” Rathe said. “She’s good.”

Eslingen grunted. “Aagte thinks they’re watching us, and I agree. I don’t know whether they think you didn’t find the missing children yesterday because you were bribed or because we were clever, or just because the lads weren’t here, but they–the journeymen, anyway– are convinced that we’re involved in all this, and they’re going to keep an eye on us until they find something to blame us for. And if you hadn’t given Huviet that much credence, searching our place, we might not be in this state.”

For a minute, he thought he’d gone too far, and then the corners of Rathe’s mouth turned up in a sour smile. “Monteia searched the place because she thought it’d make a difference. For you, not against you, I might add. Huviet is not universally loved, it seemed a good bet to call her bluff.” The smile widened. “But I’ll grant you it hasn’t worked the way she planned.”

“No.” Eslingen leaned against another table, looked across the kitchen garden with its patches of herbs and vegetables. He smelled basil suddenly, and saw a gargoyle run a paw across the fragrant leaves. It reached beyond them, then, into the vegetables, and he stooped quickly, found a pebble, and slung it in the creature’s direction. It lifted instantly, scolding, and he looked back at Rathe. “Instead of solving the problem of them thinking Leaguers are stealing their apprentices, they’re now thinking the points are conspiring with us.”

Rathe swore under his breath. “You’re sure–no, sorry, that was stupid.”

“It’s what I’ve overheard,” Eslingen answered.

Rathe muttered something else. The gargoyle circled the garden plot again, spiraling lower, heedless of the scarecrow, and he glanced down at the dirt beneath his feet. He found a heavier stone, and flung it with a violence that was startling. The gargoyle sheered away, barely able to dodge, and Rathe looked abashed. “Sorry. I should’ve expected it, I suppose.”

“It seems to me–” Eslingen chose his words with care. “It seems to me that you might have done, yes. Given what I’ve paid in fees, and what I know Aagte and all the others here pay in fees–” He stopped at the look on Rathe’s face, spread his hands in instant apology.

Rathe took a deep breath. “We don’t all take fees for everything,” he said, his voice ragged with temper, “and not for something like this. Gods, put the worst face on it, it’d be bad for business, making everyone hate us like this. Rather puts paid to our chance of getting more fees, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think,” Eslingen said, and let the ambiguity stand. “I don’t believe it, no. But it’s how people are thinking now.”

Rathe sighed again, visibly making himself relax. “No, I know it.” He shrugged, managed a sudden, almost genuine grin. “People are getting used to us, to the points, but it’s a slow process because it’s not precisely what most people call a natural situation. People like me–a southriver rat, I know what they say, and half of them are serious– enforcing the laws on people like them, property owners, burghers, even guildmasters? It’s not quite comfortable.”

And from the sound of it, Eslingen thought, that’s the part you like best about being a pointsman. He knew better than to say it aloud, however, after his previous gaffe, contented himself with saying, “So they’re quick to think the worst.”

Rathe nodded, the brief lightness going out of his face. “As I said, I should’ve expected it.”

Eslingen hesitated, a new thought rising in his mind. If the points were under suspicion, what better way to defuse that than to find a scapegoat, and what better scapegoat would they find, at least in Point of Hopes, than Devynck and the people at the Old Brown Dog. He opened his mouth to voice that fear, took another look at Rathe, and closed it again. Neither Rathe nor Monteia would be party to that; all he would have to worry about was the journeymen’s anger. “Is there any chance of a pointsman keeping watch here tonight? I daresay Aagte could find the extra fees, if it came to that.”

Rathe’s mouth twisted again. “She already asked. I said I’d try, but we’re stretched pretty thin, with the fair beginning tomorrow and the nightwatch already overworked. They’ll come by regularly, I’ll see to that, but I can’t promise to post anyone. I’ll speak to the masters, too, see if that helps at all.”

Eslingen sighed, but nodded. “I appreciate it, Rathe. As I’m sure Aagte does.”

Rathe smiled wryly. “Oh, I still don’t take fees, Eslingen, not even at times like these. As I said, I want to enjoy my points.” He pushed himself away from the table, stretching slightly, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. In that instant, Eslingen was aware of dark shadows under the other man’s eyes, lines that had not seemed as deeply carved bracketing his mouth. Obviously, he cared deeply about this business. And then Rathe shook himself, and the moment vanished. He lifted a hand in abstracted farewell, and went back through the inn. Eslingen followed, more slowly, hoping that the pointsman’s plan would work.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully enough, and as the first sundown approached, Eslingen began to hope that maybe the trouble would defuse itself. The knot of journeymen remained, but as the afternoon turned to evening and the sunlight faded to the silvery light of the winter‑sun, they, too, seemed to mellow, seemed more relaxed at their table. A pointsman’s clapper sounded from the street, the slow, steady beat of the wooden knot that marked the nightwatch, and he listened carefully as it moved close and then retreated. Rathe was keeping his promise there, at any rate. Jasanten appeared on his crutch, and no one said anything, or made his way more difficult than need be. Seeing that, Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief, and addressed his dinner–another of Devynck’s stews, vegetables, and meat in a broth thickened with beer and bread–with something like a normal appetite. The brewer didn’t make an appearance, but her son and a pair of his lemen, big, broad‑shouldered men like himself came in for a quick pint. They kept a scrupulous distance between themselves and the journeymen, but the one exchange of words was polite enough. Eslingen drew a slow breath as they moved apart again, and saw Adriana’s eyes on them as she brought him another pitcher of small beer.

“So far, so good,” he said softly, and immediately wished he hadn’t spoken. There was no point in tempting the gods.

She made a face, and Eslingen knew she was thinking the same thing. She set the pitcher in front of him, and then displayed her hands, fingers crossed in propitiation. “Only two more hours to second sunset. Sweet Tyrseis, I’ll be glad when we close.”

Eslingen nodded, and she turned away to answer a call from the kitchen. He poured himself another cup, but didn’t bother to taste it, his attention instead on the others in the empty room. The brewer’s son and his friends finished their drinks and the plate of bread and cheese and left, still quiet; the journeymen remained, were joined by another man who looked a little older than the rest. He, too, wore a butcher’s badge at his collar, and even from a distance Eslingen could tell that it was made of silver, not the pewter the others wore. Someone of real rank within the guild, then, he thought, and wondered if it were a good or a bad sign. The group of journeymen seemed more relaxed, at any rate; he could see more smiles among them, and once heard laughter, but he wasn’t sorry to hear the nightwatch’s clapper in the street outside.

The light was fading steadily, paling toward true night. He went out to the garden privy, glad of the cooler air–the inn held the day’s heat in its walls and floor, a benefit in winter, but uncomfortable at the height of the year–and on his way back looked west to see the diamond point of the winter‑sun almost down between the housetops, poised between two chimney pots. Even this low, it was still too bright to look at directly, and he blinked, and went back into the main room, a point of green haze dancing in the center of his vision.