“This is an illegal gathering,” the pointsman went on, lifting his voice to carry over the angry murmur that answered his first words. “I’ll have to tell you to disperse, or face the point.”

“Like hell we will,” someone shouted, and Nigaud waved his arms for silence.

“Pointsman, we have cause to think that the missing children–our missing children, anyway–are being held at the Old Brown Dog. I, and Master Estienes, and Master Follet, are all willing to swear the complaint, and anything else you like, but we won’t leave here until that place has been searched from top to bottom.”

Ranazy stopped in the middle of the street, seemed for the first time to become aware of the crowd’s temper. “Master–Nigaud, isn’t it?”

Nigaud nodded. Obviously, Eslingen thought, the man was well known, a man of real importance in Point of Hopes–and not the person we want standing against us.

“Master, this house was searched yesterday, and we found nothing. The children aren’t here.” Ranazy spread his hands, the lantern and the clapper jangling.

“Ranazy!” The shout came from the end of the street. Rathe’s voice, Eslingen realized, with real relief, and in the same instant saw a tight knot of pointsmen, maybe ten in all, turn the corner. They, too, carried lanterns, and in their light Eslingen could see the dull gleam of armor under the leather jerkins. They carried calivers as well, new‑fashioned flintlocks, as well as half‑pikes and halberds: Rathe and his people had come prepared for serious trouble.

“I searched it myself,” Ranazy went on, and Paas Huviet’s voice rose above the angry murmuring.

“You see? I told you they were fee’d to let them go. Search the inn ourselves, we won’t get the kids back any other way.”

“Hold it,” Rathe shouted again, but his voice was drowned in the roar of agreement.

“Break in the door,” another voice shouted. “Save the children.”

The journeymen surged toward the inn’s door. Eslingen took a deep breath, and brought the pistol out from behind his coat. “Stop there,” he called, and leveled the barrel at the knot of young men. At this distance he could hardly miss hitting one of them, but he doubted they were cool enough to realize it. Adriana pressed the hilt of his sword into his left hand, and he took it, already bracing himself for the rush that would follow the first shot.

“We’re willing to let the points in,” he tried again, and Paas’s voice rose in answer.

“Because you paid them. Get him!”

“I’ll fire,” Eslingen warned, and promised Areton an incense cake if the lock did not misfire. The pointsmen were hurrying toward him, half‑pikes held across their bodies, but the bulk of the journeymen were between them and the inn, and showed no sign of giving way.

“Cowards!” Paas shouted. “Get the Leaguer bastard!” He lunged for the door, drawing his knife, and there were half a dozen men behind him. Eslingen swore again, and pulled the trigger. The lock fired, the flash and bang of the powder momentarily blinding everyone, and then he’d slung the pistol behind him onto the inn’s floor and drew his sword right‑handed. Paas staggered back, clutching his chest–the shot was mortal, Eslingen knew instantly, and didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry–and collapsed in the arms of the journeymen behind him.

“Hold it!” Rathe shouted again, and he and his troop shoved their way through the crowd that seemed abruptly chastened by the violence. “Nigaud, get your boys in hand, or I’ll call points on the lot of you.”

“He shot Paas,” one of the journeymen called, and his voice broke painfully.

“I saw it,” Rathe answered, “and I saw Paas charge the door, too.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s the nearest physician, Clock Street?” He seemed to get an answer from one of the pointsmen, and nodded. “Fetch her, quick, then, see what can be done for the boy. Now, Nigaud, what in Astree’s name is going on here?”

“They’re hiding the children,” Nigaud said, and Eslingen let himself relax at last. Somehow, exactly how he didn’t know, Rathe had gotten control of the situation again. Astreiant’s common folk might not like giving one of their own authority, but in a crisis, it seemed it was better than nothing.

Rathe said, “The chief point herself searched this house yesterday, and nothing was found. You’ve seen something that makes you think they’re here now? I know you had people watching this house, I saw them here this afternoon.”

Nigaud’s gaze faltered, but he rallied quickly enough. “The chief point may have been here, but none of us were, and the rest of the points were people like him.” He pointed to Ranazy. “We know how much his fees are, we all pay them. The Leaguer has money enough to buy his silence.”

Eslingen jumped as Devynck touched his shoulder.

“Let me out,” she said, and he stepped sideways to let her edge past him. “Rathe! I’m willing to let the masters search my house this time, if only you’ll supervise them, and I told them that all along.”

Rathe nodded, looked at Nigaud. “That’s more than you have a right to, Master Nigaud, but I’m willing to go with you, and the other masters here.”

Nigaud nodded back, but the well‑dressed master–Follet, Eslingen thought–said, “And what about Paas? He was a hothead, but he was my journeyman.”

The physician had arrived from Clock Street, an apprentice, barefoot and tousled, lugging her case of instruments. She knelt beside the injured man, her movements brisk and certain, but she looked up at that, and shook her head. “I’ve done what I can. It’s in Demis’s hands now.”

In translation, Eslingen thought, he’s a dead man. Why in Areton’s name didn’t I aim for something less mortal? The damned astrologer got it all wrong. He shook the thought away–he’d had no choice, if he’d missed Paas he would almost certainly have hit one of the others in as deadly a spot–and looked at Rathe, wondering what would happen now. Rathe looked back at him, his face expressionless in the uncertain light of the lanterns and the dying torches.

“It’s manslaughter at the least, though there’s an argument for self‑defense. Eslingen, I’m calling a point on you. Hand over your weapons and go quietly.”

Eslingen drew breath to protest, but swallowed the words unspoken. The situation was still delicate, even he could see that much, and surely Rathe was right when he hinted that he could claim self‑defense. “Very well,” he said shortly, and extended his sword, hilt first, toward the pointsman.

Rathe took it, unsurprised by the weight and balance, rested its point cautiously on the top of his boot. “And the pistol?”

Eslingen jerked his head toward the inn door. “Inside, on the floor somewhere.”

“Adriana!” Rathe called, and a moment later the woman appeared warily in the doorway, “Bring me Eslingen’s pistol, please.”

For an instant, Eslingen thought she was going to refuse, but she only tossed her head, and vanished back into the shadows. She reappeared a moment later carrying the pistol, and crossed the dooryard without looking at the butchers. Rathe took the gun, slipping it into his belt beside his truncheon; Adriana turned on her heel, and went to join her mother. The pointsman looked back at Eslingen, who braced himself to hear the sentence.

“Benech and Savine will take you to Point of Sighs.” He lifted his voice to carry to the crowd. “The cells there are more secure than at Point of Hopes.” Eslingen thought he saw a fugitive smile cross Rathe’s face. “And a bit more comfortable than a stall, which is what ours are. Do you give me your word you’ll go quietly, lieutenant?”

Eslingen hesitated, wondering if he shouldn’t run–he could take the two pointsmen, of that he felt certain, and he had killed the journeyman, not to mention being a Leaguer in the wrong place at the wrong time–but then put the thought away. He hadn’t stolen the children, and neither had Devynck; and if he ran, he would only put her further in the wrong. “You have my word on it,” he said, stiffly, and Rathe nodded.