“Because you don’t like my coat?” Rathe asked.

Wicked leaned forward across the table. “Because, first, I think you need it. Second, Istre sent your runner back by here to say he would be here after first sunset, and to bespeak a very nice bottle of wine that one, knows his stuff for all he’s Chadroni. And, third, even if he did and you didn’t, I wouldn’t bother. I don’t waste this on people who’d waste it. I figure you’re probably here for a while, pointsman, and better for you it is, too, than moping at home or at the station.”

“I had reached that decision myself,” Rathe said, with dignity. “I suppose I’d better get some dinner if I’m not to insult one of your– what, Silklands vintages?”

Wicked shook her head. “Believe it or not, Chadroni. Istre tells me their beer is vile. Maybe there’s hope for the regicidal bastards.” She tugged the cork free with a grunt of effort, set bottle and cork in front of him with a flourish.

Rathe spread his hands. “If you say so, Wicked, I have to believe it. And I’ll have whatever’s going from the kitchen tonight.”

“You’ll have what I give you,” Wicked answered, and pushed herself up from the table. “I’ve lasanon with cheese and herbs that’ll be better with that than a custard pie.”

“Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing better than to argue, and the innkeeper turned away. Rathe leaned back in his chair, and reached for the papers folded into his pocket. He pulled them out, eight sheets, each with their neatly inked circles and the symbols of the planets set in their places, looking for some connection, however tenuous, between the eight. Approximate age was all they had in common, certainly not background, and that was what had the city in an uproar. And he didn’t see anything in these papers to change that.

He made a face, and turned them facedown on the scarred table, wishing b’Estorr would arrive. The door was still open to the evening breeze, a southern breeze, warm, but without the river’s damp. He could hear the sounds of the businesses around Wicked’s closing up for the day, tables and carts pulled in, shutters down or across, the clank of iron as locks and chains were snugged home. First sunset was definitely past; over in Point of Dreams, the day‑shows would be well over, and the playhouses sweeping up, getting ready for the night‑show. It had been weeks–a moon‑month, he realized, guiltily–since he had seen a play, even a night‑show farce. The actors who shared the garret above his own lodgings had seemed cold lately; he would have to make amends, when he had the time. And he would need to make time, he realized. They if anyone could help him with Foucquet’s missing apprentice, especially if the boy wasn’t missing at all…

“So how do you like the wine?”

Rathe looked up, and pushed the papers aside. “Don’t know. Haven’t dared try it yet. I thought, being Chadroni, it might come ready mixed with its own poison.” b’Estorr looked thoughtful. “I don’t think it’s from the royal cellars.”

“How’d you know I’d need it?”

“Poison or a drink?” b’Estorr asked, and seated himself opposite the other man.

Rathe gave him a sour look, but conceded the point. “The drink.”

“These days, don’t we all,” b’Estorr answered, and filled both glasses. Rathe took one, lifted it in silent toast, and sipped curiously at the amber liquid. It was good, very good, but not astonishing. He had been in the mood for something astonishing, and he set the glass down again with a vague sense of disappointment. b’Estorr went on, as if he hadn’t noticed, “I heard about the trouble at Devynck’s–I had cause to go to All‑Guilds today, the clerks were talking about nothing else.”

“And blaming the points, I daresay,” Rathe muttered.

“Among others,” b’Estorr answered.

Rathe looked at him. “Strange to say, though, you people are the only ones I haven’t heard suspected.”

“Well, who’d dare?” b’Estorr returned. “I take it you mean magists, and not Chadroni.”

Rathe smiled in spite of himself. “I think that people feel if Chadroni were involved, it wouldn’t be this… disguised. Good straightforward people, the Chadroni, if a little bloodthirsty.”

b’Estorr twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “That’s true enough.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “The only reason they didn’t latch onto me as the guilty party when the old Fre was murdered was that they’d’ve been insulted at the thought of any but their own class murdering the king. In Chenedolle, in any of the League cities– in the Silklands, for Astree’s sake–I’d’ve been dragged off to execution without a second thought. But in Chadron, murder is the province of the high nobility.”

“Fun place to set up a points station,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr nearly choked on his wine. Rathe grinned–that had evened the score for the remark about poison–but sobered quickly. Something he’d said himself hadn’t quite rung true… “But I’m wrong, aren’t I, there’s one group of magists people do suspect.”

b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.

“Those hedge‑astrologers, the freelances, the ones the Three Nations have been complaining about.”

“Magists are generally astrologers,” b’Estorr said, with dignity, “but few astrologers are magists.”

“I’m not sure most people make that distinction.” Rathe frowned suddenly, impatient with the game. “Seriously, Istre, have you heard anything more about them?”

b’Estorr shrugged. “Not much more than before, I’m afraid. They’re still around–and they don’t charge nearly enough for what they’re doing. The students are pissed, of course, and the arbiters have promised to do what they can, but every time they get close to one of them, they seem to fade away.”

“Well, joy of it to me, we need to keep an eye on them, too,” Rathe said.

“I’d have thought that was the arbiters’ business,” b’Estorr said.

“And also ours.” Rathe glanced toward the open door, hearing sudden loud voices, and then relaxed slightly, recognizing the tone if not the speakers. They sounded light, for a change, almost happy, and Rathe realized for the first time just how tense he had become. Then a knot of people–actors all, Rathe knew, and his upstairs neighbor Gavi Jhirassi at their center–burst through the open door.

“They can threaten to close us down, but they know right now there’d be riots if they tried it. And that’s just what Astreiant wants to avoid, so they won’t. And meanwhile, it’s marvelous business for us.”

“Still, it’s a risky piece, Gavi, and Aconin should mind his pen.” That was a rangy woman in a plumed cap, her eyes still smudged with the paint she wore on stage.

Jhirassi made a moue, and his eyes lighted on Rathe. “Nico! Have they actually let you out? We were beginning to think you were working all hours.”

b’Estorr glanced at Rathe, eyes amused. Rathe shook his head. “Gavi’s my upstairs neighbor. And an actor, though I probably don’t need to tell you that. Quite a good one, really.”

“You’re too kind,” Jhirassi said, and leaned on the back of the empty chair.

Rathe sighed. “Gavi Jhirassi, Istre b’Estorr, Istre’s at the university.”

“Not a student,” Jhirassi said. “A master, then?”

“Join us, why don’t you, Gavi?” Rathe said, and the actor spun the chair dexterously away from the table. “I wanted to talk to you anyway, and this saves me a trip to the theaters, since we’re never home the same hours these days.”

Jhirassi nodded. “It has been a while since we’ve seen you, Nico. Not that I can blame you, with what’s been on recently, I mean, really, The Seven Seekers? It’s not particularly subtle, and this staging isn’t particularly inventive. At least Aconin doesn’t write me ingenue parts–” He broke off, looking at Rathe. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Rathe allowed himself a wry smile, and quickly retold Foucquet’s story of her missing clerk‑apprentice. Jhirassi’s face grew more intent as he listened, and for once he didn’t interrupt. When Rathe had finished, he said, “And you’re afraid he’s become one of the missing, obviously, for all you’re saying everything else. Well, we’ve not had any new brats–sorry, children–” The correction was patently insincere. “–hanging about, but you said he might have gone to Savatier’s.” He tipped his head to one side, considering, then shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ll ask there tomorrow, if you’d like.”