“Eat,” b’Estorr said, firmly.

“You sound like my mother,” Rathe complained, but did as he was told. A string of cheese clung to his chin, and he wiped it away, enjoying the rich taste.

“I sound like my mother,” b’Estorr answered, “and they were both right.”

Rathe smiled again, genuine affection this time, and turned his attention to his plate. b’Estorr was right, they were doing all they could, and it was still too early to give up hope.

They pushed the missing children from their minds for the rest of dinner, talking idly of other things. Rathe found himself relaxing at last, though he couldn’t be sure how much of that was the excellent wine. He drained the last swallow left in his glass, and set it carefully back on the table.

“Time I was getting home,” he said aloud, and the chime of a clock merged with his last word. He frowned slightly at that–he hadn’t thought it was that late–and saw the same confusion on b’Estorr’s face.

“That’s odd,” the necromancer began, and a second clock struck, not the quarter hour, as the first had done, but repeatedly, a steady chiming. In the distance, Rathe could hear another clock join in, and then a third and a fourth.

“What in the name of all the gods?” he began, but he was already pushing himself up out of his seat. All across the long room, people were standing, faces pale in the lamplight, and Wicked herself appeared in the kitchen doorway, broad face drawn into a scowl. It sounded like the earthquake, though the ground had never moved, the way all the bells and chimes had sounded, shaken into voice by the tremor, and he shoved his way to the door, and out into the narrow yard.

The chimes were still sounding, and Rathe had lost count of the number, knew only that it was more than twelve, more than there ever should be. The shopgirls were on their feet, too, one with her hand on her belt knife as though she faced a physical threat, another pair shoulder to shoulder, steadying each other against an earthquake that hadn’t happened. The nearest clock was at the end of the Hopes‑point Bridge, and he turned toward it, searching the darkening sky for its white‑painted face and the massive bronze hands. It was hard to see in the winter‑sun’s twilight, but for an instant he thought he saw the hands spinning aimlessly against the pale disk. Then the chimes stopped, as abruptly as they had begun, and the hands settled, frozen, proclaiming the hour to be six. And that was impossible, that time had passed a good six hours ago, or wouldn’t come for another six. Rathe’s mouth thinned, and he looked back toward the tavern to see b’Estorr there, Wicked framed in the door behind him. As though the silence had released some spell, voices rose in the tavern, high, excited, and afraid.

“What in Tyrseis’s name was that?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr shook his head, his fine‑boned face troubled.

“I don’t know. Something–a serious disturbance in the stars, but what…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

“Damn,” Rathe said. He could hear more voices in the streets now, loud with the same note of excited fear, and lifted his voice to carry to the people behind Wicked. “All right, then, it’s over. Nothing to panic about.”

“But–” one of the shopgirls began, and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Her fellow, braver than the rest, or maybe just less in awe of the points, put her hands on her hips. “The clock’s out of true, pointsman, what are we going to do about that?”

“The university will have the correct time, and the regents will see that the clocks are reset,” Rathe answered, and tried to project a confidence he didn’t feel. It wasn’t as simple as that, and they all knew it– when the clocks had been unstrung by the earthquake, it had taken days for everything to be sorted out.

b’Estorr said, his voice pitched to carry, “The Great Clock, at the university–it’s made to keep time through any upheaval. It should be all right. And it’s a good clear night. There’ll be no problem checking the time against the stars.”

Rathe nodded his thanks, and Wicked heaved herself out of the doorway, came to join them in the center of the yard. “So what in Demis’s name would cause such a turmoil?” she demanded. “I’ve seen a lightning storm do something like it, but that was one clock–”

“And this is a fine clear night,” Rathe finished for her. “I don’t know, Wicked.”

“No more do I,” b’Estorr said again, “though I intend to find out.”

“Would it have anything to do with the children?” Rathe asked, his voice softer now, and b’Estorr spread his hands.

“I don’t know,” he said again. “I don’t see how, what the connection would be, but I don’t trust coincidence.” Rathe sighed, nodding agreement, and the necromancer looked toward river. “I should be heading back, they’ll want every scholar working on it.”

“Go,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr hurried past him, stride lengthening as he headed for the bridge. He could smell smoke, and with it the pungent scent of herbs, and guessed that people were already beginning to light balefires in the squares and crossroads, offering the sweet smoke of Demis leaf and lowsfer to appease the gods. That was all to the good, as long as they didn’t go burning anything else, and he looked at Wicked. “I’d better go, too. They’ll be wanting me at Point of Hopes.”

She nodded, her face grim. “I daresay. But I doubt there’ll be trouble, Nico. This is too–strange, too big for a riot.”

“I hope you’re right,” Rathe answered, and headed for the station. The streets were crowded, as they’d been after the earthquake, and there were smoky fires in every open space. They were well tended, he saw without surprise, and didn’t know if he was glad or worried to see so many sober, rich‑robed guild folk feeding the flames. The neighborhood temples were jammed, and there was a steady stream of people heading for the bridge–heading to the Pantheon and the other temples in the old city, Rathe guessed, and could only be grateful that their fear had taken them that way, rather than in anger.

The portcullis was down at Point of Hopes, though the postern gate was still open, and two pointsmen in back‑and‑breast stood outside. They carried calivers, too, Rathe saw: clearly Monteia was taking this seriously. He nodded a greeting, received a sober nod in return, and went on into the station’s yard.

Monteia was standing in the doorway, talking to a young man whose wine‑colored coat bore the badge of the city regents, but she broke off, seeing him, and beckoned him over. “Good, Nico. You’d better hear this, too.”

The messenger said, “The city and the university will be confirming the correct time tonight in a public ceremony, to start at once. The regents would like all the points stations to proclaim and post the notice.”

“Does that mean the university clock is all right?” Rathe asked, and the messenger looked at him.

“So far as I know–well, so far as they can tell. That’s why they’re checking, of course.”

Rathe nodded, remembering b’Estorr’s assurance, and Monteia said briskly, “I’ve already started getting the word out, Nico, but I’d take it as a favor if you’d attend the ceremony. People tend to trust you, and I don’t want the ones who don’t get there to say that we neglected our duty.”

“All right,” Rathe said. He wasn’t sorry to have the excuse, after all; it would be a sight worth seeing, but, more than that, he was as eager as anyone to see with his own eyes that the time had been put right. He turned away, but Monteia’s voice stopped him.

“Nico.”

“Yes, Chief?” He turned back, to see her holding a wooden case. It had brass feet and a brass‑bound door, and only then did he recognize it as the station’s case‑clock.

“See that this gets set right,” Monteia said, and handed it to him.

Rathe took the box gingerly, appalled at the thought of the fragile gears and delicate springs of the workings, but shook the fear away. The case‑clock had been designed for travel; more than that, it had survived at least ten years in the station’s main room. It would easily survive a simple trip to University Point and back. “I’ll take care of it,” he said aloud, and headed back out into the street.