“There’s a girl gone missing, a butcher’s apprentice over in Point of Hopes,” he said simply, and was not surprised to see Quentier’s face contort as though she wanted to spit. Behind her, Cassia–LaSier, they called her, he remembered suddenly, for the length of her river‑dark hair–said something to her sister, who grinned, and did spit.

“What’s that to me, pointsman?” Estel Quentier said. “Apprentices run away every year.”

“She didn’t run,” Rathe answered. “She didn’t take her clothes or anything with her, and she liked her work. No cause to run, no place to run to.”

“So why do you come to me?” Quentier’s eyes were narrowed, on the verge of anger, and Rathe chose his words carefully.

“Because I remember four or five years ago, in your mother’s time, there was trouble of that sort out of the ’Serry. We knew who the man was, raped two girls, both apprentice‑age or a little older, but when we came to arrest him, he was gone. Your mother swore he’d been dealt with, was gone, and we didn’t ask questions, being as we knew your mother. But now…”

He let his voice trail off, and Quentier nodded once. “Now you’re asking.”

Rathe nodded back, and waited.

There was a little silence, and then Quentier looked over her shoulder. “Annet.”

Sofian took a few steps forward, so that she was standing at her sister’s side. She was a handsome woman–all the Quentiers were good‑looking, dark, and strong‑featured, with good bones–and her clothes were better than they looked. “I remember. Rancon Paynor, that was. He lodged here, he was Joulet Farine’s man’s cousin, or something like that. A farmer, said he was running from a debt he couldn’t pay.”

She looked down at her sister, and seemed to receive some kind of confirmation. “He’s not your man.”

“You’re very sure.”

Sofian met his gaze squarely. “I helped carry his body to the Sier.”

Rathe nodded slowly, not surprised. He remembered the case all too well, remembered both the victims–both alive and well now, thank Demis and her Midwives–and the frustration, so strong they could all almost taste it, when they’d come back to Point of Sighs empty‑handed. It was one of the few times they’d all agreed the chief point shouldn’t have taken the fee. But when Yolan Quentier said she’d deal with something, it stayed dealt with, and they’d all had to be content with that, much as they would have preferred to make the point and watch Paynor hang. It was good to know that he wouldn’t be cleaning up an earlier mistake, even if it meant he was back where he’d started.

“You’ll be going, then?” Quentier asked, and Rathe snapped back to the present.

“I told you, that was my business here. This time.”

Quentier nodded. “The runaways are starting early this year, or so they say. Girls running who shouldn’t. Is there anything we should be watching for, Nico?”

For Quentier to ask for help from a pointsman, even so obliquely, was unprecedented, and Rathe looked warily at her. What do you know that you’re not telling me? he wanted to say, but knew better than to ask that sort of question without something solid to trade for her answers. It was enough of an oddity–and maybe a kind of answer–for her to have asked at all. “Nothing that I know of, Estel. I don’t have anything to go on right now–the complaint came to me, oh, maybe an hour ago.” He shrugged. “You know what I know, right now. She walked out of the hall last night or this morning early, leaving her goods behind, and she hasn’t come home. Her master’s worried, and her leman’s distraught, and I don’t think she ran. Until we know more, yeah, keep an eye on your kids.”

Quentier nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll do that. Will you let me know if there’s more?”

“I will if you will,” Rathe answered, and Quentier grinned.

“As far as I’m able, Nico.” The smile vanished. “Anything about the girl, though–what’s her name?”

“Herisse Robion, not that that would help, necessarily. They said she was tall for her age–she’s just twelve–and still pretty skinny.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tablet where he’d scrawled the description. “Brown hair, blue eyes, sweet‑faced, good teeth, wearing a bottle green suit, linen, bodice and skirt trimmed to match with darker green ribbon.”

“There are a hundred girls like that in Astreiant,” Sofian said, shaking her head, and Rathe nodded.

Quentier said, “If I hear anything, I’ll send to you, Nico.”

“Thanks.” Rathe tucked his tablet back into his pocket, then wondered if he should have betrayed its usual place in this den of pickpockets. But it was too late to do anything about it; he shrugged inwardly, and turned away, retracing his steps to Horse‑Copers’ Street.

“Oy, Nico!” That was a new voice, and he turned to see LaSier striding after him, her long hair flowing behind her like a horse’s tail. “Wait a minute.”

Rathe paused, suppressing the instinctive desire to put his hand on his purse, and LaSier fell into step beside him. She was younger than he by a year or two, slim and pretty, with a gait like a dancer.

“This butcher’s girl,” LaSier began, “she’s not the only child who’s gone missing who shouldn’t.”

“Oh?” Rathe stopped, already running down the list of missing persons they’d received from Point of Sighs. Not that that was always reliable, as every station guarded its prerogatives and points jealously, but he couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary. Runaways, certainly, and more than there should have been, or usually were, but nothing like Herisse.

LaSier made a face, as though she’d read his thoughts. “It hasn’t been reported, I don’t think. But there was a boy here, learning the trade, and he went out to the markets to watch the crowds and he never came home.”

“No one made a point on him, then?” Rathe asked, already knowing the answer–if it were that simple, the Quentiers wouldn’t be worrying; prison was an occupational hazard for them–and LaSier spat on the dust at her feet.

“We checked that first, of course, though he’d been here just long enough to learn how much he didn’t know, and I didn’t think he was stupid enough to try lifting anything on his own. But he’s not in the cells at Point of Sighs or anywhere southriver. And I’m worried. Estel’s worried.”

There was no need to ask why LaSier or Quentier hadn’t gone to Point of Sighs with the complaint. The Quentiers had always kept a school of sorts for pickpockets, their own kin and the children of friends and neighbors–Rathe sometimes wondered if there were some secret, hidden guild organization for illegal crafts–and he wasn’t surprised to hear that Estel was keeping up that part of the business. But she would have no recourse when one of her “students” disappeared, not without giving Astarac, the chief at Point of Sighs, an excuse to search the ’Serry and in general look too closely into Quentier business. “Are you making an official complaint to me?”

LaSier shook her head, smiling. “If it were official, we’d’ve gone to Point of Sighs, they’re the ones with jurisdiction. But I thought you ought to know. He didn’t have any place to run, that one. Gavaret Cordiere, his name is, his family’s from Dhenin.”

“Would he have run back to them?” Rathe asked. “If he–forgive my bluntness, Cassia–if he decided he didn’t like the business after all?”

“It’s possible,” LaSier answered. “But I don’t think he did.” She smiled again, a sudden, elfin grin. “He liked the trade, Nico, and he had the fingers for it. I’d’ve put him to work soon enough.”

Rathe sighed, and reached into his pocket for his tablet. “I’ll make inquiries northriver, if you’d like, see if he’s in cells there. And you might as well give me a description, in case–anything–turns up.”

A body, he meant, and LaSier grimaced and nodded in understanding. “He’s fourteen, maybe shoulder height on me, dark‑skinned–not as dark as me, but dark enough–brown hair, brown eyes. There’s a touch of red in his hair, maybe, and it’s curly. He cut it short when we came here, he looks like any apprentice.”