It seemed as though the news of the ceremony had already reached the neighborhood. The streets, and then the bridge itself, were jammed with bodies, all flowing toward the university precinct. Rathe let himself be carried with the crowd, but at the university gates displayed his truncheon, and was admitted grudgingly into the main courtyard. All the lights had been quenched there, even the mage‑fires that usually burned blue above the dormitories’ doorways, and in the darkened center of the yard a group of magists–all high‑ranking, senior officials and scholars, by the cut and colors of their robes and hoods–clustered around a long table covered with the tools of their trade. Even at this distance, and in the dark, he could recognize the concentric spheres of the university’s pride and joy, the great orrery, the largest and most exact ever made. He had been in dame school the day it had been unveiled, and all the city’s students had been taken to view it, and then given a week’s holiday, to impress on their memory that they had seen something special. In spite of himself, he took a step forward, and nearly collided with a student in a gargoyle grey gown.

“Sorry, sir, but no one’s allowed any closer.”

“I’m sorry,” Rathe said. “Tell me, I was sent with a clock, to reset it, where should I go?”

The student rolled her eyes. “So was everyone, sir. Anywhere will be all right, they’ll call the time once they know it.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and moved away. It was true enough, he saw. A number of the crowd, maybe one in ten, clutched case‑clocks or traveling dials, waiting patiently for the scholars to restore the time. Some were servants from the nobles’ houses along the Western Reach, but an equal number were from the city, guildfolk and respectable traders, and Rathe shivered, thinking again of the clocks chiming out of tune, out of order. Astreiant needed its clocks, not just for telling the time of day, but for matching one’s actions to the stars, and there were more and more trades in which that was not just a useful addition, but a necessity. To be without clocks was almost as bad as being without the stars themselves.

At the center of the yard, the robed scholars were moving through their stately choreography, lifting astrolabes and sighting staffs and other instruments Rathe didn’t recognize. He could hear their voices, too, but couldn’t make out the words, just the sonorous roll of the phrases, punctuated by the occasional sweet tone of a bell. Then at last a pair of scholars–senior magists, resplendent in heavy gowns and gold chains and the heavy hoods that marked ten years of study–lifted the great orrery, and another senior magist solemnly adjusted first one set of rings, and then the next. It seemed to take forever, but then at last she stepped away, and the bell sounded again.

“Quarter past one,” a voice cried, and the words were taken up and repeated across the courtyard. Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief, and flipped open the clock case to turn the hands himself. He closed it again, ready to head back to Point of Hopes, and heard a familiar voice from among the scholars.

“Nico!”

He turned, to see b’Estorr pushing through the crowd toward him. He was wearing his full academic regalia, a blue hood clasped with the Starsmith’s star‑and‑anvil thrown over his shoulders, but loosened the robe as he approached, revealing a plain shirt and patched breeches.

“Istre. That settles it, does it?”

“Everything except why,” b’Estorr answered.

Rathe sighed, but nodded. “Does anyone have any ideas?”

“Not really, at least not yet. It may have something to do with the starchange–there are a lot of odd phenomena associated with it, and the Starsmith is closer this passage than last time.”

b’Estorr shook his head again. “But there’s one thing you should know, even if it’s not public knowledge.”

“Oh?” Rathe could feel the night air chill on his face.

“Our clock, the university clock. It struck then, too.”

“What?” Rathe frowned. “I thought you said it was built to withstand upheavals.”

“It’s built to stand natural phenomena,” b’Estorr answered. “It’s carefully crafted, well warded–half the gears are cast with aurichalcum, for Dis’s sake–which worries me.”

“I should think that was an understatement,” Rathe muttered, and, to his surprise, b’Estorr grinned. The mage‑lights were returning, casting odd blue highlights in the necromancer’s fair hair.

“Yes, well, I agree. The masters and scholars are looking into it, of course, but I thought at least one pointsman ought to know.”

“Thanks.” Rathe shook his head. “I can’t help thinking about the children. I’m not fond of coincidences, Istre.”

“Neither am I,” b’Estorr answered. “I just don’t see how.” He sighed and worked his shoulders, wincing. “Gods, I’m tired. But at least the clocks can be reset now.”

“That’s something,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded uncertain. “You’ll let me know if there is a connection?”

“Of course. If we find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said again, and touched the other man’s shoulder, then started back toward Point of Hopes. At the gate to the precinct, he looked back, to see b’Estorr still standing in the mage‑light, the gown hanging loose from his shoulders. The necromancer looked tired, and unhappy; Rathe shook his head, hoping it wasn’t an omen, and kept walking.

7

« ^ »

eslingen set his diptych, Areton and Phoebe, on the altar table, and placed the Hearthmistress’s candle in front of it, then turned to survey the room. It was half again as large as his room at the Old Brown Dog, and the furniture was better than anything he’d seen since the glorious three days he and his troop had occupied an abandoned manor house. That hadn’t lasted–they had been driven back again on the fourth day, with casualties–and he shook the thought away as ill‑omened, touching first Areton and then Phoebe in propitiation. It had been a good day so far, better than he’d had any right to expect; there was no point in tempting the gods, or the less pleasant fates. The magist, Denizard, had seemed pleased enough by his answers to her questions–and he had been careful to tell the truth in everything, though he’d shaded it a bit when it came to Rathe. But it was absolutely true that he’d known the pointsman for less than two weeks, and that Rathe had been partly responsible for his losing his place at Devynck’s; the fact that, despite everything, he rather liked the man hadn’t entered the conversation, and most certainly he hadn’t mentioned Rathe’s request. The truthstone hadn’t recognized his equivocation–and how could it? he asked silently. Denizard hadn’t known enough to ask the question that would uncover that link, and he had been very careful in his answers. Besides, he was bound to tell Rathe only if the missing children were involved, and Rathe himself didn’t seem to think that was likely. Fooling Caiazzo might be a different matter, even if the man was no magist, but so far the longdistance trader hadn’t returned to the house.

He glanced around the room again, his own meager belongings looking small and rather shabby by contrast, and hoped he was doing the right thing. At worst, it would be for a week, and at the end of it he’d have two heirats–not much, he thought, but not nothing, either. And, at best, it would be work he could do, and decent pay, and conditions a good deal better than the Old Brown Dog had offered.

There was a knock at the door, and a woman came in without waiting for his word. She was thin and stern‑faced, and carried a tray piled high with covered dishes. “Magist Denizard said you hadn’t eaten,” she said, by way of greeting. “You can set the tray outside when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said, and gave her his best smile, but she set the tray on the table and disappeared without responding. He raised an eyebrow at the closing door–nothing could have made his status more clear, on trial, not yet of the household–but lifted the covers from the dishes. The food smelled good, onions and wine and the ubiquitous Astreianter noodles, these long and thin and drenched in a sauce of oil and a melange of herbs, and he realized suddenly that he was hungry. He ate eagerly–Caiazzo’s cook was a woman of real talent–but when he’d finished, found himself at something of a loss. For a single bleak moment, he would have given most of his savings to be back at Devynck’s arguing with Adriana over the latest broadsheet, but made himself put that thought firmly aside. That option had been closed to him since he’d shot Paas Huviet–since the moment Devynck had put the pistol into his hand, really, and there was no turning back. He carried the tray to the door, and set it carefully outside, close to the wall.