As he straightened, he heard a clock strike, and frowned, startled that it was so late. An instant later, a second clock sounded, this one within the house, its two‑note chime oddly syncopated against the rhythm of the distant tower clock. Other clocks were striking now, too, and kept sounding, past what was reasonable. He counted eleven, twelve, then thirteen and fourteen, and heard a voice shrill from the end of the hall.

“What in the name of all the gods–?”

A second voice–Denizard’s, he thought–answered, “Be quiet, and keep the others quiet, too.” The chiming stopped then, on a last sour note as though a bell had cracked under the steady blows, and the magist went on, “It’s over. Get back to the kitchen and keep everybody calm, there’s no need to panic yet.”

Eslingen saw the first woman drop a shaky curtsey, and Denizard looked at him. “Good. Come on, Eslingen, Hanse will be wanting us.”

Eslingen reached behind him for his coat, and the long knife on its narrow belt, and followed the magist down the long hall, shrugging into his clothes as he went. Caiazzo himself was standing at the top of the main stairway, scowling up at the house clock that stood against the wall behind him. The hands, Eslingen saw, declared it to be half past six, and he shivered in spite of himself.

“What in all hells was that?” the trader demanded, and Denizard spread her hands. She had flung her gown over chemise and skirts, and Eslingen could see the hard line of her stays as the gown swung open. Her grey‑streaked hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she shook it back impatiently.

“I don’t know,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “Not an earthquake, or lightning–”

“That’s obvious,” Caiazzo snapped.

“–which means some other sort of natural disturbance,” the magist went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. “The starchange means things are unsettled, but I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

“Wonderful,” Caiazzo said, and looked up at the clock. “So what do we do now, magist?”

Denizard sighed, drawing her gown closed around her. “Reassure your people first, I think. Then send someone to the university, the Great Clock there is unlikely to have gone out of tune, and even if it has, they’ll be able to reset it from the stars. And then–I don’t know, Hanse. Try to find out what happened, I suppose.”

“And what do you think happened?” Caiazzo asked. His voice was calmer now, and Denizard sighed again.

“I’m only guessing, mind, my speciality isn’t astrology. But the starchange means that the Starsmith is coming closer and closer to the normal stars, and that means it has more and more influence on them. It’s possible that its approach could upset the clocks–they’re set to the ordinary stars, not the Starsmith.”

“But if that’s what happened,” Caiazzo said, “why haven’t I heard of anything like this before? The last starchange was in living memory, surely something like this would’ve started stories.”

“I don’t know,” Denizard said again. “The Starsmith will be moving into the Charioteer, that’s a shared sign, one of the moon’s signs, and it hasn’t done that for, oh, six hundred years. I don’t think even the university has good records for that long ago.”

Caiazzo muttered something under his breath. Eslingen smelled smoke suddenly, strong and close at hand, and turned instantly to the main door. Before he could reach it, however, it opened, and the stocky man who’d been introduced as the household steward came into the hall.

“Sir. The neighbors are lighting balefires, and with your permission, I’d like to have our people do the same. And there’s a crier saying that the university is checking the proper time.”

Caiazzo’s eyes flicked to Denizard, who shrugged, and then back to the steward. “Go ahead. It’ll give them something to do besides worry.”

“Sir,” the steward said again, and started toward the kitchen.

Caiazzo looked back at the magist. “As for you, Aice, take Eslingen here and get over to the university. Take my travel clock, and make sure we get the right time.”

Denizard nodded. “You’ll want a clocksmith in for the big one, though.”

“Another damned expense,” Caiazzo muttered, and turned on his heel and stalked away.

Denizard looked at Eslingen, the corners of her mouth turning up in a wry smile. “Well. You heard our orders. Let me dress, and we’ll be on our way.”

The streets were crowded, every crossroads filled with a smouldering balefire, and the Manufactory Bridge was filled with people heading northriver. Toward the university, Eslingen guessed, and wasn’t surprised to see a bigger crowd gathered outside the university gate. A number of them, he saw, carried clocks of one kind or another: not surprising, he thought, and did his best to help Denizard elbow her way to the gate. Most people gave way before her magist’s gown, but the guard on duty at the gate shook his head apologetically.

“I’m sorry, magist, but you’ve come too late. The ceremony’s started–almost finished, by the sound of it.”

Even as he spoke, a bell sounded from inside the compound, a high, sweet sound, and a voice called something. There was a noise like a great sigh of relief, and another voice repeated the words.

“Quarter past one!”

“Quarter past one,” Denizard said, and nodded to the guard. She turned away, shielding Caiazzo’s clock against her body, and adjusted the mechanism. “Well, that finishes that.”

“Does it?” Eslingen asked, involuntarily, and the magist gave him a wry smile.

“Probably not. But that’s all we can do about it now.”

“I suppose.”

“You have a better idea?” Denizard asked, but her smile cut the hardness of her words.

Eslingen smiled back, and shook his head. “No, I admit. But–I just can’t say it feels right.”

“No,” Denizard agreed. “We–you and I in particular, Eslingen– will need to keep a careful eye on things for the next few days, I’d say. This can’t be a good omen.”

Eslingen nodded back, wondering again if he should ever have accepted Rathe’s advice, and fell into step beside her, heading back to Customs Point and Caiazzo’s house.

Another servant, rounder‑faced and more cheerful than the woman who’d served him the night before, woke him with breakfast and shaving water the next morning, and the news that Caiazzo would want to see him sometime before noon. “He’ll send for you, though,” she added, “so be ready.”

“Do you know when–?” Eslingen asked, and left a suggestive pause, hoping she’d fill in her name.

The woman shook her head, as much to refuse the unspoken question as in answer. “I’ve no idea, sir.”

“Crushed again,” Eslingen murmured, just loud enough to be heard, and thought her smile widened briefly. But then she was gone, and he turned his attention to the business at hand. He was still on sufferance, obviously, and would be for some time, especially after the events of the night before; the household would be closing ranks against outsiders. All he could do was tolerate the snubs, and look for some way of proving his usefulness.

One of the junior servants–a boy who could have been from either the counting house or the kitchen; there was nothing to betray his rank in the neat breeches and dull jerkin–came for him as the house clock was striking ten. Eslingen, who had been listening to the distant, musical notes, dragged himself away from that further evidence of Caiazzo’s status, and gave his stock a last quick tug before he followed the boy from the room. He was aware of more signs of Caiazzo’s wealth as they moved from the servants’ quarters into the main house– panelling with spare, geometric carvings, glass and silver on the sideboards in the main hall, wax candles in every room–but schooled himself to impassivity. He would lose nothing by seeming familiar with the trappings of wealth, and gain nothing by sneering. Not, he added silently, that there was much to sneer at. Caiazzo’s taste, at least in the public rooms, was impeccable, even a little severe for a man who’d been born a southriver bookbinder’s son.