Rathe tipped his head to one side, eyes fixed on something in the middle distance. “Unless the business, whatever it was, had gone wrong somehow.” He broke off, shaking his head.

Eslingen said, “If he’s acting for someone else, which I think he’d have to be, from what I’ve heard, well, that someone would have to be a fool, to keep Caiazzo short of coin. If nothing else, it draws suspicion–as witness our conversation, pointsman.”

Rathe grinned at that. “No, I daresay you’re right, Eslingen. I wish to Sofia I knew what he was up to, though.”

Eslingen shook his head in turn. “Oh, no, that’s not part of the bargain. The children only, thank you, Rathe.” He smiled then. “I’m starting to enjoy my work.”

“I was afraid you would,” Rathe answered. “But, thanks, Eslingen. I appreciate this much.”

Eslingen shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. “It matters,” he said. “These lads–” He broke off, shaking his head. “It matters,” he said again, and turned away before the pointsman could say anything more. He could feel Rathe’s gaze on him as he climbed the steps to the bridge, but refused to look back. He had done as much as he’d agreed to do; Rathe was repaid for his favor, and that was an end to it.

Rathe watched him go, the blue coat soon lost among the brightly dressed crowd on the bridge. He hoped the soldier was right–and logically, he should be; if Caiazzo were involved, he should have coin to spare, not be scrambling to outfit his caravans, or forced into dealings with mysterious old women. Rathe had a shrewd idea of who she was–Catarin Isart was a blood descendant of the Chief of the Thirty‑two Knives, and had long been rumored to have dealings with Caiazzo–and he didn’t envy the longdistance trader if ever she did get a finger into his business. But Isart would deal in children if the price was right, and that meant, he acknowledged silently, that a trip of his own to the court was in order. He had contacts there, people he couldn’t quite call friends, but on whom he could rely, at least up to a point. And for once the job in hand would work to his advantage: no one, not even the sharpest of knives, would dare, or want, to protect the child‑thief. But first, he decided, he would go back by Point of Hopes, and tell Monteia where he was going. There was no point in taking chances with the court and its denizens.

It was late in the afternoon by the time he reached the court, crossing the rickety bridge that spanned one of the nastier gutters running down to the Sier. He let his blade show under his open half‑coat, knowing he was being watched, and knowing, too, that the watchers would assume a second, hidden weapon, or maybe more than one. He followed the main path through the warrens, counting intersections, turned at the fifth, beneath a sign that had once been a purple fish, but was now fading to an unlovely puce. The building he was looking for stood three doors further on, its door sagging from rusting hinges. It had been part of the original mansion, but the stones were beginning to sag, the mortar crumbling from between them, the frames of the windows and the wooden sill starting to rot. He grimaced, thinking of the floor beams, and stepped back to glance up to the second story windows. A lantern stood in the center of the three, unlit but very visible, and he smiled, and pushed open the main door. The stairs looked as rotten as the window frames, though he knew at least some of the dilapidation was designed to trap the unwary, and he stepped carefully, testing each step before committing his weight to it. Several of the boards creaked alarmingly, and one cracked sharply, but he reached the second floor without mishap, and stepped onto a landing that looked a good deal sturdier than anything else in the building. There was only one door, but before he could raise his hand to knock, it was pulled open. A woman stood there, leather bodice laced over a sleeveless shift, skirts kilted to her knees. She was holding a knife several inches longer than the one Rathe carried, and he lifted his hands away from his side.

“That’s not legal, that is,” he said. “How’s business, Mariell?”

“You don’t want to know, pointsman, trust me.”

“That good,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded bitter. “Is Mikael in?”

“Why?” Mariell’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not been working, you know. Or have you come on a hire?”

“I try to do my own dirty work,” Rathe said, mildly. “And I know he hasn’t been working, but even if he had been, that’s not what I’m here about.”

“It’s all right, Mariell, let him in.”

The speaker was a dark giant of a man, his face unexpectedly ruddy under a thatch of coarse black hair, only his beard showing a sprinkling of grey. Mariell stepped back, still frowning lightly, and Rathe edged past her. The door was narrow, had had slats added to it to make it narrower, and he couldn’t help wondering how Mikael himself got in and out of it.

Mikael smiled, genial, looking for all the world like a guildmaster well satisfied with life–as well he might, Rathe thought. Mikael was at the top of his profession, and Rathe was irresistibly reminded of Mailet. The butcher was clearly a man of choleric nature who was good with a knife, whose stars had steered him to a peaceable profession. Mikael was a good‑natured man who also happened to be very good with a knife, whose stars had led him to a less peaceful life, sometimes as bodyguard or bravo, sometimes as a killer.

“So, Nico. What brings you this far in? Business?” Mikael seated himself in a barrel chair by the open window, gestured for Rathe to take the stool opposite. The air was a little fresher up here, and there were herbs scattered along the floor and hanging from the rafters. Rathe recognized one of the hanging bunches as woundwort, and for a moment was dizzied by the thought of Mikael as physician as well as executioner. Well, he thought, why not. In the Court, it made as much sense as anything.

“Business of a sort,” he answered.

“Blaming us for the clock‑night, probably,” Mariell said.

Mikael ignored her and held up a sweating stone pitcher in silent offer. Rathe nodded. Mariell made a disgusted noise, and disappeared into an inner room, slamming the door behind her.

Mikael shook his head, but said nothing, picked up a mug and filled it, handing it to Rathe.

Rathe decided not to pursue the issue. “Who’s good these days?” he asked, and nodded toward the wine jug.

Mikael made a face. “Piss poor most of it is, I tell you, but Harin has gotten in a couple hogsheads that I’m not embarrassed to drink, and she’s not embarrassed to sell. It’s all been piss poor even since old Grien died.”

“Did Grien die?” Rathe asked, all innocence. “All I’d heard was that she’d disappeared, and young Grien took off for parts unknown. Good thing Harin stepped into the breach.”

“Yes, wasn’t it?” Mikael replied, equally bland. “So, what sort of business?”

Which meant Mikael had had enough of that topic. Rathe leaned back, balancing awkwardly on the stool, not particularly reassured by the weight of the knife at his side. “The city’s strange these days, Mikael. You must have felt it. You been working more or less than usual?”

“What kind of question is that for a working man, Nico?” Mikael demanded, and Rathe spread his hands.

“Off the books, Mikael, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on these days. Kids disappearing…”

“And you only take notice because they’re merchants’ spawn, don’t you?” The tone was less angry than the words, almost a token protest.

Rathe sighed. “That’s not fair, Mikael. You have to admit, this is something outside the ordinary. The Quentiers were telling me they’d lost a–prentice, I guess you’d call him.”

Mikael’s lips twisted beneath the beard. “Bet they didn’t go to the points, did they?”

“Well, they told me, and I’ve added it to my books.” Rathe matched the other man’s half smile. “Unofficially, of course, Estel wouldn’t thank me if I made it official. But that’s not all of it. Caiazzo is more than commonly edgy these days. I mean, we all know he’s not the most serene individual, but he’s close to the edge. And that’s bad for business, Mikael.”