“I don’t know–I didn’t think so, still don’t, really. But there’s no denying there’s something wrong there.”

“He’s never dealt in human flesh,” Talairan said, doubtfully, “and especially not children.”

Rathe nodded, ran a hand through already disheveled hair. “Tell me about it. But I don’t like the coincidence, what pointsman does?”

“A lazy one,” Talairan answered, and jerked her head toward the wall she shared with Huyser’s office.

Rathe smiled, but wryly. “So I need to look into it.”

“Caiazzo’s rightfully Customs Point’s concern.”

“Customs Point,” Rathe said, enunciating each syllable with acid precision, “thinks Hanselin Caiazzo is an honest businessman and a boon to the district.”

Talairan stared at him. “They said that?”

“They’ve said it,” Rathe said grimly.

She whistled softly. “His fees must be powerful.”

“So they tell me. Thanks for your help, Tal.”

“You’re welcome, for what it was worth. I’ll ask for the return of the favor some day.”

“I don’t doubt you will,” Rathe answered, and let himself out.

Despite what Mikael had said, Chevassu was not at the Heironeia. Swearing under his breath, Rathe retraced his steps, threaded his way through Manufactory’s crowded streets to the banker’s house. It was an expensive‑looking place, but at second glance he could see that the glass in the upper windows was of distinctly lesser quality, and the stone of the facade was not matched on the sides. Monetary difficulties? he wondered, as he tugged the heavy chain of the bell, or just southriver practicality? The door opened after only a moderate wait, and a tall, greying man in footman’s livery looked down at him. The discrepancies between facade and sides were just practicality, Rathe decided, looking at the quality of the linen and the metal braid that guarded every seam of the man’s narrow coat. If she could afford to dress her servants like that, she could afford good glass if she wanted it.

The footman opened his mouth–to direct him to the trades door, Rathe was sure–and Rathe cut him off with a smile that showed teeth. “Adjunct Point Rathe from Point of Hopes. They told me at the Heironeia that Madame Chevassu’s here.”

“Point of Hopes?” The man was visibly startled, but recovered himself quickly. “We’re in Manufactory Point–”

Rathe shook his head, and the man stopped.

“May I ask your business?”

“You may not,” Rathe answered, pleasantly. “Just tell Chevassu that I’d like to speak to her, please. I don’t think she’d refuse.” He let the words hang.

For a moment, it looked as though the footman would protest further, but then southriver habits took over, and he stepped back from the doorway. Rathe followed him in, as always a little annoyed by his own methods. It was bad enough to use a woman’s past against her, worse when it was the same as his own–and worst of all when it made him into a bully.

“Wait here,” the footman said, and disappeared up the main staircase. He was back a moment later, and paused disdainfully at the top of the stairs.

“Madame will see you now.”

Rathe nodded, and climbed to join him, the wood of the railing warm under his hand. The house smelled expensive, herbs and wax; the furnishings were good, obviously chosen by someone with an eye for quality, and he revised his opinion of Chevassu’s fortunes once again. If she needed funds, all she would have to do was sell one or two of the tapestries that adorned her upper hall–so what, he wondered silently, is Caiazzo up to, that he doesn’t just borrow from her?

“Pointsman Rathe, madame,” the footman said, flinging open a painted door. “Point of Hopes.” He stressed the last word, and Rathe couldn’t repress a grin of his own.

“Adjunct Point, actually, madame,” he said, and stepped past the man into Chevassu’s workroom. It was a cluttered place, full of good furniture and better paintings, and the fittings on table and sideboard were all of silver. “I appreciate your seeing me.”

Chevassu was easily sixty, maybe older, her hair a grey somewhere between iron and silver. Her skin was the color of very old ivory, and her eyes were the palest blue Rathe had even seen, barely darker than the ice blue silk of her gown. She didn’t rise from behind her table, but gestured for Rathe to take one of the fragile chairs instead. It was a nice balance of courtesy and status, Rathe reflected, and perched carefully on the carved and gilded seat. It creaked under his weight, but he thought it was stronger than it looked.

“I’ll be blunt, I’m curious what Point of Hopes wants with me,” Chevassu answered. She wore no paint, either on hands or face, and her skin was crisscrossed with a web of fine lines, like soft and crumpled paper. “I’ve done no business there these past, sweet Heira, seven years. Do you tell me my past has come back to haunt me?”

“I’m more interested in your present, madame, and I’ll say straight out it’s nothing to do with Point of Hopes,” Rathe answered. He watched her closely as he spoke, but saw no change in her calm expression. “I understand you handle the exchange for Hanselin Caiazzo.”

“I have done,” she answered, and Rathe tilted his head to one side.

“But not this year?”

“I fail to see why I should tell you–” Chevassu began, sounding almost indulgent, and Rathe lifted a hand.

“Bear with me a moment, madame. You know what’s been happening in Astreiant this summer, you know why we in the points are looking sideways at anything out of the ordinary. And you also know that Caiazzo’s dealings, business and otherwise, have not been exactly ordinary. I understand, you do business with him, you wouldn’t want to jeopardize that, and I wouldn’t ask you to–in the normal way of things. But things are not normal.”

“Are you accusing Caiazzo of being behind these child‑thefts?” Chevassu demanded. She sounded, Rathe thought, almost more outraged by that than by anything else he’d said.

“I don’t know,” he answered, bluntly. “But there are people who do think so, and I’m duty bound to make sure he’s not.”

Chevassu tipped her head back, bringing him into the far‑sighted focus of the old. “Off the books, pointsman?”

“As far as I’m able.”

She studied him for a moment longer, expression thoughtful, then nodded. “I’ll take the chance. Hanselin Caiazzo’s not one to deal in these goods. Let me tell you a little bit about him.” It was the tone a grandmother used to begin a story on a winter‑eve, and Rathe smiled back at her, not the least deceived.

“Hanselin is one of the canniest and most intelligent businessmen I’ve worked with, not excepting his mother, who was as canny as they come. The two don’t always go together, but Hanselin–ah, he has both, in roughly equal portion, and what I wouldn’t give to see a copy of his nativity.”

So would I, Rathe thought. He knew almost nothing of the trader’s stars, he realized, with some surprise, not even the major signs of his birth.

“It’s not the usual nativity of a longdistance trader, I would wager,” Chevassu went on, “and it’s equally not your usual southriver knife’s, however much he likes walking that line. How many questionable businesses do you think he fees, either the whole or in part, here in Astreiant?”

She seemed to expect an answer, and Rathe shrugged. “I’ve lost count, but then, I have a suspicious mind.”

She gave him an approving nod, as though he’d passed some test. “You probably do, it’s a hazard of your profession, and I’m not surprised you’ve lost count, because it changes year to year. He keeps the money moving in and out and that keeps his–associates–on their toes, and that keeps them all the safer. But there’s always been one thing that puzzles all of us. For all he’s a shrewd judge of the chance, and a hard man for a bargain, he’s had more coin than he ought for the past several years. Oh, the Silklands caravan is well managed, extremely well managed indeed, and that pays well and in coin, but he’s always had more to hand than he reasonably should have, coin that’s not tied up in goods until he chooses to spend it. Now, here it is, time for him to be changing monies, setting his Silklands caravan on the road, outfitting his ships… and things have been very quiet from Customs Point this year. Aurien’s caravel coming in, that was luck, but it hasn’t helped. So, Caiazzo’s problem is a money problem, pointsman, and one that has roots years back. Whatever’s wrong can’t have anything to do with the children, but it could get him into serious trouble, in and out of the court. Which I would surely hate to see.” She smiled. “And now you’re wondering why I’d tell you this much.”