Rathe blinked. “Frankly, yes.”

Her smile widened. “Hanselin has a nice hand in his business, a subtle hand. There are people who would like to take his place whom I would very much dislike dealing with. Which is why this old woman has been rambling on at you, pointsman, and you’re very kind to listen to her.”

Rathe blinked again, a kind of awe filling him. She had told him everything he could have thought to ask, and never once had directly implicated herself or anyone. “Not at all, madame, it’s been my pleasure to listen to you ramble.”

“Because that’s all it is, of course, pointsman.”

Rathe’s eyes met hers, his expression as ingenuous as her own. He’d agreed to keep it off the books; she could and would deny ever having said any of this, if he were foolish enough to try to make a points matter of it. But he did believe her–if nothing else, it fit in too well with what Eslingen had said. Caiazzo was having problems, and with something that had worked well in the past. And that argued that he didn’t have anything to do with the missing children: the two events just didn’t fit. In other times, the sources of his coin might be Rathe’s concern, but at the moment, he could leave that to Customs Point, and concentrate on the children. “Of course, madame. And I thank you for letting me take up so much of your time. You must be very busy.”

She sighed, and lifted an enameled bell that stood beside the silver inkwell. “I could be busier, and hope to be so soon. My man will see you out.”

The door opened, and the footman loomed in the doorway. Rathe nodded politely to Chevassu–almost a bow–and followed the servant out.

Caiazzo’s temper had improved markedly since the arrival of Aurien’s caravel, and for the first time, Eslingen began to understand why the longdistance trader’s household was so fiercely loyal to their employer. With the immediate problems somewhat relieved, Caiazzo relaxed, showing a deft awareness of his people that surprised and, unexpectedly, charmed the soldier. The household relaxed, too, as the night of the clocks receded without further consequence, and Eslingen found himself made cautiously welcome.

“You’ve done well, settling in,” Denizard said, as they climbed together toward Caiazzo’s workroom.

Eslingen shrugged. “I’m not ungrateful, but I’m also not unaware that at least some of them think I’m good luck. And that’s a chancy reputation.”

Denizard grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about Azemar, she’d follow every broadsheet astrologer in the city if she could just figure out how to do it all at once. No, seriously, you’ve done well. I think Hanse will want to keep you on, if you’re willing.”

Eslingen hesitated. Now that it had come to an offer, he found himself surprisingly reluctant, but then he shook the thought away, impatient with himself. This was the best place he’d had, not excepting his post with Coindarel, and he’d be a fool to turn it down, particularly when he couldn’t have put a name to the reluctance. “Thanks,” he said. “I–it’s a good place, I’d be glad to stay.”

“Good–” Denizard broke off as the door to the counting room snapped open, and Caiazzo himself stood framed in the doorway.

“Oh, there you are. Good. Eslingen, I want you to go to the fair, to the caravan‑masters, and tell Rouvalles he can send for his coin tomorrow–any time after second sunrise, tell him. And you can make reasonable apologies for me, but don’t give him any explanations.”

“Sir,” Eslingen said.

“After that–” He rolled his eyes at Denizard. “After that, meet me at the public landing at the northriver end of the Manufactory– the Point of Graves–Bridge. You’re in for a treat, Eslingen, we’re going to see my merchant resident.”

“Sir?” Eslingen said again, and immediately wished he’d left the question unasked.

Caiazzo’s grin widened. “Oh, you’ll like Madame Allyns, Eslingen, and, more to the point, she’ll certainly like you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the standing clock. “Be there by noon, that should give you enough time with Rouvalles.”

The dismissal was obvious. “Sir,” Eslingen said, for the third time, and took himself off.

The fair was in full swing at last, and Eslingen wasn’t sorry to have an excuse to explore its byways. The older members of the household grumbled that this fair was a shadow of its usual self, that the commons of Astreiant were too busy looking over their shoulders and keeping a hand firmly on their children to loose their purse strings, but for Eslingen the rows of stalls–some of them easily as big as an ordinary shopfront, and as well stocked–were an almost magical experience. He had been to the various fairs of Esling as a boy, and once to the Crossroads Fair held at the autumn balance outside Galhac, south of the Chadroni Gap, but none of them compared with this display of goods. He took a roundabout road to the corrals on the eastern edge of the fairground, dizzying himself with the scent of spices from the Silklands and the strange, musky ambers and crystal flowers from the petty kingdoms north and west of Chadron. They lay in baskets and shallow dishes on every counter, and the suns’ light sent the pungent odors skyward. Between the drapers and the dyers, he nearly walked into a black‑robed astrologer, orrery out as he spoke to a girl in an apprentice’s blue coat. Eslingen murmured an apology, but the astrologer had already turned away, pocketing his orrery, and faded into the crowd.

“Hey,” the girl called, but he was already almost out of sight. She swore and started after him. Eslingen blinked, startled–what had the man been promising her, to run so fast–but shrugged the thought away. The leathersellers’ alley was too crowded to pass–Astreiant was noted for its leatherwork, but bought most of its hides from the League–and he skirted the mob of masters, each with her train of apprentices and journeymen. Handcarts trundled between the stalls and the river, hides in various stages of preparation stacked so high that the sweating laborers could barely see the path in front of them. Eslingen kept a wary eye out, and wasn’t sorry to reach the end of that section.

The caravan‑masters, by a commonsense tradition, had the two rows of stalls on the eastern edge of the fairground, by the corrals where they and their people lived for the duration of the fair. Someone had set up an altar to Bonfortune at the southern end of the makeshift street, and the smiling statue was draped with flower wreaths and printed offering‑slips. The ground at its feet was dark, sticky with spilled wine and shreds of rice and noodles: the caravaners were impartial in their allegiances, and in their methods of worship.

Caiazzo’s booth–another small shop, really, with a bright blue canvas roof over half‑height wooden walls–lay closer to the western end of the street, marked by the pennants with his house‑sign hanging from the tent poles. Eslingen waited until the factor had finished with her customer, a stocky woman in plain brown who clutched a letter, credit or introduction, in one painted hand, before he stepped up to the counter. It was padded with leather to protect the bolts of silk brocade and silk velvet from the rough wood. There was silk gauze as well, a length embroidered and re‑embroidered with gold and pearls; he reached out to touch it, in spite of knowing better, and winced as his fingers caught on the delicate fabric. A bolt of this was worth a common man’s salary for years, and the nobles who bought it paid in gold; he was not surprised to see a solid‑looking man watching him from the shadows inside the stall.

“Can I help you, sir?” the factor said, and blinked. “You’re Hanse’s new knife, aren’t you? Trouble?”

Eslingen shook his head. “No trouble, and yes, I’m Eslingen. I have a message for Rouvalles, if he’s here.”

“He’s back at the corrals,” the factor answered. “Do you know the way?”