“I thought,” Eslingen said, and chose his words carefully, “I thought only nobles–nobles of four quarterings–could own those holdings.”

Denizard nodded. “That’s right. But there was a woman, a woman of I think eight quarters, who owed Madame quite a bit of money. So they made a bargain: d’Or–this woman would take the title, paid for with Madame’s money, and Hanse’s, and send a share of the estate’s takings to them as payment.”

Eslingen took a slow breath, let it out soundlessly. Caiazzo played dangerous games, and not just the ones southriver. Under the law, a commoner who presumed to purchase a noble title would lose her investment if she were found out, might, if the offense were particularly egregious or open, be sentenced to a fine–but that wasn’t the real deterrent. The nobles of the Ajanes were jealous of their privileges, jealous to the point of having forced the queen’s grandmother to agree to attach the rule of four quarters to the sale of all estates in their domain. And they were old‑fashioned enough to try to wipe out such an insult in the commoner’s blood. Eslingen could feel the hairs stirring on the nape of his neck at the thought of trying to protect Caiazzo from Ajanine nobles and their servants. He had served under an Ajanine captain once, for eight months when he was sixteen; it had been the first time he had deserted, and that had been the only thing that had saved his life. Three days after he had run, the Ajanine had thrown his company into a mad assault on a well‑garrisoned Chadroni fort, and had lost them all in the space of an hour. Eslingen, and the ten men sent to track him down, had been the only survivors; they had enlisted together under a sober League captain less than a moon‑month after that battle. He shook that memory away, said, still cautiously, “But what’s to stop this woman from refusing to pay, now she’s got the estate?”

Denizard gave him a grim look. “Madame Iniz still holds notes of her hand, for one thing, worth more than that estate.”

“Notes can be repudiated,” Eslingen said.

Denizard nodded. “Not easily, but, yes, they can be. But Hanse trades through there, too. And I wouldn’t want to annoy Master Caiazzo, would you?”

“No,” Eslingen agreed. But I’m not an eight‑quarter noble from the Ajanes. The words hung between them, unspoken, and Denizard made a face.

“It seemed worth the risk. There’s a gold mine on the estate, and merchants are always short of gold.”

Eslingen started to whistle, cut the sound off in a hiss of breath. Gold made all the difference, made the risks worth taking, both the risk of buying the property and of threatening the true noble who held it for them. Merchants are always short of gold, indeed; it’s gold that builds the manufactories and pays the caravan masters and the Silklands merchants when there’s nothing else to trade. I see why they did it, why it’s worth it, but, Seidos’s Horse, it’s a risk.

“And,” Denizard went on, “the stars were favorable.”

They would have to be. Eslingen squinted slightly. Seidos had been in the Gargoyle, she had said, which made sense. The Gargoyle was Argent’s sign, and Argent‑Bonfortune was the god of the merchants: the planet of the nobility in the sign of the merchant, a reasonable omen. But if Seidos was in the Gargoyle in the Demean reckoning, that meant it was–somewhere else–in the Phoeban zodiac. “If Seidos was in the Gargoyle,” he said aloud, “it was also in, what, Cock‑and‑Hens?”

Denizard looked away. “We’re common, it’s Demis who rules our lives.”

But that’s noble land. Eslingen killed that response–he was no magist, and his astrological education came from the broadsheets he read assiduously; there was no reason to think he was right, when Denizard said otherwise. But the estate in question was noble, and fell under Phoebe’s rule, under the signs of her solar zodiac. And by that reckoning, Seidos was in the sign of the Cock‑and‑Hens, the winter‑sun’s sign, sign of changing seasons, of change and suffering and impending, inevitable death. You could interpret the purchase as a change, and a kind of death, but still… it’s not a chance I’d want to take.

8

« ^ »

rathe leaned over Salineis’s shoulder as she made the last of the nightwatch’s entries in the station’s daybook–a call to locate a strayed maidservant, who’d turned out to be standing at the well chatting with her leman, barely a quarter hour overdue, the sort of thing they were all seeing entirely too much of these days–and then added his initials to the entry. It was his day to supervise the station, something of a welcome break in what had begun to seem like months of walking from point to point in search of clues to the missing children. It also meant that Monteia would not be there, and, since Rathe had had little chance to pursue the question of the unlicensed printers, he was just as glad not to have to explain that to her.

“Not a bad night, on the whole,” Salineis said, and Rathe dragged his attention back to her.

“How’re things by the Old Brown Dog?”

The woman shrugged, and unclasped her heavy jerkin. The bodice beneath it was sweat‑dark at her underarms, and another damp patch showed between her shoulder blades as she turned to hang it on the wall. “Not too bad, actually. The Huviet boy’s master, what’s his name, Follet, he’s let it be known he blames Paas, and that’s shut up most of them. Of course, Follet’s never liked Mistress Huviet–who does?– but at least it seems to be keeping the peace.”

Rathe nodded. “And Aagte?”

“Devynck,” Salineis said, with some precision, “is keeping her mouth shut and herself out of sight, for which I thank her stars and all my gods.” She shook her head, set a dashing cap on top of her piled hair. “And it seems to be working. They’re doing a decent business again, and Timo says he saw some of the locals drinking there when he checked in last night. If they blame anyone, it’s that knife of hers.”

“That’s good news,” Rathe said, and meant it. Eslingen was well clear of Point of Hopes; he could afford to take the blame for a little longer, at least until it had been forgotten.

“Well, we’ve needed some, after clock‑night,” Salineis answered, and turned away.

Rathe seated himself in front of the daybook, paged idly through the events of the last three days. The clock‑night had frightened and sobered the city, it seemed; since then things had been relatively quiet, except for the false alarms, and, best of all, no children had gone missing in that period. Half a dozen had been reported, but all of those had been found within a few hours. And that reminds me, he thought, I still have to get myself over to Point of Dreams and see if the Cytel boy is really with Savatier’s company. The memory brought with it a twinge of real dread: surely, he thought, if Albe was there, and safe, Gavi would have told me… But Jhirassi had been working; their waking hours had not overlapped. Still, he decided, I’ll make it my business to walk by there on my way home tonight.

The front door opened then, and he looked up, expecting one of the duty points or someone come to report another missing child. To his surprise, Monteia swept in, bringing with her the distinct scent of manure. She scowled at him, scraping her shoes on the iron blade set in the floor by the sill, and Rathe said, cautiously, “I didn’t expect you in today, Chief.”

“No more did I.” Monteia inspected her soles, swore under her breath, and scraped again. “I dined with the other chiefs last night, Nico, and there’s some business that won’t wait.” She looked at her shoes again, nodded, satisfied, and leaned back out the door. “Vatan! Send one of the runners to sweep the gate and clean up here, and then get in here yourself. I need to talk to Nico.”

Rathe rose, already dreading her news, and followed her into the workroom. Monteia kicked her shoes into a corner, padded in stocking feet to her chair and sat down, planting both elbows solidly on the cluttered surface.