“What sort of a reading did he give you?” Rathe asked. He heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the startled look on her face: it was not good manners to inquire into someone’s stars, but he was past caring, swept on before she could protest. “Did he give you anything–a written horoscope, a broadsheet, anything?”

Ollre blinked at him, visibly uncertain, and Grosejl said, “I don’t see what the details have to do with anything, pointsman.”

“I need to know what kind of service he provided,” Rathe said. He looked at Ollre. “You don’t have to tell me the details, but I do need to know how he read you, what he did for you.”

Ollre looked suddenly embarrassed. “Well, he didn’t actually do much for me, my nativity’s not that good, just to the hour. So he just said general things, and said he couldn’t help me much–except for this.” She reached under her apron, into the pocket she wore beneath the skirt, and brought out a small disk. “He said it was for luck, that the stars were going to be unsettled for a while, and that I’d need it.” She made a face. “He was right there, wasn’t he?”

Rathe stared for a moment at the dark round of wax, then said, “May I?”

Ollre shrugged and held it out, and he took it from her hand. It was a crude thing, stamped with planetary signs around a central figure of Areton with his shield. He recognized most of them, but couldn’t begin to guess what the sequence meant. But b’Estorr would know, he thought, and turned it over. The reverse was blank. “Did Herisse get one of these?”

“Oh, yes, and she talked to him for a lot longer–of course, she knows her stars to the minute.” Ollre’s fond smile vanished suddenly. “Here, you don’t think that has anything to do with her vanishing, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Rathe said. “It’s possible, yeah, but we don’t know for sure. Can I keep this?”

“If it had anything to do with–” Ollre shuddered. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

“And if it didn’t,” Rathe said gently, “I’ll see it gets back to you. Can you tell me what this astrologer looked like?”

The girl shrugged, looked embarrassed again. He’d been of middle years, not grey, not young; of middle height and middle color and spoke without an accent, beyond the normal tang of Astreianter speech. It wasn’t much, but Rathe hadn’t been expecting much, and nodded politely. “Thanks, Trijntje, this has been a help.”

The girl nodded, looking as though she wanted to ask something more, but Grosejl touched her arm. “All right, Trijntje, get back to work.” She looked at Rathe as the apprentice moved slowly back toward her table. “What’ll you do with it, anyway?”

Rathe looked down at the little charm, then, very carefully, slipped it into his purse, knotting the strings securely over it. “Take it to a magist I know at the university.”

Grosejl nodded. “Gods, I hope you find her–all of them. It’s the not hearing, you see. It’s the–the blindness of it all. No word, no knowing what might have happened.” Her lips twisted. “Death isn’t all bad, pointsman. At least it’s an end.”

You don’t have a friend who’s a necromancer, Rathe thought. He could feel the excitement rising in him at the first real evidence he’d found, and thrust it sternly down before the journeyman could see and misunderstand. He made his excuses quickly, and headed back out to the street. He would visit the other shops and families, at least the ones he could find, and then he’d head to the fair, let Claes know about this new connection. And then… he fought back the sense of certainty. Then he would go to the university, and see what b’Estorr had to say about the charm.

It took him the better part of three hours to contact the relatives and employers of the children on his book, and the results were less than conclusive. The brewers’ apprentices had certainly gone to the First Fair, and had had their stars read, though the remaining apprentices couldn’t say whether it had been by the Three Nations or the black‑robed strangers. The price would have mattered, they admitted, but they simply didn’t know. One of the shop boys had been star‑mad, had his stars read at every possible opportunity, and he had definitely spoken to one of the hedge‑astrologers–but, the counterwoman had warned, he’d also spoken to a student of the Three Nations, and had at least gone into a booth run by the Temple of Sofia. As for the rest, no one could remember whether or not they’d spoken to any astrologers, but at least, Rathe thought, they couldn’t say they hadn’t either. He knew the dangers of overconfidence, of building too much on too little fact, but couldn’t seem to stop himself from hoping. It was the first decent piece of luck they’d had–Astree, send it’s the right piece, he thought, and paused at one of the shrines outside the Pantheon to buy and light a stick of incense.

The fair was as busy as ever, and Rathe knew from experience that he was more likely to find Claes at the point station than in the fairground itself. Even so, he couldn’t resist the chance to pass through the teeming market, keeping an eye out for black‑robed astrologers. It was too much to hope he’d catch them at something–if they were involved, they’d been far too careful to arouse suspicion–but still, it would be good to get a look at them.

He reached the printers’ row without seeing any sign of them, however, and the sight of Agere’s faded sign took the edge off his pleasure. He turned toward it, falling in behind a well‑dressed matron whose broad body and full skirts helped screen his approach, and then reached around her to slip a sheet from the top of its pile. Agere turned toward him, her smile faltering as she recognized the jerkin and the truncheon at his belt.

“You’re not with Fairs’ Point,” she said, confidently enough. “You’ve no jurisdiction here, pointsman.”

“Unfair, Agere, I might just want to buy a sheet.” Rathe skimmed through the smudged printing, feeling his face stiffen with anger. “Not this one, though.” It was the worst he’d seen yet, openly blaming the points for failing to protect the missing children, and hinting that they–and perhaps the metropolitan and the city government–were somehow behind the disappearances. He set the page back on its pile, and gave Agere his least pleasant smile. “So now we’re conspiring with Astreiant herself? You flatter us, usually it’s the Leaguers, or the manufactories, or the soldiers–of whatever nation–or anyone else you think you can attack and get away with. And I don’t see a bond‑mark here.”

“I don’t print those,” Agere said, without inflection. “I’m selling them for someone else.”

That was the usual excuse, and Rathe’s lips damned. “Oh, Agere, couldn’t you say something I hadn’t heard a hundred times already?”

“I didn’t print it,” Agere snapped. “Is it a fee you’re after? Then have the decency to say so.”

Rathe regarded her a moment longer. She had been right about one thing, he had no jurisdiction here. To make the point stand, he would have to fetch someone from Fairs’ Point to make the arrest, and by the time he’d done that, Agere would simply have disposed of the offending broadsheet. He said, “No fee for a warning, Agere. Caiazzo’s not fond of politics–yeah, I know you print under his coin–and there’s not a fee high enough to buy me off when I can watch Caiazzo drop you. And then we will score you without that counterfeit license to protect you. Have a good fair, printer.”

He walked away, aware of the printer’s eyes burning into him, her anger only just leashed. He turned the next corner, blindly, found himself in the leathersellers’s quarter, and stopped, surprised that his hands were shaking. It was one thing to listen to the rumors, the insults, to have it told to him, but to see it in print, in the broadsheets that were the lifeblood of Astreiant… the plain black‑and‑white of the type was somehow more threatening that any spoken accusation. Words disappeared as soon as they were spoken, but the letters on paper stayed to haunt a man.