“And a damn dull world it would be without us,” LaSier answered. “He was born on Midsummer Eve fourteen years ago, in Dhenin. He crowned at midnight, his mother told him, and was born at the half‑hour stroke.”

Rathe made the note in his tablets. Midsummer was a major day; any half‑competent astrologer–anyone who owned an ephemeris, for that matter–could calculate the full nativity from what LaSier had told him. “Born under Tyrseis,” he said aloud, “and the Gargoyle. How appropriate.”

LaSier grinned. “And not born to hang.”

“We don’t hang pickpockets, Cassia,” Rathe said.

“I know.” She looked down, brushed a few crumbs from her bodice. “Well, good luck, Nico. You’ll need it.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“Oh, yes. Good luck with that, too,” she answered, and turned away. Rathe watched her go, the slim figure with its waterfall of black hair soon lost in the crowd. It was rare enough for one of the ’Serry’s inhabitants to wish any pointsman well, and he was grateful for the gesture. He glanced again at the notation in his tablets–one more reason to visit b’Estorr–and replaced them in his pocket. Gavaret Corthere was a child like thousands other southriver, and like so many of them, he would find his livelihood in the ’Serry or the Court, maybe lodge with the points more than once, maybe live to old age, or more likely die at the hand of a rival or the wrong victim. Except that Gavaret Corthere knew his nativity, and those stars marked him as appropriate for an apprenticeship with the Quentiers, a step up in the world, by the ’Serry’s reckoning, at any rate. Rathe had never quite realized before just how similar their family business was to the more conventional guilds. He shrugged to himself. It made sense, in any business: why take on anyone born to fail at this line of work? Though, of course, a person’s desire didn’t always run in tandem with their stars, and the stars didn’t guarantee, they merely indicated… Those were the phrases one learned in dame school, and he shook them away.

A flutter of black caught his eye, and he looked sideways to see a figure in dark robes moving slowly across the central space, occasionally nodding to a passerby. Rathe tensed, ready to call for assistance, then hesitated. The robes might be black, might mark one of the astrologers, but they might also be dark grey, and the man just another university student adding to a limited income. He started after the man, but a whistle sounded, shrill and imperious, and he stopped abruptly as a trash wagon rumbled past, cutting off his view of the stranger and bathing him in its sour stench. He dodged around it, nose wrinkling, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He swore under his breath, scanning the crowd a final time, then turned toward the bright blue pennants that marked the tents where the Temple of Astree was acting as arbiter of the fair. Maybe the arbiters will listen, he thought, even if Claes can’t act. At the very least, they should be warned.

The other temples had set up their booths around Astree’s tents, some under Areton’s shield for changing money, some offering horoscopes, a few, like the Demeans, offering certification of foreign goods. This part of the fair was the busiest yet, and Rathe had to work his way through a solid crowd before he could reach the arbiters’ tents. Their flaps were drawn closed, though muffled voices leaked through the heavy cloth, and a tall woman whose coat bore the wheel‑and‑web badge of Astree was shaking her head at a pair of women who carried a basket. The two women stalked away, obviously angry, and the first woman looked at Rathe. “Can I help you, pointsman? As you can see, we’re–occupied–at the moment…”

“It’s not business,” Rathe said, “or not that kind of business. But I’d like to speak to a senior arbiter, if one’s free.”

The woman touched her badge. “I’m free enough at the moment. Gui Vauquelin.”

“Nicolas Rathe. I’m the Adjunct Point at Point of Hopes.”

“You’re a ways from home,” Vauquelin observed, but her tone was neutral.

“I know.” Rathe took a breath. “These astrologers, the new ones– what do you know about them?”

“Aside from the fact that they’re a pain in the ass?” Vauquelin sighed. “Which I shouldn’t say, but they’ve been more headache than they’re worth. Don’t tell me the points are interested.”

“Maybe,” Rathe said again, and her gaze sharpened.

“The children?”

“We don’t know. There may be a connection.” Quickly, Rathe outlined what he’d found, scrupulous to point out that Claes, whose point this rightfully would be, didn’t think there was anything they could do yet. When he’d finished, Vauquelin shook her head.

“We’ve had trouble with them from the day they arrived. Oh–” She held up a hand. “That’s not fully fair, either. We haven’t had any trouble from them, they seem ordinary enough, except that they’re ostentatious about not owing allegiance to any particular temple. We’ve had our juniors talk to them, officially, and unofficially, we had one of our girls get her stars done, and they seem sound enough. It’s basic, but not outright wrong, so there’s no basis for complaint there. But the Three Nations are up in arms–and I offer thanks daily that that’s not literally true–because they’re taking the students’ business.”

“Couldn’t you do anything on those grounds?”

“The student monopoly is customary, not legal,” Vauquelin answered, and shrugged. “Besides, there are plenty of people here– northriver, I mean–who’d like to see the students taken down a few pegs. I’ve had a woman tell me to my face that these new astrologers have to be better just because they aren’t students.”

Rathe swore again under his breath. He had forgotten, more precisely, he rarely encountered, the old rivalry that pitted the students’ Three Nations against the ordinary folk who had the misfortune to share their neighborhoods. It had been almost five years since the last riots, and he’d hoped that tensions had eased since.

Vauquelin smiled, ruefully. “Which makes it difficult to question these people without seeming to favor the students, and that I will not, cannot, do.”

“But if they are involved–” Rathe broke off, gesturing an apology.

“We are watching them,” Vauquelin said firmly. “And I know your people are doing the same. Yes, they talk to children, but we’ve never seen a child fail to return from talking to them. And it could be coincidence. Children are most at risk, these days, no wonder they want to offer any guidance they can.”

“I suppose,” Rathe said. It was the same thing the astrologers had told Claes’s people, and it was true enough, but still, he wished he could share her detachment. Vauquelin was Astree’s arbiter, had to be scrupulously balanced in her judgment–but it was hard to be blamed oneself, and see a more likely suspect embraced by at least the northriver populace.

Vauquelin looked at him as though she’d read the thought. “Don’t mistake me, Adjunct Point. If we see anything to make us at all suspicious, we’ll let you and yours know.”

Rathe nodded, embarrassed that she’d read him so accurately. “I know. And I appreciate it, really.” He turned away, his stride lengthening as he headed across the fair toward University Point.

b’Estorr was not at the university. Rathe stood for a moment at the foot of the stairway, staring at the doorkeeper, then shook himself hard. “When will he be back?” he asked, and the old woman shrugged.

“By first sunset, I expect, pointsman.”

She started to close the upper half of her door, but Rathe caught it, forced a smile. “Will you tell him–no, can I leave a note?”

The old woman’s eyebrows rose, but after a moment’s search she found a slate and half a broken chalk pencil. Rathe scrawled a quick note, the crude point squeaking over the stone–need to talk to you, will be back tonight, nico–and handed it across. “It’s important that he get this,” he said, without much hope, and the old woman sniffed, and shut the door without comment. Rathe sighed, and headed back across the Hopes‑point Bridge.