It was almost the end of his shift, but he stopped by the station anyway, read over the daybook before he hung up jerkin and truncheon and headed back to his lodgings. It lacked an hour to the first sunset; the sensible thing to do, he told himself, was to eat a decent dinner and put his thoughts in order before he went back to the university.

He rented three rooms–almost half the floor–on the second floor of what had once been a rich merchant’s or petty noble’s house, and shared what had been the courtyard gardens with the half a dozen other households that lived in the warren of rooms. The gardens were, usually, a luxury at this time of year, but now he winced as he passed his plot, straggling and unwatered, and hoped that the goats that the weaver kept in the former stable would eat the worst of the weeds before he was utterly disgraced. The air in the stairwell was close, and he winced again as he opened the door of his room. He had left the shutters closed and latched; the air was hot and still, tasting of dust and something gone rotten in the vegetable basket. He swore, loudly this time, and flung open the shutters, then stirred the stove until he found the last embers under the banked ash and lit a stick of incense. He set that in the holder in the center of the Hearthmistress’s circular altar, and then glared at the stove. No amount of banking would keep those few embers going overnight, but he didn’t relish the idea of building up the fire in this heat. Nor did he particularly enjoy the thought of fumbling with flint and tinder once he’d gotten back from the university, but that was his only alternative. And I cannot, he decided, face a fire just now. He set his tinderbox and a candle in a good, wide‑saucered stand on the table by the door, and then caught up the end of a loaf of bread and went back down to the garden.

The well at its center was still good, still supplied the entire structure with water, and he hauled up the bucket, the cup attached to its handle clattering musically against the wooden sides. He drank, then poured the rest of the bucket into the standing trough, for the gods, and went back to where a stone bench stood against the wall beside the base of the stairs. It was still warm, but he could feel the first touch of the evening breeze, and the winter‑sun was almost directly overhead. He sighed, then began methodically to eat the bread, thinking about the missing children. The Corthere boy was, by all accounts, no different from the rest, except in his profession. He’d disappeared without warning, without a word, and his nativity contained nothing immediately remarkable. Being born on the stroke of midnight was a little unusual, but not completely out of the ordinary. He stopped then, considering. Corthere knew his stars to the minute, assuming the town clocks in Dhenin were accurate–and town clocks were, the city regents paid good money to be sure of it, just because people took their nativities from them. That was why the clock‑night had been so bad, had shaken the city into something like good behavior for the last week. And Herisse Robion knew hers to the quarter hour, as did the missing brewers–as did every single child who’d been reported missing to Point of Hopes. They all knew their birth stars to the quarter hour or better.

Rathe sat up straight, his dinner forgotten. One or two, and especially the children of guildfolk, he would have expected that, but all of them? Most southriver women worked too hard for birth to be much more than an interruption in the business of existence; they noted the times as best they could, but when you had only the person helping with the birth–and her not a trained midwife, more often than not, just a sister or a neighbor–small wonder times were inexact. There were the exceptions, notable days like the earthquake, and there were enough clocktowers so that with care a woman could note the time, but still, for so many–for all of them–to know their nativities so precisely… it had to mean something, was too strange to be mere coincidence.

He looked again at the sky, guessing the time to first sunset, and a voice said from the side gate, “Unbelievable. First at Wicked’s, and now here? I don’t know if I can stand the shock.”

Rathe smiled, almost in spite of himself, and Jhirassi closed the gate behind him, came across the beaten dirt to join him. “I have some news for you–good news,” Jhirassi added hastily. “I was going to tease you with it, but I don’t think that would be playing fair. The clerk’s child you asked me about, he’s with Savatier. Frightened witless when he realized his mother thought he’d gone the way of the others, but there. He’s not bad, for a boy. And Savatier thinks he could make something of himself.” He sighed. “Just what we all need, more competition.”

“Keeps you young,” Rathe said, automatically, a slight frown forming between his brows. There had been something odd about Albe Cytel’s nativity–there wasn’t one, he remembered suddenly. For some reason, premature labor, or just ordinary carelessness, Cytel’s mother had not managed to note the time of her son’s birth, and that was the child who was not truly missing.

“What’s wrong?” Jhirassi asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“Nothing, I don’t think. Gavi, I want to talk to him–Albe. Can you take me to him?”

“I just got home,” Jhirassi protested, but sighed, seeing Rathe’s intent expression. “Oh, very well. I don’t suppose you can afford to buy me dinner in return?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Jhirassi said, sadly. “All right, I’ll take you to Savatier. Maybe I’ll buy dinner.”

Rathe followed him through the knotted streets where Point of Hopes joined Point of Dreams, and then out into the broader squares where the better theaters stood. Savatier’s was a good house, fully roofed, but at the moment the front doors were closed and locked. Jhirassi ignored that, and led the way to a side door that gave onto a narrow hall. It ended in a tangle of ropes that controlled the stage machinery, and Rathe followed gingerly as Jhirassi wove his way through them. There was a narrow staircase beyond that, and Jhirassi went up it, to tap on a red painted door.

“The counting‑house,” he said, succinctly, and the door opened. A stocky woman–Savatier, Rathe assumed–stood looking out at them, barefoot, a sweating metal cup in one hand.

“Gavi? What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but this is Nicolas Rathe–he’s adjunct point at Point of Hopes, and a friend of mine, too. He wants to talk to Albe.”

Savatier leaned heavily against the door frame. “We’re not stealing children, Adjunct Point, the boy came here of his own free will, theater‑mad, and not without talent.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what business is it of Point of Hopes, anyway?”

“You’re Dreams’ business, Savatier,” Rathe agreed, “and I don’t think you’re stealing children. But I do need to talk to the boy. He may have some information.”

“About these disappearances?” Savatier asked.

“Yes.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then sighed deeply. “All right. Gavi, he’s down in the yard with the rest.” She looked back at Rathe. “A new script we’re rehearsing, and it’s not coming together. And if bes’Hallen can’t make it work…” She shook her head, as much at herself as at them. “Go on then,” she said, and closed the door firmly in their faces.

Rathe looked at Jhirassi, who smiled, and started back down the stairs. “And if it’s the piece I think it is, it’s not going to get any better. We passed on it.”

He led the way back through the backstage and then a narrow door into a small courtyard. There were perhaps a dozen actors there, women and men about evenly mixed, some leaning against the high walls, a group of three huddled over a tattered‑looking sheaf of paper.

There were a few apprentices as well, and Rathe guessed that the youngest, a fair‑haired, ruddy‑skinned boy, was the missing Albe Cytel. As the door opened, one of the women detached herself from the group, and lifted a hand to Jhirassi. She was a striking woman, hair worn loose under a Silklander scarf, and Rathe recognized her as Anjesine bes’Hallen. He had seen her several times before on stage, usually as tragic queens, and he wondered if she would be able to make this impossible play work. She looked determined enough for it, anyway.