“Gavi, joy, I thought you were settled with Mattie,” she said, and Jhirassi sighed.

“Anj, this is Adjunct Point Nicolas Rathe, from Point of Hopes. He’s also my downstairs neighbor, so I’ll vouch for him. He’d like to talk to Albe.”

The boy moved closer to the actress, and bes’Hallen put a hand on his shoulder. Rathe remembered the gesture from one of last year’s successful plays, only, since the playwright had been Chresta Aconin, better known as Aconite, he had to think the original intent had been ironic.

“His mother will just have to send someone from Dreams if she wants him back,” bes’Hallen said. “We’re not letting him go with just anyone, pointsman, not under the circumstances–no offense, Gav, but you know what they’re saying about the points.”

“Oh, for the dogs’ sake,” Gavi snapped, “that only plays well on a really large stage.”

Rathe blinked–that was not the tack he’d expected Jhirassi to take–but after a heartbeat, bes’Hallen grinned, and let her hand fall from Cytel’s shoulder. “Oh, it plays better in the small spaces than you might think, dear, if you weren’t afraid of a little honest emotion. But, really, we can’t–”

“Nico just wants to talk to him–I don’t even know if he’s told Dreams or not–”

“I haven’t,” Rathe said. “I will, but I haven’t had the time.”

“I’ll chaperone,” Jhirassi finished. “If that will make you happier.” bes’Hallen lifted an eyebrow at that–another practiced gesture– but nudged the boy forward. “All right. Go with Gavi, dear, and don’t worry. You’re welcome here. Savatier has said so, and so have I.”

“Let’s go in,” Jhirassi said. ‘It’s more private.”

Rathe stood aside to let the boy follow Jhirassi, and then went with them into the crowded backstage. Savatier’s troupe clearly spent a decent sum on stage settings: there were at least a dozen rolled canvases stacked against the wall, and there was real furniture scattered about the space. Jhirassi chose one of the chairs, shook it to make sure it would hold his weight, and sat with grace.

“Sit down, Albe–find a stool, for Oriane’s sake.” He looked at Rathe. “You’d think you were going to eat him for dinner.”

Rathe sighed. “Albe, I’m not here to bring you back to your mother–you heard bes’Hallen, I’m from Point of Hopes, and this is Point of Dreams’ affair. But I do need to ask you some questions.” He paused, looking at the boy’s wary face. “It may help find the other children, or I wouldn’t be bothering.”

The boy nodded slowly. “All right.”

“First,” Rathe said, “do you know your nativity?”

Cytel scowled. “Yes, well, sort of. Within the hour anyway.” He seemed to see Jhirassi’s surprise, and burst out, “It’s not my fault, I was born early, the midwife wasn’t very good. But, no, I don’t have a real good nativity.”

Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief. So far, the pattern was holding true, at least in the cases he’d dealt with. “Now, did you go to the fair, or the First Fair, before you–came–to Savatier’s?”

Cytel blinked, but nodded. “Yes.”

“By yourself, or with other people?”

Cytel shrugged one shoulder. “Maseigne Foucquet gave a dozen of us an early afternoon so we could go. Palissy–she’s the senior clerk‑journeyman–she went with us.”

Rathe nodded. “And once there, I’m assuming you did the usual things. Did you get your stars read?”

The boy looked embarrassed again, and Rathe willed him not to become mulish. “I was thinking about it, yes, because I don’t want to go to the judiciary, and I do want to be an actor, and I wanted to see what my stars said about that.” He scowled. “Even my mother admits they’re not right for the law.”

Rathe held his breath. A negative answer wouldn’t disprove any of his theories, but if the boy had spoken to one of the hedge‑astrologers… “But you didn’t?” he asked, when Cytel seemed unwilling to continue. “Get them read, I mean?”

“Is it important?”

“Yes,” Rathe said, and only just controlled the intensity in his voice. “It’s important.”

Cytel shrugged again. “Well, I did, only not at the temples. They’re expensive, and I didn’t have much money with me. There was an astrologer, one of the new ones, who offered to read them for me. He said I looked like I had a career ahead of me.” His lips curled slightly.

“Which is pretty safe to say, I suppose. But when I told him my stars, he told me it’d be hard to give me a proper reading because I didn’t have the details–like I didn’t know that–but he only charged me half a demming so I can’t complain.”

“So he didn’t do a reading,” Rathe said.

“I told you, he did sort of a one, but it wasn’t very detailed. About what you’d expect, I guess.”

“Did he give you any kind of charm, say anything about trouble coming?” Rathe asked.

“Oh.” Cytel looked startled, reached into his pockets. “Yes, he said times were going to be hard for people in my sign, and I should take care–he gave me a sigil, just a piece of wax, but I think I’ve lost it.”

“That’s all right,” Rathe said. “But if you should find it–send it to me, or to any pointsman. Don’t keep it.”

Cytel’s eyes widened. “You don’t think–”

“I don’t know that it’s anything,” Rathe said, firmly, “but this is not the time to take chances.”

“I won’t,” Cytel answered.

“Good. Thanks for your help.” Rathe sighed, thinking of Foucquet and his responsibilities there. It seemed a shame to send the boy back when he was obviously happy here, but he shoved the thought away. “I’ll have to tell Maseigne Foucquet where you are. And she will tell your mother. But it looks as though Savatier wants you here.”

“She’s never met my mother,” Cytel said.

“I’ll put in a word with Maseigne,” Rathe said, “but I can’t promise anything. But I will talk to her.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, with doubting courtesy. He pushed himself to his feet, and, at Rathe’s nod, hurried back toward the courtyard.

“Did you get what you want?” Jhirassi asked, and stood, stretching.

Rathe spread his hands, trying to contain his excitement. “I don’t know. I don’t even know for sure what I’m looking for. But–yes, I think so. It’s what I hoped he’d say.”

Jhirassi lifted his eyebrows, but visibly decided not to pursue the question. “Well, then. Shall we get dinner? I’m starving, myself.”

“You go ahead,” Rathe answered. “I have business at the university.”

“Your friend from Wicked’s?” Jhirassi asked.

“Yes.”

“Do say hello to him for me, would you? And if he doesn’t remember who I am, I don’t want to hear about it, Nico. Lie.”

“Oh, he’ll remember. Istre doesn’t forget people–” Rathe saw the other draw himself up in mock anger, and added hastily. “And I doubt anyone who’s ever met you has forgotten you.”

“Better,” Jhirassi said. “All right, then, go on, and here I was going to buy you dinner from Wicked’s. You won’t get better at the university, you know.”

“I know,” Rathe agreed, and let himself out the side door.

By the time he reached the university precinct, the sun was well down, and the winter‑sun’s cool light threw pale shadows across the grassy yard. A gang of students, all male, and mostly Ile’norders by their accents, were arguing loudly on the steps of one of the dormitories; from an upper window, the delicate notes of a cittern floated down, sour now where the player missed her fingering, and a trio of gargoyles tumbled quarreling across the path in front of him. It was all appallingly ordinary, all signs of the clock‑night erased, as though the troubles that had hit the rest of Astreiant had bypassed the university completely, and for an instant he could understand northriver folk’s anger at the students. But then he passed one of the outside gates, and saw the bright tassels of protective charms dangling from the posts. There was a guard, too, a big man, leather‑jerkined, sitting unobtrusively in the shadow of the nearest building, and Rathe shook his head. The university knew, and was taking precautions.