“Can’t you do something?” b’Estorr asked. “Ban them from the fair–hells, can’t you arrest them on suspicion? I’d think the city would be delighted to see that happen.”

Rathe shook his head. “The arbiters control the fair, and they say they can’t ban them because people think of them as a good thing, and a good alternative to the Three Nations, for that matter.”

“Ah.” b’Estorr sat back in his chair, frowning.

“And as for arresting them, gods, I’d like nothing better,” Rathe went on. “We don’t have the authority.”

“If you don’t, who does?” b’Estorr snapped, and Rathe held up his hand.

“Bear with me, will you? It’s complicated. The points are relatively new here, we started out with the writ to keep the peace, and the rest, everything else we do, has developed from that.”

“Including tracking down lost property–and children?” b’Estorr asked.

“It’s all a matter of the queen’s peace, isn’t it?” Rathe answered. “The theory being that if a woman’s household and her property aren’t safe, then she’s more likely to break the peace trying to preserve them–which I’ll admit is a good argument. But that’s where our authority comes from, not anything else. Right now, yeah, we spend most of our time trying to figure out who’s done what to whom, and even why, but we don’t really have the queen’s warrant for that. And if we tried to arrest the hedge‑astrologers, well, you’ve seen the broadsheets. People would cry we were blaming them to save ourselves, and the judiciary would probably uphold them as a matter of the queen’s peace.”

“So where does that leave you?”

b’Estorr asked, after a moment.

Rathe sighed. “Confused. Why would astrologers be stealing children, anyway?”

“Stealing children who know their nativities to better than a quarter hour,” b’Estorr corrected, frowning again. “We’ve been trying to see what these nativities have in common, but maybe we’re going at it backwards.” He looked up sharply, the blue eyes suddenly vivid. “Maybe the astrologers already know the link, and they’re picking out the children accordingly.”

“Which would explain why only the ones who know their stars closely are missing,” Rathe agreed, “but it doesn’t tell us why they’re wanted.”

“No.”

b’Estorr lifted one shoulder. “Finding that’s just a matter of time and effort, though, sorting through books. Look, thousands of magistical procedures require the worker to have a specific horoscope–it’s like any job, only more so, and we all trade off, depending on when we were born, do a favor here, get a favor there.” He broke off, shaking his head at his own distraction. “But there aren’t that many for which you’d want children–for most of them, in fact, children would be all wrong. And the sheer number involved is unusual. That’s got to help narrow it down.”

“If you say so,” Rathe said, dubiously. He looked down at the charm again, thinking of what Monteia would say when he told her about this, and then remembered something else she had told him that morning. “There may be another problem, Istre. There haven’t been any real disappearances over the past few days, not since the twentieth of the Gargoyle. We were thinking it was good news, but now I’m not so sure.”

“You’re thinking they–whoever they are–have gotten everyone they need,” b’Estorr said. He shook his head. “You’d think someone would have noticed someone trying to hide eighty children somewhere.”

“Unless they were taken out of the city,” Rathe answered. “And they must’ve been, someone would’ve seen them. The city’s been looking too hard not to.”

“Well, then, you’d think someone would notice anyone trying to herd eighty‑four, no, eighty‑five with your pickpocket, eighty‑five children anywhere, it has to be harder than trying to hide them,” b’Estorr muttered.

“They must have been moved in small groups,” Rathe said, and stopped. Even so, the only people who could hope to hide, or travel with, large numbers of children would be people who were expected to travel, and that meant another trip to the fair. He had friends among the caravaners, could ask them what they’d heard. He sighed then, thinking of the one hedge‑astrologer he’d seen. “The astrologers are still around, though who knows for how long.” He stopped then, staring at the books that filled one tall case and overflowed onto the table beside it. The candlelight trembled on the rubbed gilt of the bindings, drew smudged highlights from the heavy leather. If this were an ordinary crime, he thought, something southriver, stolen goods, say, or pimping, we’d send someone to buy from them, see what happened. Could I do that here? I’d have to send a runner, none of the points at Hopes could pass for apprentice‑age, and that’s bad enough–unless Istre could provide some sort of protection? He said, slowly, “Istre, is there anyway you, or someone here, could protect a child from being stolen?”

“If we could,” b’Estorr said, sourly, “don’t you think we’d’ve done it?”

“I mean, knowing they’re looking for something–”

“Without knowing what,” b’Estorr said, “there’s damn all I can do.” He looked at the pointsman. “Why?”

Rathe made a face. “I told you, we’d have to catch them actually doing something before we can claim the point on them. I was thinking about offering them some bait. If any of our runners know their stars well enough, or even if they don’t, maybe we could fake a nativity for them, we could send them to the fair, see what the astrologers do about them.” He saw b’Estorr’s startled look, and looked disgusted with himself. “Yeah, I know, it’d be dangerous. I’d take everyone I could from Point of Hopes–hells, I’ll borrow from Fairs, if Claes’ll let me–and make damn sure the kids never get out of our sight. But it’s something to do, before they all disappear back to wherever they took the kids.”

b’Estorr was silent for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “It might work–but don’t try faking nativities, to do it right takes time, and unless you do it very carefully, they’ll know something’s off. It’s a risk, of course, but what are the odds they’ll have the right conjunction?” He leaned back in his chair again, stretching to reach a sheaf of scribbled papers. “Right now, I’d say don’t use anyone who has Areton in the Anvil–that’s the one thing I’ve seen more of than I’d expect. Of course, that means about as much as saying most of them have sun or moon in a mutable sign, anything or nothing.”

Rathe nodded, and scratched the prohibition into his tablet. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

b’Estorr shook his head, his pale hair gleaming in the candlelight. “I wish there were, but, as I told you, there isn’t a pattern. Just–have them be very careful. Anyway, you say you’ll be watching them?”

“Oh, yes,” Rathe said, grimly. And if none of our kids know their stars well enough, someone from Dreams or Sighs will, he added silently. And I’ll make very sure they come home safe again. He stood and stretched, hearing the muscles crack along his spine. “Thanks for dinner, Istre, but I’d better go now, if I want to get home before second sunset.”

“I’ll let you know if I–we–figure out anything,” b’Estorr said, and smiled. “Whatever the hour.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said again, and let himself out into the dimly lit stairway. It wasn’t much, he thought, but it was more than he’d had before. Monteia wouldn’t like it–hells, he thought, I’m not sure I like it–but it stands a chance of working. He lengthened his stride, heading through the shadowed streets toward the Hopes‑point Bridge. And I’m very much afraid it’s a chance we’ll have to take.

9

« ^ »

the winter‑sun had passed the zenith, was declining toward the housetops across the wide road. Eslingen eyed it cautiously, wishing there were more clocks in Point of Hearts, guessed that he and Denizard had been waiting for more than an hour. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly nice tavern, the service deft and discreet–Point of Hearts was living up to its reputation as the neighborhood for assignations–and the wine excellent, but still, he thought, whoever it is we’re waiting for should have been here by now.