That was not good news, Rathe thought. The Sier was a major highway for trade, but if the upriver traffic was being searched, then that left only the downriver, and that led to the sea and the Silklands. He shivered in spite of himself at the thought of the missing children being taken out of Chenedolle entirely, and saw from Andry’s expression that the same thought was in his mind as well.

“Look anyway,” Monteia said. “Gods, if they were taken to sea–” She broke off again, not wanting to articulate the thought, but the three men nodded. She didn’t need to articulate it: they had no authority outside Astreiant, but at least anywhere in Chenedolle they could appeal to the royal authority. If the children were outside the kingdom, the gods only knew whether the local rulers would listen to them. And, worst of all, least to be spoken, there was the chance that the children had simply been taken to sea and abandoned to the waves. In ancient times, Oriane’s worship had demanded those sacrifices; Rathe crossed his fingers, praying that no one had decided to revive those customs.

“Our best chance is probably the caravans or the horsemarket at the Little Fair,” Monteia said briskly, and Rathe shook away his fears. “Nico, I’m sorry to be asking you to handle it alone, but it’s more discreet that way. I don’t want to antagonize Fairs if I can avoid it.”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll be careful,” he said and Monteia nodded.

“Right. Be off with you, then.”

Rathe made his way to the fair by the Manufactory Bridge, skirting the fairgrounds proper until he reached the quarter where the caravaners camped. It was busy, as usual; he had to wait while an incoming train, a good two dozen packhorses, all heavily laden, plus attendants, made their way up the main street and were turned into a waiting corral. He followed them toward the stables, walking carefully, and felt a sudden pang of uncertainty. The arriving caravan was obviously one of the ones working the shorter routes–to Cazaril in the south, say, or across to the Chadroni gap. They came in almost daily throughout the fair, and most of them would stay a few days beyond the official closing, to ensure they sold all their goods. The ones working the longer routes, however, would almost certainly leave earlier, well before the end of the fair, especially if they had to take a northern route. And Monferriol was a northern traveller. Bonfortune send I haven’t missed him, Rathe thought, and in the same instant saw a familiar blue and yellow pennant flying over one of the tents set up outside the stables. Monferriol worked for a consortium of small traders, had a knack for taking his principals’ goods safely through the Chadroni Gap, across Chadron itself, and into the Vestara beyond, keeping just ahead of the worst weather until he reached Al’manon‑of‑the‑Snows. He wintered there, and returning to Astreiant with the first thaws, bringing the first shipments of the northern goods, wools, uncured leathers, wine, and all the rest. Of necessity, his timing was precise, and his awareness of his surroundings exquisitely tuned: he would know if anyone had left ahead of him, and where they were going, and why.

He turned toward the stables, stopped the first hostler he saw who carried Monferriol’s yellow and blue ribbons. “Is Monferriol about?”

The woman looked up at him, took in the jerkin and truncheon, and sighed. “Oh, gods, did he forget to pay his damned bond again? I wish he’d stop playing these games with you lot, the rest of us have work to do.”

Rathe shook his head. “I’m not from Fairs’ Point, I’m from Point of Hopes–and I’m a friend of Jevis’s, just wanted to say hello.”

The hostler pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak of dust along one cheekbone. “I think you’ll find him in the factors’ tent, pointsman.”

“If he’s busy–”

She looked at him, her mouth twisting into a gap‑toothed grin. “Do you know a single factor who’s up at this hour, or at least here? I don’t, and I don’t think I’d want to. No, he’s just gloating over the route again, the bastard. You know where it is? Right, the fancy one.” She turned back to the corral even as she spoke, and Rathe turned toward the factors’ tent.

It was elaborate, he thought, but then, the consortium probably had to make more of a display than established traders like Caiazzo or older consortia like the Talhafers. And it was bright, crimson canvas– not much faded, yet–flying a bright yellow pennant with Monferriol’s blue ferret rampant in a circle. He could hear a toneless, rumbling humming through the walls, and pulled the flap aside.

“Jevis? Planning new tortures for your people?”

“Gods above, boy, don’t scare me like that, I thought you were the competition,” Monferriol bellowed, and Rathe saw that, indeed, he did have a knife in his hand. Rathe’s expert eye gauged it as just within the city’s legal limits. It might be a little longer, but not enough to make it worth a pointsman’s while to question it.

“Is business getting that cutthroat?” he asked, and Monferriol dropped back onto his high stool, snorting. He was a huge man, tall and heavy‑set, hair and beard an untidy hedge.

“Isn’t it always? That bastard Caiazzo’s got the eastern route sewed up, and a damned good caravan‑master he has too, but he can’t touch me in the north, for all he keeps trying.”

“That’s something to be satisfied with, surely,” Rathe said, mildly. He knew perfectly well that Monferriol and his consortium had been trying to make inroads into the eastern route for the last few years.

“It’s something to keep me awake nights,” Monferriol answered, and looked back at the maps spread out on the table beside him. “Though why I should lie awake when none of my principals do, I bloody well don’t know.”

“It’s their money and they trust you?” Rathe guessed, and Monferriol made a face.

“More to the point, it’s my blood and my reputation on the line, every time we cross the blighted Gap. Godless people, the Chadroni.” He looked down at the maps, shaking his head. “It figures Caiazzo would have one for his master.”

“Then why do it?” Rathe asked. He should get to his own business, he knew, but the sheer scale of Monferriol’s affairs–and ego–always fascinated him.

“Why? Gods, boy, because I can. Because I’m the best there is at managing a caravan through the Gap and Chadron and the Vestara. Why in all hells are you a pointsman? Because you’re good at it, and if you didn’t do it, someone else would, and get all the glory–or else muck it up and leave you fuming at them for a pack of incompetents.”

And that was true enough, Rathe reflected, and not what he’d expected to hear. He saw an almanac open beside the map, and nodded to it. “What are the temples forecasting for this winter?”

Monferriol stuck out his lower lip as he looked down at the little book. “Heavy snows in the Gap, they’re saying, the worst in memory. Of course, last year they predicted a mild winter, and we all know how accurate that was.”

Rathe grinned. The previous winter had been unusually bad, with snow before Midwinter in Astreiant itself.

“So,” Monferriol said, and swung around so that his back was to the table. “What can I do for you, Nico?”

“I need your–advice, your expert knowledge,” Rathe said. “It’s about the children.”

“Oh, that. That’s a bad business. What are you lot doing about it?”

“What we can,” Rathe answered. “What I want to know from you is whether you’ve noticed anything odd among the caravans this fair.”

“We’re an odd lot,” Monferriol answered, but Rathe thought he looked wary. “What did you have in mind?”

“Has anyone changed their usual plans, left earlier than expected, not come in till late, anything?”

Monferriol’s face screwed up in thought. He was acting, Rathe thought suddenly, and bit back his sudden anger. Before either man could speak, however, the flap was pulled back again. “Gods above,” Monferriol roared, and Rathe thought there was as much relief as anger in his tone. “What is this, a waystation? Oh, it’s you, Rouvalles. What do you want.”