“I thought it looked pretty battered,” Biatris objected, and Asheri nodded.

“It was, but it was–well, more complicated than a lot of ones I’ve seen. It had a lot more rings to it.” She shrugged. “Anyway, then he warned us to be very careful, that the trouble was almost over, but that we couldn’t relax yet. And that was the end of it.”

“Did he give you anything?” Rathe asked.

“Oh, gods.” Biatris reached into the pocket under her skirt. “He said it was a charm against the current troubles.” She produced a disk of dark wax, marked with the same sort of symbols Rathe had seen on the other charms. He took it from her, turning it over in his hand, and looked at Asheri.

“Did you get one, too?”

She was nodding already, held out a second wax disk. “It’s funny, I thought it looked a little different–” She broke off, eyes widening, and Rathe held the two disks in the light from the window.

“They are different,” Monteia said, and came to look over Rathe’s shoulder.

He nodded, turning the disks in the light. Asheri’s was a different color, more green than black, though still very dark, and the symbols embossed on its surface seemed to be arranged in a different order. “I think Istre should see these right away,” he said, and heard the shadow of fear in his own voice.

Monteia nodded. “I agree.” She looked at the runners. “And I think you should stay here, the lot of you, at least until we know what’s happening.”

Rathe pocketed the charms. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, and hurried out into the afternoon heat.

b’Estorr was not in his rooms, but a grey‑gowned student volunteered that she thought the necromancer was at the library. Rathe thanked her, and made his way back across the wide yard to the massive building that housed the university’s library. It looked as formidable as many fortresses, thick walls and narrow windows, and the narrow lobby was cold even in the summer heat, the stones hoarding the chill. Statues of Sofia and Donis and Oriane and the Starsmith stood in orderly ranks above the barred doors that led to the library proper, staring past the mere mortals who walked below them. The proctor on duty, tall and painfully thin, shook her head when Rathe asked to be admitted.

“I’m sorry, we can’t let just anyone in–”

“It’s an emergency,” Rathe said. And one partly of my making. He killed that thought, and fixed the woman with a stare. “Can you send for him?”

She hesitated, then nodded, and reached under her table for a bell. She rang it, and a few minutes later one of the heavy doors creaked open, admitting a student as round as the proctor was thin.

“Would you fetch Magist b’Estorr, please?” the proctor asked. “This–”

“Tell him Nicolas Rathe.”

The proctor nodded. “Tell him Master Rathe is here, and that it’s an emergency.”

The student’s eyes widened, but she faded back through the door without a murmur. Rathe fought the instinct to pace, made himself stand still, counting the signs carved across the tops of the doorways, until at last the central door flew open again.

“Nico! What’s happened?” b’Estorr hurried toward him, his dark grey gown flying loose from his shoulders.

“I sent the runners to the fair,” Rathe said. “And Asheri came back with a charm that’s different.”

b’Estorr drew breath sharply. “Let me see.”

Rathe held the disks out wordlessly, and the necromancer took them from him, held them side by side in the dim light.

“It’s active,” he said at last. Rathe flinched, and b’Estorr shook his head. “No need to panic, not yet, but I’d like to take a closer look at them. My place?”

“Fine,” Rathe said, and retraced his path through the yard. If I’ve put Asheri in danger, he thought, gods, what will I do? I thought–you thought the danger would come from the astrologers, he told himself, and you were wrong. Now you have to make it right.

In b’Estorr’s rooms, the necromancer flung the shutters wide, letting the doubled afternoon sunlight into the room. He set the disks on the table, side by side in the sunlight, and Rathe caught his breath again. In the strong light, the difference in color was very clear, Asheri’s more green than black, and the different pattern of the symbols was starkly obvious. b’Estorr barely glanced at them, however, but went to the case of books and pulled out a battered volume. He flipped through it, glancing occasionally at the disks, and finally set it aside, shaking his head.

“I don’t recognize the markings, except generally, and they’re not in Autixier. The closest thing–” He reached for the book again, opened it to a drawing of a square charm. Rathe looked at it, and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Istre…”

The necromancer went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The closest one listed is that, and that’s kind of, well, archaic. It’s meant to bind one’s possessions–”

“It’s to track her,” Rathe said with sudden conviction. “Gods, Istre, I’ve practically handed her to them.”

b’Estorr nodded slowly, still staring at the charms. “You could be– I think you are right,” he said. “It could act as a marker, help someone find her later.”

And that would make sense, Rathe thought. The astrologers to identify the children, someone else to steal them away, later, when they thought they were safe, could be taken unawares. He shook the fear away. “I took it from her within an hour of the reading–she gave it to me. Can they track her without the charm?”

“I don’t know,” b’Estorr answered. “This is very powerful–more powerful than I would have expected. She should change her clothes, at the very least not wear them again until this is resolved. It might be better to burn them.”

“Sweet Tyrseis,” Rathe said. Asheri would be hard put to afford a second set of clothes; he and Monteia between them might be able to provide something, but it would be expensive. If Houssaye could follow the astrologer, of course, track him back to his lair, that might do something, but there was no guarantee that the pointsman would succeed. Rathe shook his head. “Istre, I thought the real danger would be from the astrologers themselves, not something like this. How in all the hells can we protect her?”

b’Estorr lifted the charm again, studying the markings. “That she gave it to you, and you gave it to me–that should help. And then, as I said, get rid of the clothes she was wearing. Burning would be best, but I know what clothing costs.”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll tell her that, certainly.”

“And she should be very careful.” b’Estorr looked up, shaking his head. “Which she and you know already, I know. I wish there were more I could do, Nico.”

“You’ve done a lot,” Rathe answered. He forced a smile. “Now we know a little more of how they’re being stolen, and how they’re being chosen–though, as Monteia says, the hows don’t get us anywhere right now.”

“Whoever’s doing this,” b’Estorr said, “must be very powerful.”

“Magistically or politically?” Rathe asked.

“Either.” b’Estorr gave him an apologetic look. “Not that you didn’t know that, too, but this charm is a pretty piece of work–not at all like the others–and it must cost money to field this many astrologers.”

Rathe nodded. “I just wish that narrowed the possibilities.”

He took a low‑flyer back to Point of Hopes, wincing at the fee but desperately afraid that Asheri or the others might have left before he could reach them with his warning. As he paid off the driver at the main gate, he could see the knot of runners still gathered in the stable doorway. The younger ones, Laci and Surgi and Lennar, were playing at jacks, while Fasquelle jeered at them from the edge of the trough. Asheri was there, too, setting stitches in a square of linen. It was a practice piece, Rathe knew, against the day she could afford a place in the embroiderers’, and he could taste the fear again at the back of his mouth.