“Asheri,” he said, and she looked up, automatically folding the cloth over her work. “I need to talk to you.”

“All right,” she said, sounding doubtful, and followed him into the station.

Monteia looked up as they arrived, and Rathe saw, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, that Houssaye was with her.

“No luck?” he asked, and the other pointsman shook his head.

“He went back toward the caravans, but I lost him there. They seem to have a gift for vanishing. I’m sorry, Nico.”

Rathe drew breath, and Monteia said firmly, “You did the best you could. What did you find out from the university, Nico?”

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Rathe answered. He looked at Asheri. “Asheri, I’m sorry I ever got you into this. The charm he gave you, it’s some kind of a marker. I think you’re in serious danger.”

“A marker?” Monteia echoed, and Rathe looked back at her.

“That’s what Istre said. Something to help someone find a child they want to steal.”

“Gods,” the chief point murmured, and Rathe saw her hand move in a propitiating gesture. “What do we do?”

“I gave you the marker,” Asheri said, her voice suddenly high and thin. “I don’t have it anymore, surely that makes it all right.”

“It helps,” Rathe answered. “But Istre said you should also change your clothes. He said you ought to burn these, or at least put them away, don’t wear them until we’ve caught these people.”

“I can’t burn them,” Asheri said. “I don’t have anything else half this good, not that fits me anymore.”

Monteia said, “We may be able to do something about that, Ash, since you’re losing the use of them on station business. But if b’Estorr says you shouldn’t wear them, I’d do what he says.” She looked at Rathe. “In the meantime, I’m sending to Fairs with what we have. That’s enough to make Claes arrest these bastards, and if we can catch one, maybe we can get more information out of them.”

Rathe nodded, some of the fear easing. Monteia was right about that, and Claes would act quickly enough, given this evidence. And if the hedge‑astrologers were dodging pointsmen, surely they’d be too busy to steal another child. “I’ll walk you home, Asheri,” he said aloud. “You can change there.”

The girl made a face, but nodded. “All right. But I’m not burning them. I made this shirt myself. And the cap.”

“Then put them away,” Monteia said. “And I want to see you here tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Asheri said, and Rathe touched her shoulder, turning her toward the door.

“We should be able to stop them, now that we know what’s happening,” he said, and hoped it was true.

10

« ^ »

eslingen squatted beside the chest that held his weapons, considering the pair of pistols Caiazzo had redeemed from the Aretoneia. He distrusted midnight meetings, liked them even less when the messenger had failed to appear twice already, and a pistol might provide some measure of surprise, if there was trouble. He glanced at the half‑open window. On the other hand, it was a damp night, and they were going by river, which increased the chance of misfire; besides, he added, with an inward smile as he shut the chest, a pistol shot inevitably attracted attention, and he’d had entirely too much of that lately. Caiazzo probably wouldn’t thank him, either, for inviting interference in his business. He stood, and belted sword and dagger at his waist, adjusting the open seam of the coat’s skirt so that it left the sword hilt free, and glanced in the long mirror that hung beside the clothes press. The full skirts hid most of the weapon, only the hilt visible at his hip, and it was dark metal and leather, unobtrusive against the dark blue fabric.

“Are you ready, Eslingen?”

He turned, to see Denizard standing in the open door. She had put aside her scholar’s gown for a black riding suit, shorter skirt, and a longer, almost mannish coat that buttoned high on the throat, hiding her linen. She carried a broad‑brimmed hat as well, also black, and a longish knife–probably right at the legal limit–on one hip.

She saw where he was looking and smiled, gestured to his own blade. “I assume the bond’s paid on that?”

“Caiazzo paid it,” Eslingen answered, and she nodded.

“Be sure you bring the seal.”

Eslingen touched his pocket, feeling the paper crackle under his hand. “I have it, believe me.”

“Well, with a pointsman for a friend, you should be all right. Or you would be if it were another pointsman.”

Eslingen tilted his head curiously. This was the first time anyone had mentioned Rathe since the day he’d been hired. “Stickler, is he?”

“You mean you didn’t notice?” Denizard answered. “And stiff‑necked about it.” She glanced over his shoulder, checking the light. “Come on.”

Caiazzo was waiting in the great hall, talking, low‑voiced, to his steward. He nodded to the man as he saw the others approaching, and the steward bowed and backed away. Caiazzo looked at them, and nodded. “Good. I’m not expecting trouble, mind, but it’s always well to be prepared.”

“Any word?” Denizard asked, and the trader shook his head.

“Not since last night.”

Last night’s message had been a smudged slate, barely legible, delivered by a brewer’s boy, that did nothing more than set a new time and place for the rendezvous. There had been no explanation of why the messenger had missed the previous meetings, or any apology– which could just be the limits of the medium, Eslingen thought, but in times like these, I don’t think I’d like to count on it. He said, “Then maybe we should expect trouble.”

Caiazzo shot him a glance. “I trust my people, Eslingen, don’t forget it.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Eslingen answered, and the trader grunted.

“Your point. But there’ll be three of us, plus the boat’s crew. That should be ample.”

“You’re coming, Hanse?” Denizard asked, and the trader frowned at her.

“Yes. I’m getting a little tired of doing nothing, Aice.” His tone brooked no argument. The magist sighed, and nodded. Caiazzo smiled, his good humor restored. “Let’s be off, then.”

Caiazzo’s boat was waiting at the public dock at the end of the street, its crew, a steersman and a quartet of rowers, hunched over a dice game, their backs turned to the other, unattached boatmen, who ignored them just as studiously. The steersman looked up at Caiazzo’s approach, and nudged his people. They sprang to their places, dice forgotten, and Caiazzo stepped easily down into the blunt‑nosed craft. Eslingen followed more carefully–he was still not fully happy with boats–and Denizard stepped in after him, seating herself on the stern benches.

“Point of Hearts,” Caiazzo said, to the steersman. “The public landing just east of the Chain.”

The steersman nodded, and gestured for the bowman to loose the mooring rope. The barge lurched as the current caught it, and Eslingen sat with more haste than dignity. It lurched again, then steadied as the oarsmen found their stroke, and the soldier allowed himself to relax. Caiazzo was watching him, and smiled, his teeth showing very white in the winter‑sun’s silvered light.

“Not fond of water, Eslingen?”

The soldier shrugged, not knowing what answer the other wanted, but couldn’t help remembering the astrologer’s warning. He’d been right about the change of employment; Eslingen could only hope he’d be less right about travel by water. Caiazzo looked away again, fixing his eyes on the shimmer of light where the winter‑sun was reflected from the current. Eslingen followed the look but could see nothing out of the ordinary, just the sparkle of silver on black water. The winter‑sun itself was low in the sky, would set in a little more than an hour, and the brilliant pinpoint hung just above the roofs of the Hopes‑point Bridge. And then they were in the bridge’s shadow, the light cut off abruptly, and Eslingen caught himself looking hard for the bridge pillars. He found them quickly enough, the water foaming white around them, and the steersman leaned on the tiller, guiding the boat into the relative calm between them. Eslingen allowed himself a sigh, and Caiazzo looked at Denizard.