Point of Hopes (19 page)

He had no idea how the booths were laid out, though
it was obvious that like trades were grouped together, but let
himself wander with the crowd, listening with half an ear for the
chime of the clock at Fairs’ Point. He would have to head back to
Devynck’s when it struck eleven, but until then, at least, his time
was his own. He found Printers’ Row easily enough, a dozen or more
tables set out under tents and awnings and brightly painted
umbrellas, and stopped to browse. Already he recognized some of the
house names and the printer’s symbols, thought, too, that he
recognized some of the sellers, relocated temporarily from Temple
Fair. The sheets tacked to the display boards or pinned
precariously to the sides of the tents were the usual kind, a mix
of weekly almanacs and sheets of predictions according to each
birth sign as well as the more general prophecy-sheets. Most of the
last dealt directly or obliquely with the missing children, and a
good number of those blamed the League, but there was one big tent,
its red sides faded to a dark rose, that seemed to deal entirely
with politics. And impartially, too, Eslingen added, with an inward
grin. Whoever sold or printed these sheets played no favorites;
Leveller tracts hung side by side with sheets touting the merits of
the various noble candidates. Among the nobles, the Metropolitan of
Astreiant seemed to be the popular favorite—he could count half a
dozen sheets openly supporting her, though whether that was genuine
liking or mere proximity was impossible to tell. However, there
were also a scattering of sheets pointing out the virtues of the
various northern candidates. He picked out three of those, paid his
demming, and stepped back to study them. Marselion’s was the least
interesting, full of more bluster than scholarship, and the one
supporting Palatine Sensaire was crudely done, a mere half dozen
verses beneath a stock blockprint of a seated woman. But Belvis’s
was something different, and Eslingen paused, frowning, to read it
again. It was better printed than the others, and if the verses
told the truth, Belvis certainly had the appropriate stars. He knew
little about her, except that she was from the Ile’nord, but the
broadsheet writer had clearly gone out of her way to reassure
Astreianters wary of the old-fashioned north. Palatine Belvis, it
implied, kept to the best of both worlds; besides, the stars
favored her, and Astreiant should do well to accept the inevitable.
Eslingen’s eyebrows rose at that, and he glanced automatically for
the imprimatur. It was there, if blurred, and he smiled, and tucked
the papers into his cuff.

The clock struck the quarter hour, and he made a
face, recalling himself to his real business. If he wanted to have
his stars read, he would have to hurry, at least if he wanted the
job done properly—and the way the broadsheets were running, he
thought, I might do well to reconsider Cijntien’s offer. He glanced
at another as he passed, and controlled his temper with an effort.
This one openly blamed the League cities, claiming that the
children were being stolen for revenge, and possibly to form the
backbone of a new army that would avenge the League’s defeat. From
the size of the remaining stack, it hadn’t sold as well as its
neighbors, but even so, it was all he could do to control his
anger. The League Wars had ended twenty years before, and had been
about trade; since then, League and Kingdom had been close allies,
and there were plenty of Leaguers like himself who’d shed their own
blood in the queen’s service. He shoved past a stocky man who was
reaching for another sheet, and turned down the nearest path
between the stalls.

His anger cooled as quickly as it had flared, and he
paused at the next intersection, looking for some sign of the
astrologers Adriana had mentioned. He saw a trio of grey-gowned
students clustered by a food stall, but before he could consider
approaching them, an older woman tapped one of them on the
shoulder, only to have her coins waved away. Apparently, Eslingen
thought, the students were otherwise engaged at the moment. He
turned away, too, threaded his way past a group of blue-coated
apprentices, and found himself in a row of linen-drapers. In spite
of himself, he sighed at the sight of the bolts of expensive
fabric, wishing he could afford a shirt from them, and then, at the
end of the row of shops, he caught sight of a man in a black
scholar’s gown. The sleeves were empty of badges, and he stood deep
in conversation with a woman and a boy, a plain disk orrery held to
the sunlight. One of Adriana’s astrologers? he wondered and moved
closer. The man was ordinary enough looking, middle-aged middling
looks, his rusty black robe open to reveal a plain dark suit and
equally plain linen. There was no temple badge at his collar,
either, and Eslingen took a step closer. Even as he did the woman
nodded and turned away. The boy followed more reluctantly, looking
back as though he had wanted to ask something more. Eslingen smiled
in sympathy—the woman, the boy’s mother, probably, hadn’t looked
like the sort to spend her hard-earned coins on more than the
absolute necessities, which was probably why she was consulting one
of the freelances rather than a student or a Temple astrologer.

“
Pardon me, magist,” he said. He
didn’t know if the astrologer was indeed actually a magist as well,
doubted it, in fact, but there was no harm in inflating the man’s
rank.

The astrologer gave a slight smile. “No magist, sir,
but an astrologer, and a good one.” He tilted his head. “Are you
looking to have a reading done?”

His accent was pleasant, Chenedolliste, but without
the city’s sharp vowels. Eslingen smiled back, and said carefully,
“Indeed I was wanting that, the temper of the times being what they
are, but I was also wondering what temple you served.”

The astrologer seemed to study him for a long
moment, the smile widening almost imperceptibly. “No temple, sir,
the stars are free to all. But, as we serve no one master, our fees
are low—and fixed.”

Eslingen hid a sigh—he had hoped to talk the price
down a little, on the grounds that the astrologer had no
affiliation—and said “How much?”

“
Two demmings for a man grown,” the
astrologer answered promptly. “In advance.”

The price was much lower than he had expected and
Eslingen blinked. It probably wouldn’t be a brilliant reading—in
his experience, one generally got what one paid for—but at that
price, he could hardly refuse. “Agreed” he said and reached into
his purse for the coins.

The astrologer accepted them calmly. “A wise course,
sir—especially given that you’re a Leaguer, from your accent?”

Eslingen nodded, his expression wry. “As I said, the
times being what they are….”

The astrologer smiled again, and lifted his disk
orrery. “And when were you born, sir?”

“
The fifth day of Sedeion, a little
past half-past ten in the morning,” Eslingen answered. “In the
second year of this queen’s reign.”

The astrologer nodded, and began adjusting the rings
of the orrery. It was double-faced, Eslingen saw; the other side
would be already set to this day’s planetary positions, and the
astrologer would take his reading from a comparison of the two. “Do
you know the time any more closely—was it closer to the half hour,
or to the next quarter?”

Eslingen shook his head. “Past the half hour is all
I know.” His mother had lost interest in keeping precise track
after her third or fourth child was born, and there had never been
money for a decent midwife; he had been lucky to know this
much.

“
Unfortunate,” the astrologer said,
almost absently, and held the orrery to his eyes. “Well, I’ll do
what I can, but I can’t promise a precise accounting:”

Eslingen sighed, but said nothing. The astrologer
turned the orrery from one side to the other, then went on briskly.
“Well. You were born under the Horse and the Horsemaster, good
signs for a soldier, and the sun is still in the Horse, which is
also good for you, though it left the Horsemaster four days ago.
The moon is against you just now, in the Spider and the
Hearthstone, but that will change with the new moon, when it
returns to the Horse. Astree stands in the Horse and Horsemaster
still, which is good for seeing justice done—” He smiled at that,
thinly, and Eslingen’s smile in return was wry. “—but it and the
sun stand square to the winter-sun. Seidos is well aspected for
you, both at your birth and presently; I’d say you were due to rise
in the world, possibly through your trade.” He shook his head then,
and slipped the orrery back into his pocket beneath the rusty gown.
“With the moon and the winter-sun against you, I would advise you
to stay away from lunar things for the next few days, at least
until the new moon. Don’t travel by water until then, and be
cautious once the true sun’s down. All of that should end by the
new moon, and you should see a change of fortune then,”

And that, Eslingen thought, was that. It wasn’t
much, when you boiled it down to the essentials—be careful after
sundown, a reasonable enough statement in a large city, and a
chance that he would change his status, possibly through his trade,
with the new moon. But it was something, and the statement that
Astree was placed to insure that justice would be done was a little
reassuring. “Thanks,” he said aloud, and the astrologer gave an
odd, almost old-fashioned bow.

“
My pleasure to serve,” he said,
and turned away.

Eslingen watched him go, and was startled at how
fast the man seemed to vanish in the crowd, despite the conspicuous
black robe. Still, it made sense to be inconspicuous when the trade
was new, especially when they were undercutting an established
group. More power to you, he thought, and heard the Fairs’ Point
clock strike the hour. He turned back toward the Old Brown Dog, and
hoped that the astrologer’s prediction was right about things
changing at the new moon.

Rathe left the Old Brown Dog in an odd mood. He
believed what the recruiter had said, that he wouldn’t take
children when he could get adults, believed, too, that he would
only want the ones with Seidos in their stars, or at least practice
with horses, if he were to take children. But it was quite obvious
that Jasanten hadn’t quite trusted him, and he wondered if he
should make further inquiries about the recruiter. It was probably
nothing, he decided—if nothing else, he couldn’t see a one-legged
man having much success taking children against their will—but he
made a mental note to speak to Eslingen again, find out what he
knew about Jasanten. Devynck’s new knife seemed a decent sort, and,
more than that, he seemed to have the happy faculty of resolving
potentially difficult situations without bloodshed. He’d never
thought of that as a soldier’s skill before, but he suspected
Devynck would be glad of it.

The tower clock at the north end of the Hopes-point
Bridge struck the hour, and he quickened his pace. He wanted to
talk to Foucquet before she left for the judiciary, which meant,
practically speaking, any time before nine o’clock. If she had been
willing to ask Fourie to intervene in the matter of this missing
clerk, rather than going through the usual channels, she would
certainly be willing to be a little late to the courts to talk to
him. And after that…he sighed, contemplating the day’s work. After
that, he would swing through Temple Fair, see if he could track
down some of the broadsheets that had so annoyed Monteia.
Publishing without a license was a nuisance in good times, but in
bad, and these were beginning to be undeniably bad times, the
unlicensed printers seemed to take positive glee in spreading
predictions of disaster.

Foucquet lived in the Horsegate District, outside
the city walls, an easy walk from the judiciary and the lesser
courts that met at the Tour de la Cite. Rathe had been there many
times before, first in Foucquet’s service, and then during his time
at University Point, but he always took a guilty pleasure in
walking the wide, well-swept street, walled on either side by the
multi-colored bricks of the grand-clerks’ houses. Most of them had
gardens attached, nothing as extensive as the parklands of the
Western Reach, but enough to perfume the air with the hint of
greenery. Rathe lifted his head as he passed under the shadow of a
fruit tree. The flowers were long gone, the fruit hard green knobs
among the darker leaves, but he could imagine the scent of their
ripening. He heard children calling behind an iron gate, and
glanced sideways to see a girl, maybe six or seven, gesturing
imperiously over the head of her hobbyhorse, directing a trio of
younger children as though she were a royal marshal. Their
nursemaid saw him, too, and the sharpened stare and quick frown
were enough to erase his pleasure. No children that young had gone
missing—yet—but the woman was wise to take no chances. He moved on,
never breaking stride, but he was aware of the woman’s eyes on him
for some time after, and looked back at the corner to see her
standing in the gate, watching warily.

Foucquet’s house was in the middle range, better
than her mother’s house had been, certainly, but far from the most
expensive the Horsegate had to offer. Rathe rang the bell at the
side door, the appellant’s door—there was no point in alienating
her household just now—and nodded to the red-robed clerk who came
scurrying to answer. “Nicolas Rathe, Point of Hopes,” he said. “I
need to speak with Her Excellency.”

The clerk’s eyes widened. “You haven’t—” she began,
and Rathe shook his head.

“
No, mistress, no word. I just need
to get some information.”

The clerk relaxed slightly, her disappointment
evident, but held the door a little wider. She was young for her
post, a bright-eyed, round-cheeked girl with a complexion like milk
and roses, copper-gilt hair tucked imperfectly under her tall cap.
“Come in, pointsman. Her Excellency’s just dressing.”