Point of Hopes (36 page)

Rathe nodded. “A journeyman butcher, name of Paas
Huviet. He was threatening to attack the inn, and when he wouldn’t
heed the warnings, Eslingen—he was Devynck’s knife—shot him dead.”
He managed a crooked smile. “Which I don’t think comes under your
purview, Istre.”

“
I would think not,” the magist
agreed. “So what happened to him, the knife, I mean?”

Rathe grimaced. “Oh, gods, that was a mess. We had
to call the point on him, if only to keep the rest of the crowd
quiet, but of course it was disallowed. It had to be, really, he’d
only fired in self-defense and in defense of real property. But
Devynck let him go, since she didn’t want there to be more trouble
because of him. So I…I got him a position in Caiazzo’s
household.”

b’Estorr stared at Rathe, then laughed. “What
possessed you to lodge him with Caiazzo, of all people? I take it
you don’t much like this knife—Eslingen, was it?”

Rathe looked faintly embarrassed. “Yeah, that’s his
name. And, no, in actual fact, I like him, he’s a good sort,
clever—”

“
So why, in the Good Counsellor’s
name, stick him with Caiazzo?” b’Estorr paused. “Or do I have it
turned around?”

Rathe hesitated, but there were few men he trusted
more than the Chadroni. And besides, he added silently, I wouldn’t
mind having someone tell me I’d done the right thing. “I need
someone in Caiazzo’s household,” he said, lowering his voice. “The
sur thinks he might be involved with the missing children somehow,
but I’ve got my hands too full investigating the disappearances
themselves to waste time on something I don’t think is very likely.
It seemed a natural conjunction.”

b’Estorr shook his head. “Gods, Nico, remind me
never to call in any favors from you, you have the most backhanded
way of returning them. He agreed?”

“
He agreed. I didn’t exactly hold a
knife to his throat, either, Istre,” Rathe said.

“
It’s not a bad idea, though,”
b’Estorr said, thoughtfully. “As long as Caiazzo doesn’t find out,
that is.”

That was something Rathe did not particularly want
to think about. He reached for the pieces of paper instead, slid
them across the table toward b’Estorr. “Here. These are for you.
We’ve managed to gather some more information on the children
missing from Hopes—I think you have all the nativities now. I don’t
know, maybe if you look at them in line with Herisse’s, or
something, maybe the days of their disappearance, you’ll find
something we’ve missed.”

b’Estorr set down his glass and spread the papers
out on the table, studying each in turn. Rathe watched him,
absurdly fearful that he would see some dire pattern just glancing
at them, something the points could and should have seen. And
that’s just being ridiculous, he told himself firmly, hearing more
than an echo of his mother in his mind. But the papers looked
pathetic, lives in limbo, reduced to so many numbers and
calculations. He wasn’t an astrologer, at least no more so than
most people in Astreiant, possessing a rudimentary knowledge of the
magistry that defined their lives. b’Estorr could read the figures
Rathe had given him as easily as Rathe could read the broadsheets,
and Rathe wondered what picture the nativities conjured up for the
magist. Could he see these children, get a sense for who they
were—are, he corrected firmly—what their dreams, hopes, futures
might be? He shook his head, at himself this time, and took another
swallow of his wine, never taking his eyes from b’Estorr. Finally,
the magist rolled up the papers and placed them carefully in his
leather pocket case. He smiled a little sheepishly at Rathe.

“
Sorry. There’s little enough I can
do right now, but I get caught up. It’s interesting, but I’m not
seeing any obvious patterns off the top of it. No common positions,
bar the gross solar position of the winter-sun and its satellites
for most of them. And of course the Starsmith.”

Rathe nodded. The winter-sun and its three kindred
stars stayed in each of the solar signs for-about fourteen years;
everyone born within that period shared those signs. The Starsmith
took even longer to move through its unique zodiac. “That hardly
counts, though, right?”

“
Right. And not all of them were
born with the winter-sun in the Anvil, either, some of them are
young enough that it was in the first degrees of the Sea-bull.”
b’Estorr shook his head again. “For that matter, they weren’t even
all of them born in Astreiant.”

“
That we had noticed,” Rathe said.
“It’s almost as though there’s less of a pattern than there should
be, and where you expect to find one, no matter how meaningless—I
expected, we reasonably could have expected, all the kids to have
been born here—it’s not there. It’s the kind of negative pattern
you couldn’t create if you tried, you’d be bound to slip up
somewhere.”

“
That’s an interesting thought,”
b’Estorr said, and this time it was Rathe who shook his
head.

“
It could just be frustration
speaking. Damn it, there has to be some pattern there,
somewhere.”

b’Estorr nodded. “And the absence of pattern would
be meaningful, too. Don’t give up hope yet, Nico.”

Rathe smiled ruefully, leaned back in his chair as a
waiter appeared with his dinner—the promised lasanon, he saw
without surprise, smelling strongly of the garlic and summer herbs
layered with the cheese and the strips of noodle dough. Wicked was
right, the wine would complement that, or vice versa, and for the
first time that evening, felt his mood begin to lift. “I’m not.
It’s just—”

“
Eat,” b’Estorr said,
firmly.

“
You sound like my mother,” Rathe
complained, but did as he was told. A string of cheese clung to his
chin, and he wiped it away, enjoying the rich taste.

“
I sound like my mother,” b’Estorr
answered, “and they were both right.”

Rathe smiled again, genuine affection this time, and
turned his attention to his plate. b’Estorr was right, they were
doing all they could, and it was still too early to give up
hope.

They pushed the missing children from their minds for
the rest of dinner, talking idly of other things. Rathe found
himself relaxing at last, though he couldn’t be sure how much of
that was the excellent wine. He drained the last swallow left in
his glass, and set it carefully back on the table.

“
Time I was getting home,” he said
aloud, and the chime of a clock merged with his last word. He
frowned slightly at that—he hadn’t thought it was that late—and saw
the same confusion on b’Estorr’s face.

“
That’s odd,” the necromancer
began, and a second clock struck, not the quarter hour, as the
first had done, but repeatedly, a steady chiming. In the distance,
Rathe could hear another clock join in, and then a third and a
fourth,

“
What in the name of all the gods?”
he began, but he was already pushing himself up out of his seat.
All across the long room, people were standing, faces pale in the
lamplight, and Wicked herself appeared in the kitchen doorway,
broad face drawn into a scowl. It sounded like the earthquake,
though the ground had never moved, the way all the bells and chimes
had sounded, shaken into voice by the tremor, and he shoved his way
to the door, and out into the narrow yard.

The chimes were still sounding, and Rathe had lost
count of the number, knew only that it was more than twelve, more
than there ever should be. The shopgirls were on their feet, too,
one with her hand on her belt knife as though she faced a physical
threat, another pair shoulder to shoulder, steadying each other
against an earthquake that hadn’t happened. The nearest clock was
at the end of the Hopes-point Bridge, and he turned toward it,
searching the darkening sky for its white-painted face and the
massive bronze hands. It was hard to see in the winter-sun’s
twilight, but for an instant he thought he saw the hands spinning
aimlessly against the pale disk. Then the chimes stopped as
abruptly as they had begun, and the hands settled frozen,
proclaiming the hour to be six. And that was impossible, that time
had passed a good six hours ago, or wouldn’t come for another six.
Rathe’s mouth thinned and he looked back toward the tavern to see
b’Estorr there, Wicked framed in the door behind him. As though the
silence had released some spell, voices rose in the tavern, high,
excited, and afraid.

“
What in Tyrseis’s name was that?”
Rathe asked, and b’Estorr shook his head, his fine-boned face
troubled.

“
I don’t know. Something—a serious
disturbance in the stars, but what…” His voice trailed off, and he
shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

“
Damn,” Rathe said. He could hear
more voices in the streets now, loud with the same note of excited
fear, and lifted his voice to carry to the people behind Wicked.
“All right, then, it’s over. Nothing to panic about.”

“
But—” one of the shopgirls began,
and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Her fellow, braver than the rest, or maybe just less
in awe of the points, put her hands on her hips. “The clock’s out
of true, pointsman, what are we going to do about that?”

“
The university will have the
correct time, and the regents will see that the clocks are reset,”
Rathe answered, and tried to project a confidence he didn’t feel.
It wasn’t as simple as that, and they all knew it—when the clocks
had been unstrung by the earthquake, it had taken days for
everything to be sorted out.

b’Estorr said, his voice pitched to carry, “The
Great Clock, at the university—it’s made to keep time through any
upheaval. It should be all right. And it’s a good clear night.
There’ll be no problem checking the time against the stars.”

Rathe nodded his thanks, and Wicked heaved herself
out of the doorway, came to join them in the center of the yard.
“So what in Demis’s name would cause such a turmoil?” she demanded.
“I’ve seen a lightning storm do something like it, but that was one
clock—”

“
And this is a fine clear night,”
Rathe finished for her. “I don’t know, Wicked.”

“
No more do I,” b’Estorr said
again, “though I intend to find out.”

“
Would it have anything to do with
the children?” Rathe asked, his voice softer now, and b’Estorr
spread his hands.

“
I don’t know,” he said again. “I
don’t see how, what the connection would be, but I don’t trust
coincidence.” Rathe sighed, nodding agreement, and the necromancer
looked toward river. “I should be heading back, they’ll want every
scholar working on it.”

“
Go,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr
hurried past him, stride lengthening as he headed for the bridge.
He could smell smoke, and with it the pungent scent of herbs, and
guessed that people were already beginning to light balefires in
the squares and crossroads, offering the sweet smoke of Demis leaf
and lowstar to appease the gods. That was all to the good, as long
as they didn’t go burning anything else, and he looked at Wicked.
“I’d better go, too. They’ll be wanting me at Point of
Hopes.”

She nodded, her face grim. “I dare say. But I doubt
there’ll be trouble, Nico. This is too—strange, too big for a
riot.”

“
I hope you’re right,” Rathe
answered, and headed for the station. The streets were crowded, as
they’d been after the earthquake, and there were smoky fires in
every open space. They were well tended, he saw without surprise,
and didn’t know if he was glad or worried to see so many sober,
rich-robed guild folk feeding the flames. The neighborhood temples
were jammed, and there was a steady stream of people heading for
the bridge—heading to the Pantheon and the other temples in the old
city, Rathe guessed, and could only be grateful that their fear had
taken them that way, rather than in anger.

The portcullis was down at Point of Hopes, though
the postern gate was still open, and two pointsmen in
back-and-breast stood outside. They carried calivers, too, Rathe
saw: clearly Monteia was taking this seriously. He nodded a
greeting, received a sober nod in return, and went on into the
station’s yard.

Monteia was standing in the doorway, talking to a
young man whose wine-colored coat bore the badge of the city
regents, but she broke off, seeing him, and beckoned him over.
“Good, Nico. You’d better hear this, too.”

The messenger said, “The city and the university
will be confirming the correct time tonight in a public ceremony,
to start at once. The regents would like all the points stations to
proclaim and post the notice.”

“
Does that mean the university
clock is all right?” Rathe asked, and the messenger looked at
him.

“
So far as I know—well, so far as
they can tell. That’s why they’re checking, of course.”

Rathe nodded, remembering b’Estorr’s assurance, and
Monteia said briskly, “I’ve already started getting the word out,
Nico, but I’d take it as a favor if you’d attend the ceremony.
People tend to trust you, and I don’t want the ones who don’t get
there to say that we neglected our duty.”

“
All right,” Rathe said. He wasn’t
sorry to have the excuse, after all; it would be a sight worth
seeing, but, more than that, he was as eager as anyone to see with
his own eyes that the time had been put right. He turned away, but
Monteia’s voice stopped him.

“
Nico.”

“
Yes, Chief?” He turned back, to
see her holding a wooden case. It had brass feet and a brass-bound
door, and only then did he recognize it as the station’s
case-clock.