Point of Hopes (37 page)

“
See that this gets set right,”
Monteia said and handed it to him.

Rathe took the box gingerly, appalled at the thought
of the fragile gears and delicate springs of the workings, but
shook the fear away. The case-clock had been designed for travel;
more than that, it had survived at least ten years in the station’s
main room. It would easily survive a simple trip to University
Point and back. “I’ll take care of it,” he said aloud and headed
back out into the street.

It seemed as though the news of the ceremony had
already reached the neighborhood. The streets, and then the bridge
itself, were jammed with bodies, all flowing toward the university
precinct. Rathe let himself be carried with the crowd but at the
university gates displayed his truncheon, and was admitted
grudgingly into the main courtyard. All the lights had been
quenched there, even the mage-fires that usually burned blue above
the dormitories’ doorways, and in the darkened center of the yard a
group of magists—all high-ranking, senior officials and scholars,
by the cut and colors of their robes and hoods—clustered around a
long table covered with the tools of their trade. Even at this
distance, and in the dark, he could recognize the concentric
spheres of the university’s pride and joy, the great orrery, the
largest and most exact ever made. He had been in dame school the
day it had been unveiled, and all the city’s students had been
taken to view it, and then given a week’s holiday, to impress on
their memory that they had seen something special. In spite of
himself, he took a step forward, and nearly collided with a student
in a gargoyle grey gown.

“
Sorry, sir, but no one’s allowed
any closer.”

“
I’m sorry,” Rathe said. “Tell me,
I was sent with a clock, to reset it, where should I
go?”

The student rolled her eyes. “So was everyone, sir.
Anywhere will be all right, they’ll call the time once they know
it.”

“
Thanks,” Rathe said, and moved
away. It was true enough, he saw. A number of the crowd, maybe one
in ten, clutched case-clocks or traveling dials, waiting patiently
for the scholars to restore the time. Some were servants from the
nobles’ houses along the Western Reach, but an equal number were
from the city, guildfolk and respectable traders, and Rathe
shivered, thinking again of the clocks chiming out of tune, out of
order. Astreiant needed its clocks, not just for telling the time
of day, but for matching one’s actions to the stars, and there were
more and more trades in which that was not just a useful addition,
but a necessity. To be without clocks was almost as bad as being
without the stars themselves.

At the center of the yard, the robed scholars were
moving through their stately choreography, lifting astrolabes and
sighting staffs and other instruments Rathe didn’t recognize. He
could hear their voices, too, but couldn’t make out the words, just
the sonorous roll of the phrases, punctuated by the occasional
sweet tone of a bell. Then at last a pair of scholars—senior
magists, resplendent in heavy gowns and gold chains and the heavy
hoods that marked ten years of study—lifted the great orrery, and
another senior magist solemnly adjusted first one set of rings, and
then the next. It seemed to take forever, but then at last she
stepped away, and the bell sounded again.

“
Quarter past one,” a voice cried,
and the words were taken up and repeated across the courtyard.
Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief, and flipped open the clock
case to turn the hands himself. He closed it again, ready to head
back to Point of Hopes, and heard a familiar voice from among the
scholars.

“
Nico!”

He turned, to see b’Estorr pushing through the crowd
toward him. He was wearing his full academic regalia, a blue hood
clasped with the Starsmith’s star-and-anvil thrown over his
shoulders, but loosened the robe as he approached, revealing a
plain shirt and patched breeches.

“
Istre. That settles it, does
it?”

“
Everything except why,” b’Estorr
answered.

Rathe sighed, but nodded. “Does anyone have any
ideas?”

“
Not really, at least not yet. It
may have something to do with the star-change—there are a lot of
odd phenomena associated with it, and the Starsmith is closer this
passage than last time.” b’Estorr shook his head again. “But
there’s one thing you should know, even if it’s not public
knowledge.”

“
Oh?” Rathe could feel the night
air chill on his face.

“
Our clock, the university clock.
It struck then, too.”

“
What?” Rathe frowned. “I thought
you said it was built to withstand upheavals.”

“
It’s built to stand natural
phenomena,” b’Estorr answered. “It’s carefully crafted, well
warded—half the gears are cast with aurichalcum, for Dis’s
sake—which worries me.”

“
I should think that was an
understatement,” Rathe muttered, and, to his surprise, b’Estorr
grinned. The mage-lights were returning, casting odd blue
highlights in the necromancer’s fair hair.

“
Yes, well, I agree. The masters
and scholars are looking into it, of course, but I thought at least
one pointsman ought to know.”

“
Thanks.” Rathe shook his head. “I
can’t help thinking about the children. I’m not fond of
coincidences, Istre.”

“
Neither am I,” b’Estorr answered.
“I just don’t see how.” He sighed and worked his shoulders,
wincing. “Gods, I’m tired. But at least the clocks can be reset
now.”

“
That’s something,” Rathe said, and
knew he sounded uncertain. “You’ll let me know if there is a
connection?”

“
Of course. If we find anything,
I’ll let you know.”

“
Thanks,” Rathe said again, and
touched the other man’s shoulder, then started back toward Point of
Hopes. At the gate to the precinct, he looked back, to see b’Estorr
still standing in the mage-light, the gown hanging loose from his
shoulders. The necromancer looked tired, and unhappy; Rathe shook
his head, hoping it wasn’t an omen, and kept walking.

Eslingen set his diptych, Areton and Phoebe, on the
altar table, and placed the Hearthmistress’s candle in front of it,
then turned to survey the room. It was half again as large as his
room at the Old Brown Dog, and the furniture was better than
anything he’d seen since the glorious three days he and his troop
had occupied an abandoned manor house. That hadn’t lasted—they had
been driven back again on the fourth day, with casualties—and he
shook the thought away as ill-omened, touching first Areton and
then Phoebe in propitiation. It had been a good day so far, better
than he’d had any right to expect; there was no point in tempting
the gods, or the less pleasant fates. The magist, Denizard, had
seemed pleased enough by his answers to her questions—and he had
been careful to tell the truth in everything, though he’d shaded it
a bit when it came to Rathe. But it was absolutely true that he’d
known the pointsman for less than two weeks, and that Rathe had
been partly responsible for his losing his place at Devynck’s; the
fact that, despite everything, he rather liked the man hadn’t
entered the conversation, and most certainly he hadn’t mentioned
Rathe’s request. The truth-stone hadn’t recognized his
equivocation—and how could it? he asked silently. Denizard hadn’t
known enough to ask the question that would uncover that link, and
he had been very careful in his answers. Besides, he was bound to
tell Rathe only if the missing children were involved, and Rathe
himself didn’t seem to think that was likely. Fooling Caiazzo might
be a different matter, even if the man was no magist, but so far
the long-distance trader hadn’t returned to the house.

He glanced around the room again, his own meager
belongings looking small and rather shabby by contrast, and hoped
he was doing the right thing. At worst, it would be for a week, and
at the end of it he’d have two heirats—not much, he thought, but
not nothing, either. And, at best, it would be work he could do,
and decent pay, and conditions a good deal better than the Old
Brown Dog had offered.

There was a knock at the door, and a woman came in
without waiting for his word. She was thin and stern-faced, and
carried a tray piled high with covered dishes. “Magist Denizard
said you hadn’t eaten,” she said, by way of greeting. “You can set
the tray outside when you’re done.”

“
Thank you,” Eslingen said, and
gave her his best smile, but she set the tray on the table and
disappeared without responding. He raised an eyebrow at the closing
door—nothing could have made his status more clear, on trial, not
yet of the household—but lifted the covers from the dishes. The
food smelled good, onions and wine and the ubiquitous Astreianter
noodles, these long and thin and drenched in a sauce of oil and a
melange of herbs, and he realized suddenly that he was hungry. He
ate eagerly—Caiazzo’s cook was a woman of real talent—but when he’d
finished, found himself at something of a loss. For a single bleak
moment, he would have given most of his savings to be back at
Devynck’s arguing with Adriana over the latest broadsheet, but made
himself put that thought firmly aside. That option had been closed
to him since he’d shot Paas Huviet—since the moment Devynck had put
the pistol into his hand, really, and there was no turning back. He
carried the tray to the door, and set it carefully outside, close
to the wall.

As he straightened, he heard a clock strike, and
frowned, startled that it was so late. An instant later, a second
clock sounded, this one within the house, its two-note chime oddly
syncopated against the rhythm of the distant tower clock. Other
clocks were striking now, too, and kept sounding, past what was
reasonable. He counted eleven, twelve, then thirteen and fourteen,
and heard a voice shrill from the end of the hall.

“
What in the name of all the
gods—?”

A second voice—Denizard’s, he thought—answered, “Be
quiet, and keep the others quiet, too.” The chiming stopped then,
on a last sour note as though a bell had cracked under the steady
blows, and the magist went on, “It’s over. Get back to the kitchen
and keep everybody calm, there’s no need to panic yet.”

Eslingen saw the first woman drop a shaky curtsey,
and Denizard looked at him. “Good. Come on, Eslingen, Hanse will be
wanting us.”

Eslingen reached behind him for his coat, and the
long knife on its narrow belt, and followed the magist down the
long hall, shrugging into his clothes as he went. Caiazzo himself
was standing at the top of the main stairway, scowling up at the
house clock that stood against the wall behind him. The hands,
Eslingen saw, declared it to be half past six, and he shivered in
spite of himself.

“
What in all hells was that?” the
trader demanded, and Denizard spread her hands. She had flung her
gown over chemise and skirts, and Eslingen could see the hard line
of her stays as the gown swung open. Her grey-streaked hair hung
loose over her shoulders, and she shook it back
impatiently.

“
I don’t know,” she answered,
glancing over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “Not an
earthquake, or lightning—”

“
That’s obvious,” Caiazzo
snapped.

“—
which means some other sort of
natural disturbance,” the magist went on, as though he hadn’t
spoken. “The star-change means things are unsettled, but I’ve never
heard of anything like this.”

“
Wonderful,” Caiazzo said, and
looked up at the clock. “So what do we do now, magist?”

Denizard sighed, drawing her gown closed around her.
“Reassure your people first, I think. Then send someone to the
university, the Great Clock there is unlikely to have gone out of
tune, and even if it has, they’ll be able to reset it from the
stars. And then—I don’t know, Hanse. Try to find out what happened,
I suppose.”

“
And what do you think happened?”
Caiazzo asked. His voice was calmer now, and Denizard sighed
again.

“
I’m only guessing, mind, my
speciality isn’t astrology. But the star-change means that the
Starsmith is coming closer and closer to the normal stars, and that
means it has more and more influence on them. It’s possible that
its approach could upset the clocks—they’re set to the ordinary
stars, not the Starsmith.”

“
But if that’s what happened,”
Caiazzo said, “why haven’t I heard of anything like this before?
The last star-change was in living memory, surely something like
this would’ve started stories.”

“
I don’t know,” Denizard said
again. “The Starsmith will be moving into the Charioteer, that’s a
shared sign, one of the moon’s signs, and it hasn’t done that for,
oh, six hundred years. I don’t think even the university has good
records for that long ago.”

Caiazzo muttered something under his breath.
Eslingen smelled smoke suddenly, strong and close at hand and
turned instantly to the main door. Before he could reach it,
however, it opened and the stocky man who’d been introduced as the
household steward came into the hall.

“
Sir. The neighbors are lighting
balefires, and with your permission, I’d like to have our people do
the same. And there’s a crier saying that the university is
checking the proper time.”

Caiazzo’s eyes flicked to Denizard who shrugged and
then back to the steward. “Go ahead. It’ll give them something to
do besides worry.”