Point of Hopes (35 page)

The crowd was still thin, though some of it spilled
into the tiny front yard, shopkeeper’s girls enjoying a chance at
the soft weather after a day spent within doors. Rathe went inside:
the dim, cool light was more welcoming after a day spent
crisscrossing the city. Though it was still early, Wicked herself
sat at one end of the massive stone bar, surveying her customers
dispassionately. The current Wicked—there had been at least three
predecessors, Rathe knew from neighborhood gossip, though no one
knew for sure if they had been kin—had run the tavern for as long
as Rathe had been a regular. She had been there when he’d signed
his apprenticeship papers, and she was still there, not looking
much different than before, though she had to be fifty if she was a
day. She raised an eyebrow as she saw Rathe, and lifted a hand to
beckon him over.

“
You’d better not be visiting
Devynck’s troubles on me, boy,” she said by way of greeting, but
the tone took away most of the sting from her words.

Rathe shook his head, and held out empty hands. “You
see before you an off-duty pointsman, hungry, very thirsty, and in
extreme need of good company. So where else would I go? Beer makes
people mad, Wicked, wine makes them wise.”

“
Donis help us when pointsmen turn
philosopher.”

“
It’s that or run mad these days.”
Rathe dropped into a chair at the table nearest to her, glanced
around the room. There was no sign of b’Estorr yet, and at the
moment, he found he didn’t particularly care. Wicked detached
herself from the bar, and came to stand looming above him, hands on
ample hips.

“
You look like something that
washed up after a particularly nasty flood tide,” she said, and
shrugged. “But then, it could be the coat.”

Rathe lifted his head, then decided it wasn’t worth
arguing with her, especially when he’d reached the same conclusion
just that morning. “Thank you,” he said. “Might I have some wine,
please, mistress?”

Wicked snorted, but smiled, and stalked back to the
bar, disappearing through the door behind it that led to the
kitchens and her private stockroom. When she came out, she was
carrying a tall stone bottle and two heavy glasses—real glasses,
not the usual pottery cups. She set it all down on the table, and
sat down opposite him.

“
Because you don’t like my coat?”
Rathe asked.

Wicked leaned forward across the table. “Because,
first, I think you need it. Second, Istre sent your runner back by
here to say he would be here after first sunset, and to bespeak a
very nice bottle of wine—that one, knows his stuff for all he’s
Chadroni. And, third, even if he did and you didn’t, I wouldn’t
bother. I don’t waste this on people who’d waste it. I figure
you’re probably here for a while, pointsman, and better for you it
is, too, than moping at home or at the station.”

“
I had reached that decision
myself,” Rathe said, with dignity. “I suppose I’d better get some
dinner if I’m not to insult one of your—what, Silklands
vintages?”

Wicked shook her head. “Believe it or not, Chadroni.
Istre tells me their beer is vile. Maybe there’s hope for the
regicidal bastards.” She tugged the cork free with a grunt of
effort, set bottle and cork in front of him with a flourish.

Rathe spread his hands. “If you say so, Wicked, I
have to believe it. And I’ll have whatever’s going from the kitchen
tonight.”

“
You’ll have what I give you,”
Wicked answered, and pushed herself up from the table. “I’ve
lasanon with cheese and herbs that’ll be better with that than a
custard pie.”

“
Thank you,” Rathe said, knowing
better than to argue, and the innkeeper turned away. Rathe leaned
back in his chair, and reached for the papers folded into his
pocket. He pulled them out, eight sheets, each with their neatly
inked circles and the symbols of the planets set in their places,
looking for some connection, however tenuous, between the eight.
Approximate age was all they had in common, certainly not
background, and that was what had the city in an uproar. And he
didn’t see anything in these papers to change that.

He made a face, and turned them facedown on the
scarred table, wishing b’Estorr would arrive. The door was still
open to the evening breeze, a southern breeze, warm, but without
the river’s damp. He could hear the sounds of the businesses around
Wicked’s closing up for the day, tables and carts pulled in,
shutters down or across, the clank of iron as locks and chains were
snugged home. First sunset was definitely past; over in Point of
Dreams, the day-shows would be well over, and the playhouses
sweeping up, getting ready for the night-show. It had been weeks—a
moon-month, he realized, guiltily—since he had seen a play, even a
night-show farce. The actors who shared the garret above his own
lodgings had seemed cold lately; he would have to make amends, when
he had the time. And he would need to make time, he realized. They
if anyone could help him with Foucquet’s missing apprentice,
especially if the boy wasn’t missing at all….

“
So how do you like the
wine?”

Rathe looked up, and pushed the papers aside. “Don’t
know. Haven’t dared try it yet. I thought, being Chadroni, it might
come ready mixed with its own poison.”

b’Estorr looked thoughtful. “I don’t think it’s from
the royal cellars.”

“
How’d you know I’d need
it?”

“
Poison or a drink?” b’Estorr
asked, and seated himself opposite the other man.

Rathe gave him a sour look, but conceded the point.
“The drink.”

“
These days, don’t we all,”
b’Estorr answered, and filled both glasses. Rathe took one, lifted
it in silent toast, and sipped curiously at the amber liquid. It
was good, very good, but not astonishing. He had been in the mood
for something astonishing, and he set the glass down again with a
vague sense of disappointment. b’Estorr went on, as if he hadn’t
noticed, “I heard about the trouble at Devynck’s—I had cause to go
to All-Guilds today, the clerks were talking about nothing
else.”

“
And blaming the points, I dare
say,” Rathe muttered.

“
Among others,” b’Estorr
answered.

Rathe looked at him. “Strange to say, though, you
people are the only ones I haven’t heard suspected.”

“
Well, who’d dare?” b’Estorr
returned. “I take it you mean magists, and not
Chadroni.”

Rathe smiled in spite of himself. “I think that
people feel if Chadroni were involved, it wouldn’t be
this…disguised. Good straightforward people, the Chadroni, if a
little bloodthirsty.” ,

b’Estorr twirled the stem of his wine glass between
his fingers. “That’s true enough.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “The
only reason they didn’t latch onto me as the guilty party when the
old Fre was murdered was that they’d’ve been insulted at the
thought of any but their own class murdering the king. In
Chenedolle, in any of the League cities—in the Silklands, for
Astree’s sake—I’d’ve been dragged off to execution without a second
thought. But in Chadron, murder is the province of the high
nobility.”

“
Fun place to set up a points
station,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr nearly choked on his wine. Rathe
grinned—that had evened the score for the remark about poison—but
sobered quickly. Something he’d said himself hadn’t quite rung
true…. “But I’m wrong, aren’t I, there’s one group of magists
people do suspect.”

b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.

“
Those hedge-astrologers, the
freelances, the ones the Three Nations have been complaining
about.”

“
Magists are generally
astrologers,” b’Estorr said, with dignity, “but few astrologers are
magists.”

“
I’m not sure most people make that
distinction.” Rathe frowned suddenly, impatient with the game.
“Seriously, Istre, have you heard anything more about
them?”

b’Estorr shrugged. “Not much more than before, I’m
afraid. They’re still around—and they don’t charge nearly enough
for what they’re doing. The students are pissed, of course, and the
arbiters have promised to do what they can, but every time they get
close to one of them, they seem to fade away.”

“
Well, joy of it to me, we need to
keep an eye on them, too,” Rathe said.

“
I’d have thought that was the
arbiters’ business,” b’Estorr said.

“
And also ours.” Rathe glanced
toward the open door, hearing sudden loud voices, and then relaxed
slightly, recognizing the tone if not the speakers. They sounded
light, for a change, almost happy, and Rathe realized for the first
time just how tense he had become. Then a knot of people—actors
all, Rathe knew, and his upstairs neighbor Gavi Jhirassi at their
center—burst through the open door.

“
They can threaten to close us
down, but they know right now there’d be riots if they tried it.
And that’s just what Astreiant wants to avoid, so they won’t. And
meanwhile, it’s marvelous business for us.”

“
Still, it’s a risky piece, Gavi,
and Aconin should mind his pen.” That was a rangy woman in a plumed
cap, her eyes still smudged with the paint she wore on
stage.

Jhirassi made a moue, and his eyes lighted on Rathe.
“Nico! Have they actually let you out? We were beginning to think
you were working all hours.” b’Estorr glanced at Rathe, eyes
amused. Rathe shook his head. “Gavi’s my upstairs neighbor. And an
actor, though I probably don’t need to tell you that. Quite a good
one, really.”

“
You’re too kind,” Jhirassi said,
and leaned on the back of the empty chair.

Rathe sighed. “Gavi Jhirassi, Istre b’Estorr,
Istre’s at the university.”

“
Not a student,” Jhirassi said. “A
master, then?”

“
Join us, why don’t you, Gavi?”
Rathe said, and the actor spun the chair dexterously away from the
table. “I wanted to talk to you anyway, and this saves me a trip to
the theaters, since we’re never home the same hours these
days.”

Jhirassi nodded. “It has been a
while since we’ve seen you, Nico. Not that I can blame you, with
what’s been on recently, I mean, really,
The Seven Seekers
? It’s not
particularly subtle, and this staging isn’t particularly inventive.
At least Aconin doesn’t write me ingenue parts—” He broke off,
looking at Rathe. “What did you want to talk to me
about?”

Rathe allowed himself a wry smile, and quickly
retold Foucquet’s story of her missing clerk-apprentice. Jhirassi’s
face grew more intent as he listened, and for once he didn’t
interrupt. When Rathe had finished he said “And you’re afraid he’s
become one of the missing, obviously, for all you’re saying
everything else. Well, we’ve not had any new brats—sorry,
children—” The correction was patently insincere. “—hanging about,
but you said he might have gone to Savatier’s.” He tipped his head
to one side, considering, then shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ll ask
there tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“
Please,” Rathe said.

“
And if I find him?”

“
Let me know, and I’ll let Foucquet
know. She can handle it from there, sort it out with the boy’s
mother.”

“
If Savatier has him,” Jhirassi
said “if she’s taken him on, he’s likely to be good, Nico. It could
be a shame to force him back into the judiciary,”

“
I know,” Rathe answered. “But his
mother has a right to know if he hasn’t gone missing. Who knows,
she might be so delighted to hear he’s with Savatier, and not
disappeared she might let him stay on.” He didn’t sound terribly
convincing, and knew it, and so, from the look on the actor’s face,
did Jhirassi. The judiciary was a good career, and a rich one,
ideal for those who had the proper stars, and that range was
broadly defined. Clerkships like the one Albe Cytel had held were
as jealously guarded as any guild apprenticeship, and for the same
reasons: their holders had an advantage over the hundreds of others
who tried to make their living in the trade, and that advantage
could be passed from mother to child. Cytel’s mother would be
reluctant to lose that, no matter what the boy’s stars said and
there would be ambition and expectation involved as well. Sometimes
it was hard to make the parent’s desires give way to sidereal
sense. He himself had been lucky, Rathe thought. He might have been
an apothecary, or an herbalist, given his parents’ occupations, but
it had been clear from his stars that Metenere’s service was not
for him, and they had made no protest. He looked again at the sheaf
of papers with their scribbled nativities. There had been nothing
in common among those children’s stars, or at least nothing that he
could see, not even a common like or dislike of their present
circumstances.

“
I’ll ask at Savatier’s,” Jhirassi
said again. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“
I appreciate it,” Rathe
answered.

Jhirassi nodded, mischief glinting in his eyes, but
then common sense reasserted itself. He rose gracefully from the
table, smiled at b’Estorr, and crossed to the corner table where
the rest of the actors were sitting. Rathe watched him go, but his
mind wasn’t on the slim figure.

“
That sounds—interesting,” b’Estorr
said, and Rathe rolled his eyes.

“
In other circumstances, yes. It
might almost be amusing, but not just at the moment, thank you. Not
with people—respectable guildfolk, mind you—trying to do our jobs
for us.”

“
Is it true someone was killed last
night?” b’Estorr asked.