Point of Hopes (50 page)

Eslingen nodded but said nothing. Denizard sighed
again, and pushed herself away from the table, went to the door
again to peer out into the soft twilight. Eslingen watched her go,
turning the stem of his wine glass in his hand and wondered what he
should do with this knowledge. He had promised Rathe word of
anything strange about Caiazzo’s business, and part ownership of an
Ajanine gold mine—an Ajanine gold mine located of necessity on
noble land—was certainly out of the ordinary. Except, he added with
an inward grin, maybe for Hanselin Caiazzo. He had known from
Rathe’s own words that Caiazzo’s dealings weren’t all legal, but he
was only just beginning to understand the scope of the
long-distance trader’s operations, legitimate as well as not.
Perhaps an Ajanine manor wasn’t so far out of Caiazzo’s usual range
as he’d thought.

He leaned back as the waiter returned with the dish
of cakes, replacing the previous dishes with quick deference. He
liked Caiazzo’s service, liked the sober elegance of the house and
his own place in it, suspected he would be aping the cut of
Caiazzo’s coat for years to come. He didn’t want to give it up—and
why should he, especially for Rathe, whom he’d known less than a
solar month?—and he’d be lucky if the job was all he lost if he
betrayed Caiazzo to the points. He remembered the old woman in her
empty shop at the heart of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, and
shivered, trying to blame it on the evening air. If she found out
he’d betrayed Caiazzo, he’d be fighting off her bravos for the rest
of the year, and think himself lucky to escape to the border
fighting. Besides, illegal Caiazzo’s dealings might be—were, he
corrected himself, unmistakably outside Chenedolle’s laws—but they
had nothing whatsoever to do with the missing children. That was
all he’d promised Rathe; unless and until he found any indication
Caiazzo was dabbling in that, he would keep Caiazzo’s business
strictly to himself.

As Rathe had expected, Monteia didn’t like the idea
of using the runners to force the hedge-astrologers into the open.
She shook her head when he had finished, and leaned back against
the window frame, her long face very sober.

“
It’s a long shot, Nico, a very
long shot,” she said at last. “I think you’re right, this has to be
the reason these kids are being taken, but to risk our runners…”
She shook her head, her voice trailing off into silence.

“
Can you think of a better way of
stopping them?” Rathe asked, and Monteia shook her head
again.

“
Not offhand, no. But I want to
try. I owe them that much, Nico.” She drew herself up, planted her
elbows on the table. “I’m going to draft a letter to all the
points, and to Claes in particular—that might get his attention
better than just sending you to talk to him.”

Rathe made a face, but admitted that Monteia was
probably right. Claes was ready to be annoyed with Hopes over his
presence in the fair the day before; better to follow protocol than
to risk angering him just when they would need him most.

“
On the other hand,” Monteia went
on, “there’s one thing you said that we can follow up on, and we
haven’t yet. If the kids aren’t in the city, then where are
they?”

“
They have to have been taken
away,” Rathe said. “We’d’ve found them otherwise.”

Monteia nodded. “I agree. And I know you’ve got
friends, in the caravans.”

“
In a manner of speaking,” Rathe
said. “I did Monferriol a favor once.”

“
Then he can do you one,” Monteia
said. “Give a shout for Andry and Houssaye, will you?”

Rathe did as he was told and a moment later the
pointsmen appeared in the doorway, looking puzzled.

“
Come on in,” Monteia said, “and
close the door. I’ve got work for you.”

The two filed in, wedging themselves into the space
between Rathe’s chair and the wall, and Houssaye shut the door
carefully behind him.

Monteia nodded. “All right. Nico, you’ll take the
caravans at the fair, since you know Monferriol. Andry, I want you
and Houssaye to take the river, Exemption Docks to the Chain. We’re
looking for any way that these child-thieves could have taken the
kids out of the city—anything out of the ordinary, someone leaving
too soon or too late, hiding his cargo, anything at all.”

The pointsmen exchanged glances, and then Andry
said, cautiously, “We’ve done a lot of that already, Chief. And so
far, nobody’s noticed anything.”

“
Well, do it again,” Monteia
answered. She hesitated, then said, almost reluctantly, “We may
have something to go on. Nico and his necromancer friend have found
something all the kids have in common, though the gods alone know
why it matters. All of them knew their stars to better than the
quarter hour. You can pass that on as you see fit—it may calm some
people down—but be careful with it.”

Andry nodded, his face thoughtful, and Houssaye
said, slowly, “I don’t think the river-folk are involved, Chief.
I’ve spoken to friends of mine in Hearts and Dreams, and they say
they’ve been keeping a close watch on the Chain. Nobody’s gone
upriver without being searched.”

That was not good news, Rathe thought. The Sier was
a major highway for trade, but if the upriver traffic was being
searched, then that left only the downriver, and that led to the
sea and the Silklands. He shivered in spite of himself at the
thought of the missing children being taken out of Chenedolle
entirely, and saw from Andry’s expression that the same thought was
in his mind as well.

“
Look anyway,” Monteia said. “Gods,
if they were taken to sea—” She broke off again, not wanting to
articulate the thought, but the three men nodded. She didn’t need
to articulate it: they had no authority outside Astreiant, but at
least anywhere in Chenedolle they could appeal to the royal
authority. If the children were outside the kingdom, the gods only
knew whether the local rulers would listen to them. And, worst of
all, least to be spoken, there was the chance that the children had
simply been taken to sea and abandoned to the waves. In ancient
times, Oriane’s worship had demanded those sacrifices; Rathe
crossed his fingers, praying that no one had decided to revive
those customs.

“
Our best chance is probably the
caravans or the horsemarket at the Little Fair,” Monteia said
briskly, and Rathe shook away his fears. “Nico, I’m sorry to be
asking you to handle it alone, but it’s more discreet that way. I
don’t want to antagonize Fairs if I can avoid it.”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll be careful,” he said and Monteia
nodded.

“
Right. Be off with you,
then.”

Rathe made his way to the fair by the Manufactory
Bridge, skirting the fairgrounds proper until he reached the
quarter where the caravaners camped. It was busy, as usual; he had
to wait while an incoming train, a good two dozen packhorses, all
heavily laden, plus attendants, made their way up the main street
and were turned into a waiting corral. He followed them toward the
stables, walking carefully, and felt a sudden pang of uncertainty.
The arriving caravan was obviously one of the ones working the
shorter routes—to Cazaril in the south, say, or across to the
Chadroni gap. They came in almost daily throughout the fair, and
most of them would stay a few days beyond the official closing, to
ensure they sold all their goods. The ones working the longer
routes, however, would almost certainly leave earlier, well before
the end of the fair, especially if they had to take a northern
route. And Monferriol was a northern traveller. Bonfortune send I
haven’t missed him, Rathe thought, and in the same instant saw a
familiar blue and yellow pennant flying over one of the tents set
up outside the stables. Monferriol worked for a consortium of small
traders, had a knack for taking his principals’ goods safely
through the Chadroni Gap, across Chadron itself, and into the
Vestara beyond, keeping just ahead of the worst weather until he
reached Al’manon-of-the-Snows. He wintered there, and returning to
Astreiant with the first thaws, bringing the first shipments of the
northern goods, wools, uncured leathers, wine, and all the rest. Of
necessity, his timing was precise, and his awareness of his
surroundings exquisitely tuned: he would know if anyone had left
ahead of him, and where they were going, and why.

He turned toward the stables, stopped the first
hostler he saw who carried Monferriol’s yellow and blue ribbons.
“Is Monferriol about?”

The woman looked up at him, took in the jerkin and
truncheon, and sighed. “Oh, gods, did he forget to pay his damned
bond again? I wish he’d stop playing these games with you lot, the
rest of us have work to do.”

Rathe shook his head. “I’m not from Fairs’ Point,
I’m from Point of Hopes—and I’m a friend of Jevis’s, just wanted to
say hello.”

The hostler pushed her hair back from her face,
leaving a streak of dust along one cheekbone. “I think you’ll find
him in the factors’ tent, pointsman.”

“
If he’s busy—”

She looked at him, her mouth twisting into a
gap-toothed grin. “Do you know a single factor who’s up at this
hour, or at least here? I don’t, and I don’t think I’d want to. No,
he’s just gloating over the route again, the bastard. You know
where it is? Right, the fancy one.” She turned back to the corral
even as she spoke, and Rathe turned toward the factors’ tent.

It was elaborate, he thought, but then, the
consortium probably had to make more of a display than established
traders like Caiazzo or older consortia like the Talhafers. And it
was bright, crimson canvas—not much faded, yet—flying a bright
yellow pennant with Monferriol’s blue ferret rampant in a circle.
He could hear a toneless, rumbling humming through the Walls, and
pulled the flap aside.

“
Jevis? Planning new tortures for
your people?”

“
Gods above, boy, don’t scare me
like that, I thought you were the competition,” Monferriol
bellowed, and Rathe saw that, indeed, he did have a knife in his
hand. Rathe’s expert eye gauged it as just within the city’s legal
limits. It might be a little longer, but not enough to make it
worth a pointsman’s while to question it.

“
Is business getting that
cutthroat?” he asked, and Monferriol dropped back onto his high
stool, snorting. He was a huge man, tall and heavy-set, hair and
beard an untidy hedge.

“
Isn’t it always? That bastard
Caiazzo’s got the eastern route sewed up, and a damned good
caravan-master he has too, but he can’t touch me in the north, for
all he keeps trying.”

“
That’s something to be satisfied
with, surely,” Rathe said, mildly. He knew perfectly well that
Monferriol and his consortium had been trying to make inroads into
the eastern route for the last few years.

“
It’s something to keep me awake
nights,” Monferriol answered, and looked back at the maps spread
out on the table beside him. “Though why I should lie awake when
none of my principals do, I bloody well don’t know.”

“
It’s their money and they trust
you?” Rathe guessed, and Monferriol made a face.

“
More to the point, it’s my blood
and my reputation on the line, every time we cross the blighted
Gap. Godless people, the Chadroni.” He looked down at the maps,
shaking his head. “It figures Caiazzo would have one for his
master.”

“
Then why do it?” Rathe asked. He
should get to his own business, he knew, but the sheer scale of
Monferriol’s affairs—and ego—always fascinated him.

“
Why? Gods, boy, because I can.
Because I’m the best there is at managing a caravan through the Gap
and Chadron and the Vestara. Why in all hells are you a pointsman?
Because you’re good at it, and if you didn’t do it, someone else
would, and get all the glory—or else muck it up and leave you
fuming at them for a pack of incompetents.”

And that was true enough, Rathe reflected, and not
what he’d expected to hear. He saw an almanac open beside the map,
and nodded to it. “What are the temples forecasting for this
winter?”

Monferriol stuck out his lower lip as he looked down
at the little book. “Heavy snows in the Gap, they’re saying, the
worst in memory. Of course, last year they predicted a mild winter,
and we all know how accurate that was.”

Rathe grinned. The previous winter had been
unusually bad, with snow before Midwinter in Astreiant itself.

“
So,” Monferriol said, and swung
around so that his back was to the table. “What can I do for you,
Nico?”

“
I need your—advice, your expert
knowledge,” Rathe said. “It’s about the children.”

“
Oh, that. That’s a bad business.
What are you lot doing about it?”

“
What we can,” Rathe answered.
“What I want to know from you is whether you’ve noticed anything
odd among the caravans this fair.”

“
We’re an odd lot,” Monferriol
answered, but Rathe thought he looked wary. “What did you have in
mind?”

“
Has anyone changed their usual
plans, left earlier than expected, not come in till late,
anything?”

Monferriol’s face screwed up in thought. He was
acting, Rathe thought suddenly, and bit back his sudden anger.
Before either man could speak, however, the flap was pulled back
again. “Gods above,” Monferriol roared, and Rathe thought there was
as much relief as anger in his tone. “What is this, a waystation?
Oh, it’s you, Rouvalles. What do you want?” The newcomer lifted an
eyebrow, but said, equably enough, “I’ve come about those extra
horses you wanted. I can spare you two, but you’ll pay.”