“Then you don’t get paid enough,” Asheri muttered.
They turned off Clock Street at last, and threaded their way through the narrow streets to the cul‑de‑sac where Mijan’s house stood. The square around the well‑house was empty, not even the sound of a child drifting from the surrounding houses, but Mijan herself was working in the little garden outside her front door, her back stubbornly to the road from the city. Another woman–a neighbor? Rathe wondered–was standing with her, hands twisted in her mended apron. She looked up sharply at the sound of hoofbeats, though Mijan did not move, and then reached down to touch the other woman’s shoulder. Mijan hunched her back, and didn’t move. Rathe reined his horse to a stop–and he would have to return it to Caiazzo soon, he thought, or pay for stabling–and Asheri slid down from the saddle.
“Mijan?”
Mijan turned at the sound of her voice, scowling, and pushed herself up from the dry dirt. “How could you–?” she began, and Asheri’s voice rose in what sounded like a habitual response.
“Don’t scold, Mijan, I’m fine!”
Mijan shook her head, but Rathe could see the tears on her cheeks. She opened her arms then, and Asheri stepped into their shelter, into Mijan’s fierce embrace, burying her head against her sister’s chest. Mijan rested her chin on the girl’s head. “Oh, Asheri,” she said, and looked at Rathe. “I–thank you, Rathe. I thought sure–” She broke off again, and the other woman took a step forward.
“I said she’d be with the others,” she said. She had an easy, comfortable voice, and an easy smile. “And I said you should have supper waiting.”
Mijan loosened her hold on the girl, her mouth pulling down into her ready scowl. “I wasn’t going to spend good coin on something that might not happen.”
“Then it’s a good thing I did,” the other woman said. “Come along, Mijan, you’re in no shape to cook–you shouldn’t have to cook, either one of you, not after all this, and I’ve got supper on the stove, a whole chicken.” She looked at Rathe, including him in her smile. “You should join us, Master Rathe–you’ll not get better, though I say it who shouldn’t.”
Rathe returned her smile, but shook his head. “I have to report to Point of Hopes,” he said, and backed the horse away.
“I’ll be in tomorrow for work,” Asheri called after him, and he saw Mijan’s mouth tighten in an old disapproval. She said nothing, however, and Rathe lifted his hand in answer, kicking the horse into a slow trot.
The streets were getting more crowded as he made his way back toward Point of Hopes with people coming back from the Horsegate Road who hadn’t bothered to go on to the Pantheon. A fair number carried pitchers of wine and beer, but they were happy drunks, and Rathe couldn’t quite bring himself to care. At Point of Hopes itself, the portcullis was open, and the courtyard was crowded, pointsmen and women for once mingling amicably with people from the surrounding houses. Someone had brought a hogshead into the yard, and the air smelled of spilled beer. Houssaye saw him first, and came to catch the horse’s bridle.
“Nico! You’re back, and well.” His eyes darted to the gate, and back again. “Asheri?”
“With her sister,” Rathe answered, and swung down off the horse at last. “I brought her there myself.”
“Thank Astree and all the gods,” Houssaye said. “I’ll take care of the beast.”
“Thanks,” Rathe answered. He could see Monteia standing in the station’s doorway, a mug of beer in her hand, and lifted his own hand in greeting.
She waved back, and beckoned him over. “Welcome back, Nico– a job well done, by all accounts.”
Rathe blinked, startled, and Eslingen looked over the chief point’s shoulder. “Aagte asked me to see the beer delivered–that’s her gift, sort of an apology for thinking ill of the chief point here, I think.”
And probably a way to get you away from Adriana, Rathe thought. He said, “So you’ve been telling the chief all about it, then?”
“Well, b’Estorr has, more like,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe realized that the necromancer was standing just inside the station, a large pitcher in his hand. “I’m still not fully sure what happened.”
Rathe grinned. “What about the astrologers?” he said to Monteia. “Did you finally get them?”
“Most of them, anyway,” Monteia answered, and looked around the yard. “Come inside, it’s quieter there.”
It was darker, too, and Rathe settled himself on the edge of the duty desk with a sigh of relief. It was good to be back–good to be home, he amended, and couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
“Between us, Claes and I and Manufactory made points on six of the astrologers,” Monteia went on. “There were a couple more, but they seem to have gotten away, more’s the pity. The thing is, they say they were hired to find the children by a woman called Domalein.”
“Savine Domalein?” Rathe asked, and Monteia nodded.
“Known to us, certainly.”
“Not to me,” Eslingen said.
Rathe grinned. “She’s a tout–a political tout, from the Ile’nord originally, runs three or four printers that we’ve had our eyes on. Her name was in de Mailhac’s papers.”
“Domalein told them she wanted the kids for runners,” Monteia went on, “wanted kids whose stars would predispose them to supporting Belvis. Or at least that’s their story, It was Domalein and a couple of her bravos who actually took the kids. Whether the astrologers believed it or not I’m not convinced, but she paid them well enough to make it worth their while to say they did.”
b’Estorr shrugged, set his pitcher aside. “It would be hard to prove they didn’t know, but they had to suspect something. The stars–there weren’t enough patterns in the horoscopes to make that work, if you ask me.”
“And I’d take it kindly if you’d tell that to the surintendant,” Monteia answered. “He can tell you who to talk to in the judiciary.”
“Looking for a conviction, Chief Point?” the necromancer asked
“Oh, yes,” Monteia answered, and Rathe cut in hastily.
“What happened to Domalein?”
Monteia made a face. “Gone. Probably got out as soon as she heard we were looking for the astrologers, but at least we got to go through her house pretty thoroughly. She left in a hurry, didn’t even stop to burn her papers, and we found plenty of letters from your Maseigne de Mailhac. She was paying for the whole thing, from the printers to the astrologers, and paying handsomely, too.”
“Except that Timenard had something else in mind,” Rathe said suddenly sobered again. He was himself something of a Leveller by heritage and temperament, and Timenard had tried to draw on that, paint a vision of a world without queen or seigneury. An attractive thought, for a southriver rat, except that it would have been Timenard and only Timenard who ruled in their place.
b’Estorr touched him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s a matter of balance, Nico. You can’t compel the stars, not in the long run, no matter how much aurichalcum you have. He could have made things very difficult for a while, very painful, but in the long run, the natural order reasserts itself. We were its agents this time.”
“Personally,” Eslingen said, “I’d be happier without that sort of favor.”
Rathe smiled again, made himself relax. He heard the tower clock strike, and then, a heartbeat later, the case‑clock on the wall echoed it, beating out the hour. The true sun was sinking toward the horizon, the winter‑sun still high in the sky, and he allowed himself a long sigh, tasting the familiar summer smells. He was home, the children were home and safe, and that was the end of it. He looked around, and Eslingen put a cool mug in his hand.