“And what does Point of Hopes want with us? This is Point of Sighs.”
“Just a question or two, Estel, nothing serious.” He nodded to her belly. “I take it you’re not working this fair season.”
Quentier made a face, but relaxed slightly. She was the oldest of the Quentier daughters, all of whom were pickpockets like their mother and grandmother before them; there was a brother, too, Rathe remembered, or maybe more than one, also in the family business. Estel had been effective mistress of the ’Serry since her mother’s death three years before, and she was a deft pickpocket, but a pregnant woman was both conspicuous and slow. “I’m an honest woman, Nico, I have to work to live.”
“So you’ll sell what they take?” Rathe asked, and smiled.
Quentier smiled back. “I deal in old clothes, found goods, all that sort of thing. I’ve my license from the regents, signed by the metropolitan herself if you want to see it.”
“If I’d come to check licenses,” Rathe said, with perfect truth, “I’d’ve brought a squad.”
“So what did you come here for, Nico?” Quentier leaned back a little, easing her back, and Rathe was newly aware of the women behind her, not quite out of earshot. He knew most of them: Quentier’s sister Annet, the third oldest, called Sofian for her ability to charm or fee the judges; the dark‑haired singer who was Annet’s favorite decoy; Cassia, another Quentier, thin and wiry; Maurina Tacon, who was either Annet’s or Cassia’s leman–it was hard to unwind the clan’s tangled relationships. They were dangerous, certainly, he knew better than to underestimate them, but if there were a fight, he thought, the immediate danger would come from the hulking man loitering in the tavern dooryard. He had a broom in his hand, and he drew it back and forth through the dirt, but his attention wasn’t on his job.
“There’s a girl gone missing, a butcher’s apprentice over in Point of Hopes,” he said simply, and was not surprised to see Quentier’s face contort as though she wanted to spit. Behind her, Cassia–LaSier, they called her, he remembered suddenly, for the length of her river‑dark hair–said something to her sister, who grinned, and did spit.
“What’s that to me, pointsman?” Estel Quentier said. “Apprentices run away every year.”
“She didn’t run,” Rathe answered. “She didn’t take her clothes or anything with her, and she liked her work. No cause to run, no place to run to.”
“So why do you come to me?” Quentier’s eyes were narrowed, on the verge of anger, and Rathe chose his words carefully.
“Because I remember four or five years ago, in your mother’s time, there was trouble of that sort out of the ’Serry. We knew who the man was, raped two girls, both apprentice‑age or a little older, but when we came to arrest him, he was gone. Your mother swore he’d been dealt with, was gone, and we didn’t ask questions, being as we knew your mother. But now…”
He let his voice trail off, and Quentier nodded once. “Now you’re asking.”
Rathe nodded back, and waited.
There was a little silence, and then Quentier looked over her shoulder. “Annet.”
Sofian took a few steps forward, so that she was standing at her sister’s side. She was a handsome woman–all the Quentiers were good‑looking, dark, and strong‑featured, with good bones–and her clothes were better than they looked. “I remember. Rancon Paynor, that was. He lodged here, he was Joulet Farine’s man’s cousin, or something like that. A farmer, said he was running from a debt he couldn’t pay.”
She looked down at her sister, and seemed to receive some kind of confirmation. “He’s not your man.”
“You’re very sure.”
Sofian met his gaze squarely. “I helped carry his body to the Sier.”
Rathe nodded slowly, not surprised. He remembered the case all too well, remembered both the victims–both alive and well now, thank Demis and her Midwives–and the frustration, so strong they could all almost taste it, when they’d come back to Point of Sighs empty‑handed. It was one of the few times they’d all agreed the chief point shouldn’t have taken the fee. But when Yolan Quentier said she’d deal with something, it stayed dealt with, and they’d all had to be content with that, much as they would have preferred to make the point and watch Paynor hang. It was good to know that he wouldn’t be cleaning up an earlier mistake, even if it meant he was back where he’d started.
“You’ll be going, then?” Quentier asked, and Rathe snapped back to the present.
“I told you, that was my business here. This time.”
Quentier nodded. “The runaways are starting early this year, or so they say. Girls running who shouldn’t. Is there anything we should be watching for, Nico?”
For Quentier to ask for help from a pointsman, even so obliquely, was unprecedented, and Rathe looked warily at her. What do you know that you’re not telling me? he wanted to say, but knew better than to ask that sort of question without something solid to trade for her answers. It was enough of an oddity–and maybe a kind of answer–for her to have asked at all. “Nothing that I know of, Estel. I don’t have anything to go on right now–the complaint came to me, oh, maybe an hour ago.” He shrugged. “You know what I know, right now. She walked out of the hall last night or this morning early, leaving her goods behind, and she hasn’t come home. Her master’s worried, and her leman’s distraught, and I don’t think she ran. Until we know more, yeah, keep an eye on your kids.”
Quentier nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll do that. Will you let me know if there’s more?”
“I will if you will,” Rathe answered, and Quentier grinned.
“As far as I’m able, Nico.” The smile vanished. “Anything about the girl, though–what’s her name?”
“Herisse Robion, not that that would help, necessarily. They said she was tall for her age–she’s just twelve–and still pretty skinny.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tablet where he’d scrawled the description. “Brown hair, blue eyes, sweet‑faced, good teeth, wearing a bottle green suit, linen, bodice and skirt trimmed to match with darker green ribbon.”
“There are a hundred girls like that in Astreiant,” Sofian said, shaking her head, and Rathe nodded.
Quentier said, “If I hear anything, I’ll send to you, Nico.”
“Thanks.” Rathe tucked his tablet back into his pocket, then wondered if he should have betrayed its usual place in this den of pickpockets. But it was too late to do anything about it; he shrugged inwardly, and turned away, retracing his steps to Horse‑Copers’ Street.
“Oy, Nico!” That was a new voice, and he turned to see LaSier striding after him, her long hair flowing behind her like a horse’s tail. “Wait a minute.”