“Sir, is this really about the children, or is this just a chance to get Caiazzo?”
The surintendant gave another thin smile. “ ‘Just’ a chance to get Caiazzo, Rathe? The man’s behind at least half the illegal activities in Astreiant. We–you personally–have been after him for, what, three, five years now? If we can get him on treason and trafficking in children, he won’t get free of it.”
It made a kind of sense, Rathe knew, but couldn’t pretend he was happy with it. He hesitated, searching for a diplomatic way to say what had to be said, then shook his head. “I won’t find evidence that isn’t there, sir.”
Fourie nodded. “I know. That’s why I picked you for the job.” It was, Rathe supposed, meant as a compliment, however backhanded. “But I want you to look into this–Foucquet’s more important than her rank would suggest, she has a great deal of influence with the judiciary, and so far she hadn’t said who she supports. This apprentice of hers could have been taken to force her hand. Look into it, Rathe, with particular attention to Caiazzo.”
Rathe stared at him with some frustration. This wasn’t Caiazzo’s style, he’d fenced with the man long enough to know that; Caiazzo stayed away from politics and political business as only a commoner would. And Caiazzo was southriver born and bred, he of all people would know better than to risk stirring up the smouldering angers there. Unless he was a Leveller? Rathe added silently, but dismissed the thought as soon as it was formed. Caiazzo was no Leveller: society suited him very well in its present form, and he’d be the first to say as much. But there was no ignoring the surintendant’s direct order. “Very well, sir,” he said, and made no effort to keep the skepticism from his voice.
Fourie ignored it, nodded in dismissal. “And keep me informed.”
Rathe walked back from the Tour to Point of Hopes, grumbling that he had better things to spend his money on. He was tempted to avoid the station entirely, tell Monteia about this new case and the surintendant’s new interpretation of the old one in the morning, but his mother had always said that unpleasant duties were best dealt with as quickly as possible. He sighed, and went on through the courtyard into the station.
Jans Ranazy was on duty again, and Rathe made a face, quickly concealed. He wasn’t fond of the other man, and knew the feeling was mutual; Monteia had done her best to keep them working apart, but the station staff was too small to make her efforts completely effective. Ranazy’s dinner sat on a tray on top of the daybook, and Rathe grimaced again, recognizing the Cazaril Grey’s horsehead stamped into the cheap pottery. Only Ranazy, of all the points, including Monteia herself, managed to afford to have his dinner brought over from the inn. All the others, fee’d or not, brought cold dinners when they had the night shift, or cooked over the stove. But that didn’t suit Ranazy’s opinion of himself.
Ranazy looked up then, and smiled, not pleasantly. “Still on duty, Nico?”
“It’s been a busy afternoon,” Rathe answered. “Is the chief in the office?”
“She’s out back, in the yard.” Ranazy would clearly have loved to ask more, but Rathe ignored his curiosity, and pushed open the back door of the station.
The space behind the points stations was, more properly, open ground intended as defensible space, but forty years of civil peace had turned it into a back garden, lightly fenced, and sporting a few haphazardly tended garden plots. Monteia was sitting on a bench under a straggling fruit tree in the reddened light of the first sunset, the winter‑sun’s shadows pale on the ground around her. She held a lit pipe negligently between her first two fingers, and the air was redolent of the mixed herbs. She looked up as the back door closed.
“Dare I ask what the sur wanted?”
“You won’t like it. It seems Judge‑Advocate Foucquet has lost one of her clerk’s apprentices. It’s the same as the others. No sign that the boy ran. He just–disappeared, yesterday afternoon. His mother is assize clerk in Point of Hearts.” He took a breath. “And the judge‑advocate and the surintendant both want me to take the case on my book.”
“Oh, that’s just marvelous, Rathe. As if you haven’t enough to do…” Monteia broke off. “And how am I supposed to justify your poaching to Hearts?”
“It was the sur’s direct order,” Rathe answered. “And aside from that, I do feel as though I owe this to maseigne.” He had kept his tone as respectful as possible, but from the look she gave him, Monteia was not appeased.
“For a southriver rat, you certainly have a lot of friends in high places.” She picked up a sheaf of papers that had been lying at her feet, weighted with a slate against the nonexistent breeze. “Well, then, since you’re taking on extra work, you can look into these. The whole city’s getting a rash of these unlicensed sheets, and they’re not helping things. About half of them are blatantly political–hells, they’ve backed every possible candidate for the succession, including a couple I’ve never heard of–and the rest of them are passing hints about the children, but they’re none of them operating under a bond license. You can add these to your daybook.”
Rathe took the papers mechanically. If Monteia’s assessment was correct–and it would be, he had no doubt of that–then Caiazzo could well be connected at least to the printing. He would take these home with him, and tomorrow he would begin the delicate job of tracking down their source. After, he added mentally, after I’ve spoken to Maseigne de Foucquet and found out exactly why she doesn’t want to go to Point of Hearts.
Along with the papers, he took a batch of nativities Salineis had collected for him out through the station onto the front steps, unwilling to intrude on Monteia’s quiet work in the yard, even more unwilling to remain in the still, hot air of the station–made hotter, if not stiller, he thought, by the presence of Ranazy. He sat down on the broad front step of the station, stretching his legs out with a sigh of relief, and started leafing through the nativities, settling the broadsheets under his hip. A knot of the station’s runners were also playing in front of the building, despite the sun that still beat down hard in the later afternoon. Laci looked up at him from his game of jacks, a smile like the sun glinting off a bright knife blade. Jacme, a rough‑boned twelve‑year‑old who had been thrown out of his home in the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, was sitting in the lower boughs of one of the few trees that survived in the street; Ranazy would scold him out of it, but Rathe just turned a blind eye. He’d seen few enough fruit trees ruined for being a good climbing tree as well. Fasquelle de Galhac was lazily tossing a ball back and forth with Lennar, their constant rivalry temporarily forgotten. Asheri, Rathe’s favorite, sat in her usual place on the edge of the dry trough, her hands for once not busy with any needlework. He smiled at her as he sat down, and she returned the smile, lighting up her thin face. She had, he reflected, a stillness none of the others had, or rather, a capacity for stillness; Rathe had seen her fully as rambunctious as any of the others. A quiet, aloof child would have found no favor with the rest of the runners, and she had learned that quickly, despite her own personality. She was a daredevil by necessity, and a sound one, taking risks that were quickly and carefully calculated. That calculation wasn’t, some of the other points thought, natural in a child of twelve. It was, Rathe thought, an attribute of a sound pointswoman.
He read through the nativities, poring over them for any similarities, anything at all that he might have missed the times he had read through his and the other points’ notes, knowing it was fruitless, knowing he didn’t make that kind of mistake and even if he did, it was unlikely that every other pointswoman and man in the city would overlook anything that was there. He looked at two he held in his hands– in his left, the nativity of an eight‑year‑old, in his right, that of a twelve‑year‑old.