Point of Hopes

“And otherwise?”

Adriana’s smile was wry. “Otherwise, of course, there are the failed students who set themselves up casting charts for the printers, they’re easy enough to find, or ex‑temple servants who claim they know what they’re doing, or–you get the idea.” She stopped then, tilting her head to one side. “Talk’s been of some new astrologers working the fair–not affiliated with either the temples or the university, and the word is they’re a lot cheaper than the Three Nations. Shame and all that, but a lot of people are cheering the change. It’s nothing important, it’s just nice to see the students taken down a peg or three. Loret had his stars read by one of them, and he seemed to think they knew what they were doing.”

“But where did they train? They must be co

Adriana was shaking her head. “They don’t claim any allegiance. They read the stars, they say, and the stars belong to all gods and all women–and not just to the Three Nations. The arbiters must have approved them, or they’d have been chased off. So my advice to you, my Philip, is to save your money where you can, and see if you can find one of these astrologers to read for you.”

“And how do I find one?” Eslingen asked.

Adriana spread her hands, and the girl looked up from the hearth.

“They say they find you, if you want them.”

“Nonsense,” Adriana answered, and rolled her eyes at Eslingen.

“Well, they do,” the girl said, sounding stubborn, and Eslingen said quickly, “How do I tell them from the Three Nations?”

“They’re older, for one thing, or so I hear,” Adriana said. “I heard they dress like magists, but without badges, so look for black robes, not grey, and no temple marks.”

Eslingen nodded, intrigued in spite of himself. “I think I’ll look for them, then. Thanks.”

It was a long walk from Devynck’s to the New Fairground, almost the full length of the city, but Eslingen found himself enjoying it, in spite of the heat and the crowds. Hundreds of people jostled each other in the lanes between the brightly painted booths, or clustered in the open temporary squares to bargain over goods–spices, silks, wool cloth and yarn, dyestuffs, once stacks and stacks of beaten‑copper pots–spread apparently piecemeal across the beaten dirt. It was already bigger than the Esling fairs he had attended as a boy; what, he wondered, would the real fair be like when it was fully open?

He had no idea how the booths were laid out, though it was obvious that like trades were grouped together, but let himself wander with the crowd, listening with half an ear for the chime of the clock at Fairs’ Point. He would have to head back to Devynck’s when it struck eleven, but until then, at least, his time was his own. He found Printers’ Row easily enough, a dozen or more tables set out under tents and awnings and brightly painted umbrellas, and stopped to browse. Already he recognized some of the house names and the printer’s symbols, thought, too, that he recognized some of the sellers, relocated temporarily from Temple Fair. The sheets tacked to the display boards or pi

The clock struck the quarter hour, and he made a face, recalling himself to his real business. If he wanted to have his stars read, he would have to hurry, at least if he wanted the job done properly–and the way the broadsheets were ru

His anger cooled as quickly as it had flared, and he paused at the next intersection, looking for some sign of the astrologers Adriana had mentioned. He saw a trio of grey‑gowned students clustered by a food stall, but before he could consider approaching them, an older woman tapped one of them on the shoulder, only to have her coins waved away. Apparently, Eslingen thought, the students were otherwise engaged at the moment. He turned away, too, threaded his way past a group of blue‑coated apprentices, and found himself in a row of linen‑drapers. In spite of himself, he sighed at the sight of the bolts of expensive fabric, wishing he could afford a shirt from them, and then, at the end of the row of shops, he caught sight of a man in a black scholar’s gown. The sleeves were empty of badges, and he stood deep in conversation with a woman and a boy, a plain disk orrery held to the sunlight. One of Adriana’s astrologers? he wondered, and moved closer. The man was ordinary enough looking, middle‑aged, middling looks, his rusty black robe open to reveal a plain dark suit and equally plain linen. There was no temple badge at his collar, either, and Eslingen took a step closer. Even as he did, the woman nodded, and turned away. The boy followed more reluctantly, looking back as though he had wanted to ask something more. Eslingen smiled in sympathy–the woman, the boy’s mother, probably, hadn’t looked like the sort to spend her hard‑earned coins on more than the absolute necessities, which was probably why she was consulting one of the freelances rather than a student or a Temple astrologer.

“Pardon me, magist,” he said. He didn’t know if the astrologer was indeed actually a magist as well, doubted it, in fact, but there was no harm in inflating the man’s rank.