Point of Hopes

Rathe woke to the sound of knocking, gentle but persistent, and lay for a moment in the cool dawn light trying to place its source. It was someone at his door, he realized at last, and dragged himself out of his bed, groping for shirt and breeches. The knocking was still going on, a steady beat, not quite loud enough to wake the neighbors, but insistent. Rathe shivered, still only half awake, and reached for the knife that he had left hanging in its scabbard over the back of the chair.

“Who is it?” he called, and crossed to the door.

“It’s Istre, Nico.”

Rathe lifted the bar, and pulled open the heavy door. The magist looked as dishevelled as Rathe could ever remember seeing him, shadows heavy under his eyes, magist’s robe discarded for a coat that didn’t quite seem to fit across the shoulders. He hadn’t shaved, either, though the fair stubble was hardly noticeable at first glance, and Rathe stepped back automatically. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve found it, Nico. I know what the children are being used for.”

Rathe took a deep breath, feeling as though he’d been hit in the gut. “What?” he said, and b’Estorr stepped past him, reaching into his pocket to produced a small drawstring purse. He untied the strings, and poured a small triangle out onto the tabletop, where it lay gleaming in the early sunlight. Rathe stared at it for a moment. “Istre…”

b’Estorr nodded. “It’s gold, Nico. Actually, it’s coin aurichalcum. An impure form of true aurichalcum, more pure than most ordinary coins, but not nearly as pure as the real thing. Magists use it in their work.”

He picked up the little wedge and handed it across. Rathe took it gingerly, turning it over in his fingers. The shortest end was curved, and there were letters ru

b’Estorr nodded again. “It is. That’s where most of us get it, from great crowns.”

“Gods, I’ve never seen one,” Rathe said, and looked at the wedge of metal with even more respect. The great crown was the largest of Chenedolle’s coins, each one worth a hundred pillars–more than many people saw in their lifetime. “But what does this have to do with the children?”

b’Estorr dropped into the nearest chair. “Aurichalcum is gold, common gold, that’s been mined in a particular process. Everyone knows that much, but not many people outside the university know how. The process itself is what makes it magistically active, and that process requires people, special people. To turn raw gold into aurichalcum, each step of the process must be performed by pure beings who have the proper zodiacal relationship to their task–which, in practice, means children or carefully trained and watched celibates, each of whom is chosen for the job according to her or his birth signs.”

Rathe sank down on a stool opposite b’Estorr, set the piece of aurichalcum back on the table. “Children,” he whispered. “Gods, but why? Who would be doing such a thing?”

b’Estorr shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. It’s crazy, it makes no sense to me at all, but that’s what everything points to. It’s the only thing these children could work together on. Someone has stolen them to process aurichalcum.”

Rathe looked from the wedge of gold, bright in the rising sun, to b’Estorr. “If magists use it…”

b’Estorr spread his hands. “I know, Nico, I know, and I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think why, or who. Gods know, we’re all limited by the sheer cost of coin aurichalcum, but that’s nothing compared to the effort to process the stuff. It’s false economy. And utterly mad.”

“Stealing children’s pretty mad, Istre,” Rathe said, and the necromancer made a face. “Whoever’s doing this is pretty crazy anyway. If the motive is crazy, well, it kind of fits, doesn’t it?”

“So all we have to do,” b’Estorr said dryly, “is find a gold mine. As I recall, there are gold mines aplenty in the Silklands, and in the Ile’nord, the western hills of Chenedolle, in southern Chadron, and in the Payshault, all of which are within reasonable striking distance of Astreiant.”

Rathe shook his head. “No, it has to be someplace that has good roads–they were buying draft horses, not pack animals.” If it was them, of course, a little voice added, but he shoved the thought away. It had to have been the astrologers who were buying the horses, or their allies; they couldn’t afford for it not to be.

b’Estorr nodded. “All right, that probably rules out the Silklands. Anyone sensible would go by water. But the rest–how can you choose?”

“I know,” Rathe said. “Does this co

“It could,” b’Estorr answered. “Aurichalcum–especially the purer forms–well, it’s not just politically potent. I suppose it would be possible to use it to turn the clocks, but why…”

He let his voice trail off, and Rathe nodded in morose agreement. There was a little silence, the only sound the rumble of an early wagon on the street below. The air that came through the half‑open window was damp, and smelled of the distant river; Rathe cocked his head, and thought he could hear the chime of the tower clock at the head of the Hopes‑point Bridge. “There haven’t been any new disappearances in days,” he said at last. “Does this mean they have all the kids they need?”

b’Estorr shrugged, got restlessly to his feet, and then stopped, the movement suspended, as though he’d simply needed to move and was now at a loss for something to do. “They could have. From the nativities I’ve seen, for the children who are missing, yes, I think most of the process is covered. But I don’t know, Nico, I wish before Aidones that I did.” He sighed heavily. “So what do we do now?”

Rathe threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I’ll go to Monteia–hells, I’ll go to the surintendant, and I’ll tell them this, and we’ll all look at each other, and say, wonderful, what now? Aside from anything else, we don’t have the right to pursue it, not outside the city, so we’d have to work with the local nobles, but since we don’t even know where the children are–” He broke off, shaking his head, aware of the futility of his anger. b’Estorr had given him more information than they had been able to gather over the past few weeks, but it still wasn’t enough. “I feel like a bastard asking this, after all you’ve done, but is there anything more you can do? Anything more you can tell us?”

b’Estorr crossed to the window, pushed the shutter open, and leaned out into the morning air. “When was the last disappearance?”

Rathe shook his head. “I’m not sure–five days ago, I think. I can check with the station. Does that matter?”

b’Estorr turned back to face him. “I don’t know. And I hate having to keep saying that. But it might help. I can do some more research, see if anything shows itself–I’ll certainly consult my colleagues. They’ll need to know about it for the clocks, anyway.”

Rathe nodded. “I appreciate it. Look, will you come with me to Monteia? You understand what’s happening here better than I do.”

“Of course,” b’Estorr said, and scooped the wedge of gold back into its bag.

Neither man spoke as they made their way from Rat he’s lodgings to the station at Point of Hopes. Rathe caught himself walking faster and faster, as though hurrying might help, might make up for how long it had taken them to figure out what was going on. b’Estorr’s discovery was utterly vital, the first piece of information that made sense of the child‑thefts. If only it hadn’t come too late. Surely not, he told himself, and made himself slow his pace again. If nothing else, they could protect the children who hadn’t been taken, first by arresting the hedge‑astrologers and then by concentrating their efforts on the vulnerable ones. Asheri was one of those, but she had more sense than many a woman grown, and they would be able to deploy the full resources of the station to keep her safe. And surely, surely, knowing why the children had been stolen would help them find the missing ones.