Point of Hopes

The station courtyard was empty, none of the ru

“Nico …?”

“Where’s Asheri?” Rathe demanded, and Jiemin shook her head.

“I haven’t seen her yet. It’s early, Nico, she probably slept in.”

“But I told her to be here by now,” Monteia said, from the door of her workroom. She shut it behind her, shaking her head, and looked from Rathe to the necromancer. “What’s up, Nico?”

Rathe ignored the question for a moment, crossed to look out the back door. The garden was empty even of laundry, and he turned back into the room, barely able to keep the fear at bay. “Istre thinks he knows why the children are being taken. Asheri–”

Monteia cut him off. “Why?”

b’Estorr said, “They all have stars that make them useful– appropriate–for processing aurichalcum.”

Monteia frowned. “Queen’s gold?”

b’Estorr nodded, his blue eyes grave. “And aurichalcum is dangerously powerful, especially now with the starchange approaching.”

Monteia swore under her breath. “And Asheri?” she said, to Rathe.

“She said she knows her nativity to the minute,” he answered, voice suddenly ragged, “but I don’t. I never asked, and she never told me. Her sister might know.”

“Go,” Monteia said. “Both of you–please,” she added tardily, to b’Estorr. “See if she’s at home, find out what her stars are, and get her here where we can take care of her.”

Rathe nodded, and was out the door almost before she’d stopped speaking, b’Estorr on his heels. Asheri lived on the southern edge of Point of Hopes, in the warrens east of the junction of the Customs Road and Fairs’ Road. He had been there before,, and led the way through the labyrinth of narrow streets, barely able to keep from ru

Asheri’s house was no different from any of the half dozen that circled the well‑house at the center of the open space, a plain building one room and a hallway wide, with a strip of muddy garden ru

“She didn’t burn them,” he said, and heard b’Estorr swear.

The woman looked up at their approach, her eyes narrowing, but her hands never stopped moving on the wet cloth. Somewhere, in one of the other houses, Rathe thought, a child was wailing; even as he looked, he heard a voice exclaiming a rough endearment, and the crying took on a new, muffled rhythm, as though someone had picked up the child and was bouncing it.

“Mijan, where’s Asheri?”

“Missing her already?” Mijan answered, and smiled. “You knew she was meant for better than ru

“Gone where?” Rathe demanded, and heard b’Estorr swear again.

Mijan set a much‑mended skirt back in her basket, her expression suddenly wary, folded her arms across her thin chest. “To the embroiderers. Last evening at seven o’clock. You know that’s what she wanted, more than anything, that’s why she worked for your lot.”

“She didn’t have the fee,” Rathe said bluntly, and Mijan shook her head.

“No more did she, but she won one of the lottery‑places–you know, they hold four places a year for those who don’t have the means.”

“They hold those at the Spring Balance,” Rathe said, through gritted teeth, “and the Fall Balance. Never at Midsummer, Mijan, you know that. And so did she.”

Mijan was looking genuinely frightened now. “I know, I’m not stupid. But the woman–she was respectable, Rathe, a guildswoman to her fingertips–she said that one of the apprentices they’d chosen this spring couldn’t continue in the place, was sick or something, the family was sick, and Asheri was at the top of the list, the next in line. She passed all the tests, you know, it was just her number wasn’t quite high enough.”

“Which house, Mijan, did you think to ask that? Which master?” Rathe heard his voice rising, didn’t care. “You let her go, when children are disappearing every day?”

“That’s precisely why I let her go,” Mijan shouted back. “Do you think I haven’t worried enough about her, ru

Rathe flinched, recognizing the truth of that, and b’Estorr put a hand on his shoulder. “If she’s with the embroiderers, mistress. Asheri knows her nativity, I know that. May we get a copy?”

“Why?” Mijan looked from one man to the other. “Who in Demis’s name are you? Nico I know, but you…”

Rathe took a breath, controlled the anger bred of fear and guilt. “His name’s Istre b’Estorr, Mijan, he’s with the university. A necromancer. And, no, we don’t think any of them are dead, but he’s been helping us, and we know why the children are being taken. And I’m very much afraid Asheri’s one of them.”

“She’s with the embroiderers,” Mijan whispered.

Rathe shook his head. “I devoutly hope so, but–it’s a bad time for coincidence. I need her nativity–please, Mijan. You know I wanted–want–nothing more than for Asheri to find a place in the guild. Let me make sure she has the chance.”

“She’s there, I tell you,” Mijan repeated, but her eyes were wet with sudden tears. “I did what you told us, we washed the clothes, and locked them away, she was wearing my second‑best skirt–and furious she was, too, to think the masters would see her without her having the chance to take it in. I should’ve known, we never have luck.” She shook her head, wiped a hand across her face with angry force. “Her chart’s inside–you’ll have to copy it, though, I won’t let you take it away.”

“Fine,” Rathe said, still struggling with his anger. It wasn’t so much Mijan he was angry at–how could she, how could any southriver housekeeper, pass up the chance to see a kinswoman decently established?–or even Asheri, for taking a chance, but the astrologers and their respectable‑looking accomplice, for playing on the one source of hope children like her had. And that must have been how they lured the others away, he thought. The horoscopes, the questions the children asked, would have given the astrologers a very good idea of what they would have to offer to overcome the children’s fears–give them a chance at their hearts’ desire, and they were young enough to take the chance, even the cleverest, most wary ones. Like Asheri, he added, and Mijan reappeared in the doorway, a wooden tablet in her hand. She gave it to Rathe, who handed it to b’Estorr, trying to ignore Mijan’s small noise of protest. b’Estorr studied it for a moment, then reached into his pocket for a flat‑form orrery, adjusting the rings to the appropriate positions. His mouth tightened then, and he handed the tablet back to Mijan.

“It fits,” he said. “It fits, Nico. She has the key stars, she’s perfect for their operation.”

“What?” Mijan cried, and Rathe took her by the shoulders, gently now.

“No one will hurt her, she’s too valuable. We know why they took her, and some of where, and we will find her, I promise.” He took a deep breath, hoping he could make that true. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?”