from the window to skim
through the pages of notes. There had been no sign of Gavaret
Cordiere in any of the northriver cells—he had even made a special
trip across the river to Fairs’ Point to ask Claes in person, but
the man had just shaken his head. Not only hadn’t they arrested any
boy matching Cordiere’s description, they hadn’t made point on any
pickpockets for nearly four days. And it wasn’t that the pointsmen
and women were taking fees, Claes added with a quick grin; it was
more that the pickpockets had stopped working. And that, both men
agreed had to be a bad sign—doubly bad, Claes had said, when you
matched it with the new band of astrologers who were working the
fairgrounds. The arbiters had declared they could stay, but no one
needed any more mysteries just now. Rathe had agreed and left
Cordiere’s description in the station, but he wasn’t relishing
telling Estel Quentier of his failure.
“ Rathe? Have you gotten the Robion
girl’s stars yet?”
Rathe looked up to see Monteia standing just outside
the wedge of light, a thin, dark-clad shadow against the dark
walls. “I was going this afternoon. I wanted to check everything
else first.”
“ No luck, then.”
Rathe shook his head barely stopped himself from
glancing again through the pages of notes as though he might find
something new there. He had been to the local markets, and to every
early-opening shop on the Knives Road as well as searching out the
rag-pickers and laundresses who served the street, all without
noticeable result. “A woman who does laundry for the Gorgon’s Head
says she thinks she saw a girl in green going down Knives toward
the Rivermarket, but she can’t remember if it was Demesday or
Tonsday that she saw it—or last year, for that matter. And a
journeyman sneaking in late thinks he might have seen a girl in
green going south, away from the river, but he says freely he was
too drunk to remember his mother’s name.”
“ That’s all?”
“ That’s all.”
“ Nothing at the Rivermarket?”
Monteia went on.
“ Not so far. I’ve been through once
myself, no one remembers her, but it was a busy morning. I’ve asked
Ganier to keep an ear out, though.” Ganier was the pointswoman who
had semiofficial responsibility for the complaints that came from
the district’s markets.
Monteia nodded. “On your way back from Mailet’s—or
to it, I don’t care—I’d like you to stop in the Old Brown Dog. I
hear Aagte Devynck has hired herself a new knife, and I’d like to
see what you think of him. And make sure he understands our
position on troublemakers.”
Rathe frowned and Monteia shrugged. “I’m sending
Andry to collect his bond, unless you want the fee.”
You know I don’t, Rathe thought, but said only, “Thanks anyway. I’ll
talk to him.”
“ It’s not like Aagte to hire
outside help,” Monteia said, her voice almost musing. “I hope we’re
not in for trouble there. Not right now.”
“ So do I,” Rathe answered, and
slipped his book back into his pocket. He collected his jerkin and
truncheon from their place on the wall behind the duty desk, and
stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. The winter-sun hung over
the eastern housetops, a pale gold dot that dazzled the eye; the
true sun, declining into the west, cast darker shadows, so that the
street was crosshatched with lines of dark and lighter shade. He
threaded his way through the busy crowds, turned onto the Knives
Road without really deciding which job to do first. Mailet’s hall
was closest; better to get it over with, he told himself, and
crossed the street to Mailet’s door.
There were no chopping blocks on the street today,
or apprentices showing off for the servant girls, though the
shutters were down and he could see customers within. He paused
outside the doorway to let a matron pass, a covered basket tucked
under her arm, then stepped into the shop. The journeyman Grosejl
was working behind the counter, along with a
through the pages of notes. There had been no sign of Gavaret
Cordiere in any of the northriver cells—he had even made a special
trip across the river to Fairs’ Point to ask Claes in person, but
the man had just shaken his head. Not only hadn’t they arrested any
boy matching Cordiere’s description, they hadn’t made point on any
pickpockets for nearly four days. And it wasn’t that the pointsmen
and women were taking fees, Claes added with a quick grin; it was
more that the pickpockets had stopped working. And that, both men
agreed had to be a bad sign—doubly bad, Claes had said, when you
matched it with the new band of astrologers who were working the
fairgrounds. The arbiters had declared they could stay, but no one
needed any more mysteries just now. Rathe had agreed and left
Cordiere’s description in the station, but he wasn’t relishing
telling Estel Quentier of his failure.
“ Rathe? Have you gotten the Robion
girl’s stars yet?”
Rathe looked up to see Monteia standing just outside
the wedge of light, a thin, dark-clad shadow against the dark
walls. “I was going this afternoon. I wanted to check everything
else first.”
“ No luck, then.”
Rathe shook his head barely stopped himself from
glancing again through the pages of notes as though he might find
something new there. He had been to the local markets, and to every
early-opening shop on the Knives Road as well as searching out the
rag-pickers and laundresses who served the street, all without
noticeable result. “A woman who does laundry for the Gorgon’s Head
says she thinks she saw a girl in green going down Knives toward
the Rivermarket, but she can’t remember if it was Demesday or
Tonsday that she saw it—or last year, for that matter. And a
journeyman sneaking in late thinks he might have seen a girl in
green going south, away from the river, but he says freely he was
too drunk to remember his mother’s name.”
“ That’s all?”
“ That’s all.”
“ Nothing at the Rivermarket?”
Monteia went on.
“ Not so far. I’ve been through once
myself, no one remembers her, but it was a busy morning. I’ve asked
Ganier to keep an ear out, though.” Ganier was the pointswoman who
had semiofficial responsibility for the complaints that came from
the district’s markets.
Monteia nodded. “On your way back from Mailet’s—or
to it, I don’t care—I’d like you to stop in the Old Brown Dog. I
hear Aagte Devynck has hired herself a new knife, and I’d like to
see what you think of him. And make sure he understands our
position on troublemakers.”
Rathe frowned and Monteia shrugged. “I’m sending
Andry to collect his bond, unless you want the fee.”
You know I don’t, Rathe thought, but said only, “Thanks anyway. I’ll
talk to him.”
“ It’s not like Aagte to hire
outside help,” Monteia said, her voice almost musing. “I hope we’re
not in for trouble there. Not right now.”
“ So do I,” Rathe answered, and
slipped his book back into his pocket. He collected his jerkin and
truncheon from their place on the wall behind the duty desk, and
stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. The winter-sun hung over
the eastern housetops, a pale gold dot that dazzled the eye; the
true sun, declining into the west, cast darker shadows, so that the
street was crosshatched with lines of dark and lighter shade. He
threaded his way through the busy crowds, turned onto the Knives
Road without really deciding which job to do first. Mailet’s hall
was closest; better to get it over with, he told himself, and
crossed the street to Mailet’s door.
There were no chopping blocks on the street today,
or apprentices showing off for the servant girls, though the
shutters were down and he could see customers within. He paused
outside the doorway to let a matron pass, a covered basket tucked
under her arm, then stepped into the shop. The journeyman Grosejl
was working behind the counter, along with a
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