Excerpt
Philip Eslingen settled himself more comfortably on the padded stool, watching as the woman seated opposite made the final adjustments to her orrery. It was a standing orrery, tiny bronze planets moving on bronze orbits against a silver-washed zodiac, and in spite of himself he shivered at the memory of another similar machine. But that one had been gold, the peculiarly vivid gold of aurichalcum, not solid, reputable bronze, and in any case, it was long gone, consumed by the power it had contained. This was just another astrologer's tool, though no one would be foolish enough to call Sibilla Meening just another astrologer. She had a name in Point of Dreams, was revered by those actors rich enough to consult her, and feared by the ones who were poor enough to believe that she advised sharers on casting. Caiazzo's household knew of her, too, and spoke well of her, even Denizard, which was what had finally induced him to part with five seillings—half a week's wages—when he was about to lose his place and should be saving every demming. At second glance, he was less sure he'd been wise—the consulting room was a little too lavish, too much like a stage set of an astrologer's room, lined with books and leather cylinders that could only hold scrolls, preferably rotting and mysterious, and Meening herself was portentous in the most formal of university robes, the enormous sleeves held back with gold pins in the shape of a scallop shell, a pearl poised carefully in each fan. Not the symbol Eslingen would have expected—the Starsmith was the usual patron of astrologers, not Oriane—but probably reassuring for the players and musicians and occasional slumming nobles who were her patrons.
"So, Lieutenant Eslingen," Meening said, and Eslingen jerked himself back to the present.
"Magist." He had no idea if she was actually a magist as well as an astrologer, but from the look of the room, it would do him no harm to assume the higher rank.
Meening smiled, and shook her head. "I'm only an astrologer, Lieutenant."
"'Only'?" Eslingen repeated. "I've never heard that word applied to you, madame."
Meening blinked once, and then, unexpectedly, grinned. "Gavi warned me about you."
Eslingen blinked in his turn, and allowed himself a rueful smile. "Of course you know Gavi."
"And, forgive me," Meening said, "but there's not an astrologer in the city who doesn't remember the names of the men who rescued the children not six months past. There's no need to flatter me like some stumbling bit player who wants a lower fee."
"My apologies."
Meening nodded. "Now, are you familiar with astrological terms?"
"I read the broadsheets," Eslingen said. Beneath the paint and the elaborate gown, he saw, too late, that she was sharply amused. "I've even read some of yours."
Deliberately, he added nothing more, and Meening dipped her head, acknowledging the hit. "Then you're aware of the current circumstances."
"It's ghost-tide," Eslingen said, and suppressed a shudder that he was sure she recognized. No soldier liked to think of his ghosts coming back to haunt him, no matter how benign.
"That certainly. The sun is in the Mother, and the moon is in opposition. That is the ghost-tide." She paused. "Anything more?"
Eslingen spread his hands. "Madame, I've come to you for guidance."
