For an instant, Rathe could only stare at the letter. Whatever he had expected—and he wasn’t at all sure what that had been; Fourie’s temper was notoriously uncertain—this official carte blanche had not been it. If anything, he’d expected more pleasure at Caiazzo’s inadvertent involvement, had half expected the surintendant to take the opportunity to try to trap the trader, to score a point on him at last. And I’ve been unjust, Rathe thought, abashed. The children have always been the main issue; Caiazzo can wait for another day. “Thank you,” he said aloud, and took the paper, folding it carefully, protecting the heavy seal.
“Be off with you, then,” Fourie said. “And bring those children home.”
They took the river to Customs Point, a quick journey with the current, and Eslingen led the way to Caiazzo’s house. The trader had been waiting for him in his workroom, the steward said, glancing warily at Eslingen’s companions, but at the soldier’s nod brought them up the stairs to the gallery. Caiazzo rose as the door opened, but checked when he saw Rathe and the magist.
“Oh, come, surely this is a little elaborate for a simple case of assault, and self-defense, at that.”
“If it were just a simple case of assault,” Rathe snapped, “I wouldn’t be here. But in fact, you’ve given me the last piece of a very nasty puzzle.”
The trader’s face went still. “What are you talking about?”
Behind him, Denizard stirred, then was silent. Rathe said, “Your gold mine, Hanse—yes, Eslingen told me about it, and a damn good thing he did, too. You think it’s just greed that kept your bought noble from sending you the coin you needed?”
Caiazzo reseated himself behind his desk, fixed Eslingen with a cold stare. “I had thought so, yes. It’s not that unreasonable a thought, is it? But you’re going to tell me there’s more to it.”
Denizard said, quietly, “We knew that, too, Hanse. There’s the magist, and the clocks, to make things urgent.”
“Which is why I sent to the points,” Caiazzo answered. “This isn’t business I want to handle.”
“Except you’re in it up to your neck already,” Rathe said, “and you don’t even know what it is.” He looked at Denizard. “You must have some suspicions about all this.”
The woman shrugged. “A gold mine, and a magist interested in it, keeping the take for himself? Coupled with clocks that strike when they shouldn’t? It speaks of aurichalcum to me, which speaks of politics, though how he’s making the stuff is beyond me. It’s too much for one person to handle, even if you could find the people you needed—” She stopped abruptly, the color draining from her face, and Rathe nodded.
“Couple it with the missing children, and you get a nasty picture.”
Caiazzo looked from the pointsman to his magist. “Is it possible?”
Denizard shook her head. “It’s too many variables. Getting the right nativities would be hard enough—hells, just making sure you have total celibates handling the gold would be hard enough, I don’t care how careful the guilds are, celibate means celibate.”
“The nativities match the process,” b’Estorr said, and Denizard looked at him.
“I know you. I’ve heard you lecture. You’re sure?”
b’Estorr nodded, and she winced.
“Gods, then I suppose it is possible. But it’s crazy.”
“I don’t know him,” Caiazzo said, and Denizard shook herself.
“Sorry. His name’s Istre b’Estorr, he’s a necromancer. I’ll vouch for him.”
Caiazzo said something under his breath. Rathe leaned forward. “It was the hedge-astrologers, the ones working the fair without bond, that found the kids, and they were careful, did their work well. Most of the kids are under the age where sex becomes a serious curiosity, and every single one knew her or his nativity. You’ve been playing a political game for the first time in your life, Hanse, though it’s not the one Fourie thought it was, but I don’t really care. All I care about is getting the children back safely. The rest—doesn’t exist, as far as I’m concerned.”
Eslingen cleared his throat. “I understood that you’d be sending people to—rectify the situation, sir. I want to go. And so do they.” He nodded toward Rathe and b’Estorr.
“And why in the names of all the gods don’t they just send a royal regiment?” Caiazzo demanded. “No, don’t tell me, too much time, too much money, and better to let some poor trader handle it. Gods, what a mess. Yes, Eslingen, I was planning to let you deal with this magist, you and Denizard, but under the circumstances, any assistance would be gratefully accepted.”
“Doing it this way means you stand less chance of losing that land,” Rathe snapped, and stopped, shaking his head. “Thanks, Hanse. I won’t forget this.”
“But everyone else will,” Caiazzo said with a dark smile. He reached for a bell that stood on the edge of the table, rang it twice. “You’ll need money and horses, I can get those from the caravan. Take Grevin and Ytier, they’re good men in a fight, and you’ll want men to help with the baggage. You can pass those two off as agents of mine, Aice, no one in Mailhac should have contacts in Astreiant, and Eslingen’s just new to the household.” He stood up as the steward appeared in the doorway.
“Sir?”
“We have a journey to arrange,” Caiazzo said. “There’s a pillar in it for you if everything’s ready by first sunset.”
To Rathe’s amazement, the steward had everything in order by the time the neighborhood clock struck six. Caiazzo’s servants, a pair of tall, greying men who had been soldiers and caravan guards in their younger days, accepted the sudden assignment phlegmatically enough—they were probably used to this sort of thing, Rathe thought. He had sent to Point of Hopes, both to warn Monteia of his departure and to send a runner for his clothes, and now that bundle was tied with the rest on the frame of a rather ill-tempered pack horse. There were two others, one of whom carried food and water, as well as a spare, plus the six riding animals: nearly twice as many horses as people, Rathe thought, and shook his head. He wasn’t used to this sort of travel; he had spent most of his life in Astreiant, except for a trip to Dhenin, and then he’d gone by river. He had learned to ride as a boy from a neighbor who was an hostler at the local tavern, but the roads to the Ile’nord and the fields outside the city were two very different things. He sighed, looking at the horses, as Eslingen came up beside him.
“You do know how to ride, don’t you?”
Rathe nodded. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t disgrace you. Rouvalles isn’t going to like this, if all these came out of his train.”
“You know him, too?” Eslingen asked, and the pointsman shrugged.
“I’ve met him.”
Eslingen nodded. “I daresay he isn’t. But he’ll have more time to find replacements than we have to find good mounts.” He slipped a long-barreled pistol into a tube attached to his saddle, and looked back at Rathe, absently patting the horse’s neck. “Does your friend the necromancer know how to ride?”
“You don’t like him?”
Eslingen sighed. “I—most soldiers are a little wary of necromancers, that’s all. It was a disappointment.”
“Ah.” Rathe turned his head to hide a grin. “Well, don’t worry about him either. He’s Chadroni, born and raised there. He rides.”
The main door opened then, and Denizard and b’Estorr came down the short stairs. Denizard was carrying a small chest under her arm, which the taller of the servants, Grevin, Rathe thought, took from her and added to one of the piles of baggage. b’Estorr had sent to the university for his clothes as well, and carried a worn pair of saddlebags and a long leather case that could only contain swords. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, seeing them, and Rathe grinned openly.
“Oh,” he said, “didn’t you know? Istre’s a duellist when he has to be.”
“And how do you reconcile that, necromancer?” Eslingen asked.
b’Estorr glanced at him. “If a fair duel is called, and you’re killed, it’s generally assumed it
was your time. One can, after all, reject a duel.”
“I see,” Eslingen said. “Any fighting isn’t likely to be polite, you know.”
b’Estorr smiled, not nicely. “Duels aren’t. At least, in Chadron they’re not.” He turned and began strapping the case expertly to his saddle.
“No,” Eslingen said. “I would guess they’re not.”
They took advantage of the winter-sun that night, and the next three, the first night camping out by a field smelling sweetly of cut hay and grains. The next night they found farm lodging with an old soldier who now held a small patch of land to farm for himself. He was Chenedolliste, but he welcomed Eslingen as a brother. It was, Rathe reflected, only the ordinary folk of Chenedolle, those who had never carried pike nor musket, who were suspicious and resentful of the Leaguers who now served the queen. The soldiery saw only colleagues who, at one time or another, might well be facing them across a field, or might be at their back. It was all in circumstances, as the stars suggested. When Rathe asked if he’d seen any unusual travelers, someone riding hard, or wagons, the man shook his head without curiosity. He had his farm and paid little attention to anything beyond its edges; neither the children nor the clock-night had reached him. A farm woman north of Bederres, however, had heard the gossip, and said she’d seen a trio riding hard toward the Gap highway, and one of them had a child at his saddlebow. It wasn’t much, but Rathe clung to it, afraid even to acknowledge his worst fear. If, somehow, they’d gotten it all wrong and the missing children were somewhere else, then he’d only made things worse.
They crossed into the Ile’nord on the morning of the fourth day, the landscape unmistakable when they reached it. Dame school classes taught every Astreiant school child that it was an inhospitable place: certainly it was no place for people who lived by farming and trade. The spine of the land broke through in a low, barren line of hills that rose to the northwest, seeming to get no closer no matter how far they rode. Those hills would grow, Rathe knew, shouldering up to the northwest to become the hills and mountains of Chadron. Somewhere among them was the gash that was the Chadroni Gap, impassable in winter, unless you had overwhelming incentive to get through it. The air here held more than a hint of the coming autumn, a sharpness that blew down from the foothills. Glad as they all were to be free of the city’s heat, it made them all uncomfortably aware of time passing, and it was all Rathe could do not to demand they move faster. But they were already working the horses hard, didn’t dare do more. When Eslingen signaled the next stop, drawing up under a line of trees that looked too orderly to have grown there without encouragement, he made himself relax, sitting slack in the saddle. He was managing well enough, but his muscles were still sore. If you keep on like this, he told himself firmly, you’ll be no good to anyone once we get to Mailhac.
Denizard drew up next to Eslingen, pushing her sweat-damp hair back up under her cap. “You know these roads, maybe better than I do. What’s the next town?”
Eslingen rested his hands on the pommel of the saddle and looked around him. “I’m not sure, it’s been a while since I’ve taken this road north.”
b’Estorr said, “Chaix, I think, it’s been a few years, but as I recall, it’s three days good riding from Astreiant. There’s a good inn there,” he added with a faint, almost wistful smile. Eslingen nodded.
“I know Chaix. We usually come at it from a different direction, it’s a crossroads town, isn’t it?”
“Complete with gallows,” b’Estorr confirmed.
Eslingen rolled his eyes and moved away. “I’d like to give the horses a better rest than we’ve been able to, so let’s say we stop at Chaix tonight.”
Rathe sighed. The soldier was right, he knew that, and besides, he was stiffer than he’d realized from the days of riding and sleeping rough. His lodgings were modest enough, he thought, but at least he had a bed. “At least it’ll give us a chance to get what news there might be about anyone else who’s traveling north,” he said.
It was just past first sunset when they reached Chaix, passing under an arched gate with a clock set into the keystone. The town had no walls, and the arch looked strange, almost forlorn, without the supporting wall to either side. The winter-sun was still high, casting pale silver shadows along the dusty street, and b’Estorr shaded his eyes, squinting at the signs that hung from the buildings lining the main road. “It’s the Two Flags here, isn’t it?” he asked, and Eslingen grinned.
“Always ones to hedge a bet, these folk. I like them.” He nodded to a square of yellow light spilling from an open door. “Good beer, good wine. It’s how you tell the border taverns. And last time I was here, it was clean, reasonably comfortable.”
“That’s how I remembered it,” b’Estorr agreed. Denizard edged her horse restlessly away, scanning the buildings. The town seemed quiet enough, no one unduly surprised by their presence, but still, Rathe thought, they were enough of an oddity that the inhabitants should have noticed any strangers.
“All right, look,” he said. “Eslingen, why don’t you and I get rooms and order dinner. There’s bound to be a temple of sorts here—I think it’d be better—smarter—if Istre and Aicelin handled any questions. My accent is a dead giveaway, and people don’t answer questions for strangers they’re wary of. But you two have the perfect standing to do so.”
“The temple—such as it is—is down that cross street,” Denizard said, rejoining them. She looked at b’Estorr. “Your altar or mine?”
Rathe looked where she had pointed. It was a small, round stone building, the design that usually signaled a pantheon or at least a shared temple, and he thought he understood the magist’s attitude.
b’Estorr exhaled heavily. “Either way. It’s a crossroads town, a trading town, so the primary deity may be Bonfortune.”
“But death is so universal, isn’t it?” Eslingen offered. But a smile took the sting from the words.
“And you’re Chadroni, Istre,” Denizard said. “Like Rathe, I’ve got the Astreiant accent, they may not trust me.”
“Whereas everyone looks down on Chadroni, so they’re more likely to talk with me,” b’Estorr said with a sigh. “Right. Mine, then. You’ll join me, though, I trust, Aice?”
She tilted her head. “Wouldn’t miss it. We’ll see you both at the tavern—Two Flags, right?” Eslingen pointed, and she peered at the sign, brightly painted in gaudy colors, gilt touching the edges of the banners and the carved ropes, and nodded. “Shouldn’t be hard to find again.”
The two moved off into the pewter twilight, and Rathe looked at Eslingen. “After you. You’re the one who knows the town.”
Eslingen grinned and dismounted, and Rathe trailed behind him into the inn yard, the two servants following with the horses. Chaix was a strange, narrow city, the buildings jammed close together, stables built directly against the walls of the neighboring houses. It was as though the whole city were modeled on the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, with its narrow streets and its buildings brushing up against one another, cutting off the sunlight and the river breezes. He knew he was prejudiced, tried to see the city with eyes other than an Astreianter’s, but it was hard. The aromas were certainly different, heavier, richer, bordering on the exotic—at least, the less mundane ones, the ones that weren’t common to every city with a population living in close proximity to one another. Eslingen, he noticed, was looking about him with a faint, almost supercilious smile.
“Nothing like your home?” Rathe asked, and regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. He was tired, and worried, and at the same time very much a stranger, almost as though the Ile’nord were still some other kingdom. To his relief, however, the soldier shook his head without taking offense.
“Entirely too much like, actually. Esling is very like this. And gods, do you know, I haven’t missed it a bit?” He shook his head, his eyes momentarily distant.
“Is that why you joined the armies?” Rathe asked, maneuvering his way around a puddle of dubious origin. He
caught the inn door as Eslingen flung it open.
“I imagine so. That, or remain in Esling with an uncertain future. And it’s always been my determination to have an uncertain future of my own making.” He grinned then, and moved forward to meet the landlady.
The Two Flags was as Eslingen had described it, neat, well appointed, but not fancy. Rathe let Eslingen handle the negotiations over the rate, uncomfortably aware of how out of his depth he was outside Astreiant’s walls. He’d never been in the Ile’nord, and he certainly had never had an occasion to stay at an inn before, was accustomed only to patronizing the ground floor taverns, or occasionally breaking up unlicensed prostitution above floors. He found a corner table well away from the group of regulars, stolid women in dark wool, and sat watching the animated discussion. Finally, Eslingen joined him, carrying a pitcher and two mugs.
“All set,” he said with a grin. “The others can get their own when they get here.” He swung a long leg over the bench and sat down opposite Rathe.
Rathe eyed the pitcher. “Beer or wine?” he asked.
“Well, I know I said they served a decent wine, but then, I thought, what do I know about wine, really? I’m not Chenedolliste, what I think is good you might think is horse piss. So, I thought I had better stick with what I know is quality.”
“Beer, then,” Rathe said, resignedly.
“And damn fine beer, too. You’ll enjoy it.”
And it was good, Rathe had to admit. It carried the musty aroma of the hops that grew wild along the back fence of his garden, and was, he had to admit, ideal after a long day’s riding. Eslingen drained his mug in a couple of long swallows and poured another; Rathe drank more carefully, too tired to risk a drunken night.
Point of Hopes p-1 Page 43