Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

  “How much further, do you think?” he asked.

  Eslingen waved to a waiter, pointed to the board that displayed the evening’s meal. “We’re in the Ile’nord now. From what Caiazzo told us, my guess is that Mailhac is another day, day and a half away. Aicelin would know better than I.” He seemed to guess the real question, said, reassuringly, “We’ve made good time, Nico.”

  “Good enough?” Rathe asked.

  “If I knew that…” Eslingen shook his head.

  A swirl of activity outside the open door of the Two Flags caught Rathe’s eye, a tumbling knot of small figures, and he recognized it as a group of children. They were playing tag or some other rough game, and he realized with a shock how long it had been since he had seen such a sight in Astreiant. Only a few weeks, to be sure, but they’d been long weeks without the sound of children’s laughter. One of the children, a boy, maybe four, maybe five, came running into the inn and buried his face in his mother’s skirt. Rathe felt his heart tighten, and then the child’s voice came clear.

  “Janne hit me! You told her not to hit me, and she did.”

  A girl, a year or so older than the boy, appeared in the doorway, face mutinous. The mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling, then gestured to the girl. “Janne, what did I tell you about hitting your brother?”

  “Little boys are fragile, and can get hurt more easily, but I didn’t mean to! The little gargoyle ran into me.”

  “Well, both of you, be more careful in the future. Go on, and try not to kill each other.”

  The girl made a face, but darted away again. The boy sniffed a few minutes longer, was fed a slice of bread from his mother’s plate, and headed out the door again. Rathe forced himself to relax, took another swallow of the beer.

  “Lovely sight,” Eslingen said, and Rathe looked at him, surprised. He had not figured Eslingen as someone with much tolerance for children, let alone affection.

  “You don’t have any children, do you?” he asked, and Eslingen shook his head, looking slightly appalled.

  “No. But when enough women have considered you, not as a suitable mate, but as a suitable father for their children, you develop a certain tolerance for them. You look at them, and think, well, yeah, I could do better than that.” The fine lines at the corners of Eslingen’s eyes tightened as he smiled in self-mockery. “It’s probably just as well Devynck let me go. I think Adriana was planning some dynasty building. And the gods know, I’ve nothing to offer an heiress like herself in equal exchange for marriage, so it would be just for the fun of it, and the future generations of the Old Brown Dog.”

  Rathe nodded, but didn’t know what to say. No one, to his knowledge, had ever viewed him in quite the light Eslingen was describing. And he wasn’t even fully sure what he was feeling, faced with Eslingen’s revelation. There was a small knot in him at the thought of Eslingen and Adriana; for some reason, he hadn’t thought Eslingen favored women. Not that he’d any reason to think that, nor any reason for this small surge of what he strongly suspected was an irrational envy.

  The light shifted then, and he looked up to see b’Estorr and Denizard in the doorway, stepping carefully through the pile of children now playing jacks on the stone outside the door. b’Estorr’s expression was carefully neutral; Rathe had known him for a number of years now, and knew he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the magists’ news.

  Eslingen got up, fetched another pitcher and two more mugs. “You look like you need it,” he said, then topped up his own mug. “And if you do, we’re going to. What is it?”

  Denizard dropped onto the bench beside Eslingen. “Nothing dire, hells, nothing we didn’t expect, but it’s a little hard to hear it. Over the past few weeks, the people here have heard what sounds like an army on the move—and these people know what army movements sound like. They were nervous, naturally enough, and went looking, but they didn’t find much sign of them, just wagon tracks. But armies don’t travel with so many wagons, so I understand.”

  “There’s only a couple of people who say they saw anything,” b’Estorr said. “And what they saw, well, they said it was eerie—wagon after wagon, maybe four or five at a time, heading north but skirting the town. Aside from the noise the wagons made, and the horses, it was quiet. No voices, no calling, no singing, no orders… just the wagons at twilight, and silence.”

  Rathe shivered in spite of himself, and b’Estorr shook his head at the image he had inadvertently conjured up. “Then, yesterday, some people saw a group of men riding hard, didn’t stop here. One of them had a child with him on the saddlebow. A girl, they thought, from the hair.”

  “Asheri.” Rathe dropped his head in his hands, splaying his fingers through his hair and tightening them, as though the pain would make him think more clearly.

  “On the good side,” b’Estorr went on, “the word is the Coindarel’s men are camped by Anedelle. That’s only two hours from Mailhac.”

  Rathe nodded, barely listening. It was a relief to know he was right, that they were on the right road, but it didn’t take away the greater fear. Or the nagging certainty that none of this would have happened if he hadn’t sent Asheri to the fair. He looked at Eslingen. “Is there any point in pressing on tonight?”

  Eslingen made a face. “Given that we know where we’re going, that we don’t have to track these people, I would say yes, but the horses are tired, we’re tired. If this rider suspects he’s being followed, we might well ride into an attack.”

  Denizard nodded. “A lot of the people around here will be Mailhac tenants or their kin.”

  “How far is it to Mailhac from here?” b’Estorr asked.

  “Just under a day,” the other magist answered.

  b’Estorr nodded, and reached for a pocket almanac. “I think we have time,” he said, after a moment. “The moon isn’t at its most favorable for the next few days, Asheri’s stars make her valuable for several of the final steps, which is probably why they’re hurrying, but they’re also in opposition to the current positions.”

  “And if we press on tonight, we’ll arrive there early tomorrow morning,” Denizard said. “She’ll know we hurried. We don’t want to make de Mailhac suspicious. Arriving in the afternoon is likely to seem more normal to her.”

  “If anything does, these days,” Eslingen muttered. “I say we risk it. We spend the night here, we get an early start, we’re rested, the horses are rested, and we don’t arouse de Mailhac’s suspicions.”

  “And she’s going to be wary enough of us, anyway,” Rathe agreed. “Right, then, we’ll spend the night.” The decision made, he felt more helpless than ever, and he pushed himself away from the table. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to turn in.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Eslingen started to rise, stopped by a hand on his arm. He looked down at b’Estorr, who shook his head slightly, and Eslingen grimaced in comprehension. “We’ll be up a little later. I want to check on the horses.”

  Rathe, who had missed the exchange, just nodded and headed back towards the stairs, grateful for Eslingen’s understanding, anxious for a few moments to himself, to let the fears run wild and then to put them away, firmly, and for all. Tomorrow they would be at Mailhac. Then it was only a matter of time before everything was resolved.

  11

  « ^ »

  the next morning dawned rainy, and the air smelled more than ever of the coming autumn. Rathe glared at drizzle beyond the tiny windows as he shaved and dressed, but got his impatience under control before he climbed down the creaking stairs to the main room. They would still reach Mailhac by the end of the day, and that was all that mattered. Eslingen was standing by one of the windows in the common room, looking out at the grey, wet sky. He shook his head, hearing the other’s approach, but didn’t turn.

  “We may not make as good time today,” he said mournfully. “Seidos’s Horse, I hate wet travel.”

  “I suppose the weather had to break sometime,” Rathe answered, more philosophically than he felt.
He hoped the rain wasn’t an omen, and dismissed the thought as being foolish beyond all permission. He accepted a cup of thick, smoky-smelling tea from the yawning waiter and joined Denizard at one of the square tables, wrapping his fingers around the warmed pottery.

  “It couldn’t have waited another day?” When there was no answer, Eslingen drew himself away from the window and sat back down opposite Rathe. “It could be worse,” he said. “It could be snow.”

  Rathe just looked at him. Eslingen raised his hands in defense. “I’ve seen it, snow this time of year, and not that much further north than we are now. Miserable marching it was, too.”

  “Sounds like the Chadroni Gap, and from the sound of it, you were in one of the higher parts,” b’Estorr said, from the doorway. He shook the rain from his cloak, hung it near the porcelain stove in one corner of the common room.

  “Yes, well, that’s not so very far north of here, is it?”

  “There’s north, and north,” b’Estorr agreed with a shrug. He sat down at the table, wrapping his hands around a cup, and glanced at Rathe. “I couldn’t have asked for better weather. If it’s stormy at Mailhac, and I think it will be, from what they told me at the temple, there’s not going to be any work done in the mine today.”

  Rathe allowed himself a breath of relief and gave the necromancer a nod of thanks. That was good news—it could only be good news: whatever delayed the magist’s work gave them more time to find the children, and to free them before they had outlived their usefulness.

  “How so?” Eslingen asked.

  “The wind and rain carry too much corruption,” b’Estorr answered, “and this magist has taken too much trouble this far to spoil it all by carelessness. It may not be a pleasant ride today, but that’s all to the good.”

  Denizard made a noise that might have been disparagement or agreement. “Are we ready, then?”

  Rathe nodded, stood up, setting aside his half-finished cup of tea. “I’d like to get there before nightfall. I want to see what this place looks like on first impression.”

  Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “Spoken like a soldier.”

  Rathe looked at him, grinned. “I’m sure you meant it as a compliment.”

  As Rathe had feared, the riding was worse than the past few days had been. The dry dust of the roads had been turned overnight into a thin mud, and the wind blew chill from the northeast, driving the rain through the thin summer fabrics of their garments. When they hit the first of the true foothills, the pack horses began to labor, and they had to slow their pace to keep together on the narrow track. Eslingen swore softly and steadily as the horses’ hooves slithered and caught on the rock-strewn mud, and the horses seemed to take confidence from the murmured words, dragging themselves and their riders up the ever-steeper roads. He was the only one who spoke; the others kept silent, faces tucked close to their chests, not wanting to get a mouthful of the cold rain. The first sunset was almost on them by the time they came opposite a massive boss of stone where the track tilted down again, curving out of sight around the side of the hill. Denizard pulled up beneath a stand of wind-twisted trees and let the others draw abreast. She took a breath and gestured.

  “That’s the Mailhac estate.”

  It was hard to see at first. Shadows already filled the narrow intervening valley, and the land itself was rough, all rocks and angles, the greyed green of the scrub fading into the brown grey of the outcrops. The main house fit into its surroundings almost uncannily well. It was an old place, the stone as grey as the land around it, and obviously built for the Ajanine wars, with stocky towers on each corner of a square central building. Some of the upper windows had been enlarged, the old arrow-slits broken out and filled with glass, but it still had the look of a fortress rather than a home. Rathe shook his head, staring at it. “Gods,” he said quietly. “What a rotten place for children.”

  Denizard nodded. “It looks much better when it’s not raining, I promise you, but—yes.”

  “They’ll be expecting us,” b’Estorr said, wiping the rain from his face, and Eslingen nodded.

  “There’s someone in the west tower, see? Now, I know this is rough country, but there’s been peace in this corner of it for awhile. I wonder what de Mailhac’s expecting.”

  “Us, probably,” Denizard said, and Rathe looked sharply at her.

  “What do you mean? If they were warned, the children could be in serious danger, could be used as hostages—” He broke off as the magist shook her head.

  “De Mailhac has to assume that Hanse will be sending someone to find out what’s going on, that’s all I meant. And it’s in her interest to convince us that there’s absolutely nothing wrong. That’s what she did at the beginning of the summer, and I’m ashamed to say, I believed her.” She beckoned to the nearest groom, who edged his horse a few steps closer. “When we get there, I want you two to stay with the horses—make whatever excuse you have to, but I want to be sure some of us can get away if we have to.”

  “Coindarel’s camped at Anedelle?” Eslingen asked, and b’Estorr nodded.

  “Near enough to make them nervous, anyway. They’re not fond of soldiers in these parts.”

  Eslingen gave him a sour look. “We may be glad of them soon enough.”

  Rathe sighed, impatient again, and looked back at the house. The clouds seemed thinner now, though the rain seemed as heavy as ever, and the stones of the manor seemed strangely paler in the brighter light. “We’re wasting time,” he murmured, unable to stop himself, and Denizard gave him a sympathetic glance.

  “Come on, then,” she said, and touched heels to her horse.

  By the time they reached the house, the rain had stopped. The household had been well warned of their approach, and servants appeared with torches to light them through the main gate. It had held a portcullis once, and Rathe, glancing to his right, saw Eslingen looking curiously at the remains of the machinery. They emerged into a narrow courtyard, the horses’ hooves suddenly loud on the wet stones, and more servants came running to catch their bridles. Their own grooms slid down to join them, and took unobtrusive control of the pack horses. A woman stood in the doorway of the main house, the torchlight gleaming from the rich silk of her skirts: the landame of Mailhac had come herself to greet them.

  Denizard swung herself down from her horse, and the others followed suit, trailed behind her toward the doorway. “Maseigne,” she said, and de Mailhac nodded in answer.

  “Magist, it’s good to see you again. Welcome to my house. I trust all is well?”

  You know it’s not, Rathe thought, hearing a faint, breathless note in the woman’s voice. She was a pretty woman about his own age, maybe a little older, with fine hands that she displayed to advantage against the dark green of her skirts. Her hair was red, unusually so, almost matching the torchlight, and her skin was correspondingly pale, seemed to take luster from the rich silk of her high collar. She was obviously one who liked her luxuries, Rathe thought; no wonder she’d taken Caiazzo’s bargain.

  “Master Caiazzo is concerned about some matters,” Denizard said, bluntly, and Rathe saw the landame’s smile falter. She recovered almost at once, but he guessed the others had seen as well.

  “But where are my manners?” Denizard went on. “Maseigne, let me present Philip Eslingen, late lieutenant in the royal regiment, and now part of the household. Istre b’Estorr, who handles the northern trade for Master Caiazzo, and Nicolas Rathe, caravan-master.”

  “Gentlemen.” De Mailhac inclined her head a calculated few inches.

  “Lieutenant Eslingen speaks for Caiazzo as I do,” Denizard said. “You’ll forgive my bringing so large a party, but one of Hanselin’s messengers was attacked while returning from Mailhac, so we had, we felt, reasonable fear of bandits in the hills.”

  “If that’s the case, I think you were quite wise,” de Mailhac said. “We’ll certainly have no trouble housing your people, or your animals. I’m extremely disturbed to hear about the messengers, though. I ho
pe they’re well.”

  “We have hopes,” Denizard said, deliberately vague.

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Come in, please. It’s a vile night, I’m sorry you had to travel in such weather. And I know very well that Mailhac doesn’t show to advantage in conditions like this. I hope you told your companions it’s not normally this forbidding.”

  She kept up a constant stream of polite conversation as she led them into the great hall. A generous fire was burning in the massive fireplace, and Rathe moved closer to it, feeling the steam beginning to rise from his wet clothes. They were all thoroughly soaked, and de Mailhac gave orders for baths to be drawn. “I’ll let you take the chill off—I’ve had my people lay fires in your rooms for you, and I’ve had wine sent up. It can only help, on a night like this. When you’re ready, Magist Denizard, I hope you will all join me for dinner. We don’t often have guests; I’m looking forward to a very pleasant evening.”

  “As are we, and thanks for your hospitality, maseigne. Hanselin told me to apologize for coming on you without warning, but as I’m sure you understand, the business of the gold has become urgent. Most urgent,” Denizard amended with a smile that, as yet, had no teeth in it, but instead the promise of steel.

  De Mailhac lifted her head slightly. “Of course. I do understand that his—business—is somewhat dependent on this estate. But we can discuss this at dinner, or after.”

  They had been given rooms suited to their status, Rathe saw, with some amusement. Denizard’s was the largest, Eslingen’s somewhat smaller, and he himself had been tucked into a much smaller room with b’Estorr. There was barely room for the tub between the hearth and the single large bed, and the necromancer laughed softly.

  “I’d forgotten how they treat merchants here. It makes me almost homesick.”

  Rathe grunted, stripping out of his still-damp clothes. Their luggage, such as it was, was already waiting, and he reached for his own bag. De Mailhac’s servants were regrettably efficient; he hoped that her guard were less so, and then shook that thought away. “Do you want the bath first, or shall I?”