Point of Hopes (59 page)

“
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 dare say 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 for me, too. 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.

“
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.