Point of Hopes (60 page)

“
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 comers 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.

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 farther 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 a while. 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.