Point of Hopes (63 page)

b’Estorr nodded. “I think it will work. Assuming
Coindarel comes.”

“
Oh, he will,” Eslingen
said.

Denizard handed him her writing kit, and Eslingen
seated himself by the fire, balancing the wooden case on his lap.
He wrote quickly, the pen scratching across the paper, and Rathe
wondered just what he could say that would guarantee the
prince-marshal’s arrival. Eslingen had served with Coindarel, the
pointsman told himself firmly. He would know what to say.

“
Finished,” Eslingen said at last,
and folded the paper firmly, adding a blob of wax to seal
it.

“
I can send it with one of my
people,” Denizard said, and Rathe intercepted the note before she
could take it.

“
I’d better take it. I’m the
caravan-master, remember? Who else would go check on the
horses?”

He made his way down the side stairs and out into
the courtyard, shadowed now as the winter-sun dropped toward the
roof. The main gate was still open, he saw, but a pair of
sturdy-looking men in half armor lounged against the inside arch of
the gate. They looked lazy enough at the moment, but their
back-and-breasts were well polished, swords and halfpikes ready for
use, and Rathe nodded in their direction, hoping they would assume
he was simply checking on the horses. No one challenged him, and he
drew a sigh of relief as he ducked into the stable door. He stood
for a moment in the sudden dark, the smell of hay and horses strong
in his nose, and a voice said softly, “Rathe?”

He turned toward the speaker, and saw the taller of
the two grooms standing in the door of one of the stalls.
“Grevin.”

The man stepped back, beckoning. “Over here. But
keep your, voice down, sir, the hostlers sleep in the hayloft.”

Rathe nodded, and came to join them in the narrow
space. They had made themselves a bed in the hay, he saw, and felt
a brief pang of guilt that they wouldn’t get to use it. “We need to
get a message to Coindarel, at Anedelle, as quickly as possible.
There are guards on the gate, though—”

“
Not a problem,” the other groom
said with a grin that showed white in the darkness. “There’s
something very strange going on here, and the people don’t like it.
There’s a back door that no one’s ever bothered to show this magist
of hers.”

“
Where?” Rathe demanded.

“
By the kitchen,” the groom
answered. “It’s right there, they say, but the magist doesn’t
concern himself with the servants’ quarters.”

And a good thing, too, Rathe thought. “Then the
guards are his?” he asked, and Ytier nodded.

“
That’s what they say. I can’t say
I’m sorry to be leaving, all things considered.”

“
We won’t be able to take the
horses, though,” Grevin said. Ytier shrugged. “We can get mounts at
any of the houses along here, if we pay enough. I know these
people.”

Rathe reached into his pocket, came up with the
letter and his purse, and handed them both across. Ytier took them,
weighing the purse briefly in his palm, and nodded.

“
That should be enough. Even if it
isn’t, we can walk to Anedelle in a couple of hours.”

“
Good enough,” Rathe said, and
hoped it would be so. “Good luck,” he added, and let himself back
out into the courtyard.

Rathe crossed the courtyard again, acutely aware of
the guards still lounging by the gate, but suppressed the desire to
wave to them. Instead he went back into the hall and slipped
quietly up the main stairway. As he reached the top, he heard
footsteps, then voices, de Mailhac’s and then the magist’s, and
dodged instinctively into the first doorway he saw. Caravan-master
or not, he had no real desire to explain what he was doing out of
his room at this hour, especially after he’d claimed the same
exhaustion as the others. He found himself in a long room that
smelled faintly of cold ash, and stood for a moment, head tilted to
one side, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could hear the
footsteps, closer now, and then de Mailhac’s voice, rising
querulously as she approached the door.

“—
I don’t like this, not right now.
They could spoil everything.”

“
I told you, and I’m telling you
again, this means nothing.” Timenard’s voice was sharper than it
had been at dinner, held more authority. It was also coming closer
to the door, and Rathe glanced around the room, looking for a
hiding place. Tapestries covered the wall to his left, and he put
out his hand, testing the space between them and the wall itself.
Not much, but maybe enough to hide him, he thought, and took a
cautious step toward them, groping for the edge of the heavy
fabric. He found it, and in the same moment felt the tapestry sway
inward under his hand. There was a niche in the wall, one of the
guard posts one still found in the oldest houses, and he slipped
into it, letting the tapestry fall back into place over
him.

“
It’s too late,” Timenard went on.
“Our plans are too far advanced—pull yourself together, maseigne,
there’s nothing they can do to stop us.”

“
I wish I were as confident as
you,” de Mailhac said, her voice suddenly louder. Rathe saw light
through the gap between the tapestry and the wall, the wavering
pallor of a single candle, and held his breath. The light dimmed,
moving past him, and he heard the distinct double click as a latch
snapped open.

“
You should be,” Timenard said.
“You can be.”

“
But what are we going to do about
them?” de Mailhac demanded, her voice fading again. Rathe tipped
his head to one side, not daring to shift the tapestries, but
didn’t heard the latch close again. De Mailhac’s voice came again,
a little muffled, but still too close for comfort. “They are
dangerous, Timenard.”

“
I don’t deny it,” the magist
answered. His voice sounded closer, and Rathe grimaced, flattening
his back against the stones of the wall. From the sound of it,
Timenard was still in the room—standing in a doorway, maybe, Rathe
thought, and that meant he himself was stuck behind the tapestries
for a while longer. “And they will be dealt with, maseigne. Leave
that to me. But now—”

“
The list,” de Mailhac interrupted
him, her voice sounding less muffled, and Rathe heard the latch
click closed again.

“
List?” Timenard echoed, sounding
startled.

“
The list you wanted,” de Mailhac
answered. “You did say you wanted it?”

“
Oh, yes,” the magist said, and
Rathe thought there was a fractional hesitation in the round man’s
voice, as though he’d forgotten ever mentioning a list. And don’t I
wish I could get a look at it myself, Rathe thought, but didn’t
move a muscle behind the concealing weight of the fabric. He saw
the light swell again, caught a brief glimpse of the pinpoint of
flame and the shadows of the two, tall and small, and then their
footsteps had passed him, were receding down the long hall. Rathe
allowed himself a deep breath, but didn’t move immediately,
listening for any sign of their return. There was nothing but
silence; he counted to a hundred and then to a hundred again
without hearing anything more.

He lifted the tapestry aside, stepped back out into
the narrow room. It was as dark as before, and empty, but he
hesitated, looking for the second door, the one he had heard open
and close. There was no sign of it, just the main door, half open
to the hall, and the blank paneled walls. Carved paneled walls, he
corrected himself, and his interest sharpened. In Astreiant,
carvings like that could hide any number of doors and compartments,
and in spite of the situation, he couldn’t repress a grin,
remembering one of Mikael’s friends, drunk and earnest, explaining
how he’d found some rich merchant’s private strongroom behind a
similar set of carvings. His eyes were adjusted to the dark by now,
and he could make out the pattern, a vine heavy with fruit.
Experimentally, he ran his hand along the carved stem, counting
clustered grapes, and jammed his thumb painfully against an iron
loop like a trigger. He put his thumb in his mouth and used his
other hand to work the latch, wincing at the noise.

The door opened onto what seemed to be a small
workroom lit only by the winter-sun’s light that seeped in through
the gap in the shutters. It was enough to show the worktable and
chair and the massive cases that held the estate’s account books.
They were locked, and he spared them only a single regretful
glance, concentrating instead on the handful of papers scattered
across the table top. He picked them up one by one, held them to
the light to decipher the stilted handwriting—de Mailhac’s? he
wondered. The notes were unsigned, were little more than drafts for
the account books or for a more complete letter, but enough of the
names were familiar to let him make sort of sense of the whole.
There were only a dozen names, or so it seemed, and he recognized
four of them as Astreiant printers, and one other—the one who had
received the largest amounts—as a woman who had a reputation as
political agent in the city. The last sheet was a broadsheet, much
creased, with a woodcut of the Starsmith hanging over a mountain
and contorted verses that argued for a northern candidate for the
succession. Rathe frowned at that—there were three northern
candidates, Marselion, Sensaire, and Belvis—and only then realized
that the first letters of each line spelled out Belvis’s name. He
made a face, and set the sheet back in its place. From the look of
things, de Mailhac was definitely supporting Belvis’s candidacy
with money and more; he wondered, closing the door gently again
behind him, if the palatine had any idea the lengths to which her
supporters would go.

The hall seemed quiet now, the servants busy
belowstairs, de Mailhac and Timenard long gone, and he slipped back
into the main hallway. He made his way back to Denizard’s room
without encountering anyone, and tapped gently on the door. It
opened at once, and Eslingen looked out at him, frown easing to a
sudden grin.

“
You took your time,” he said, and
Rathe stepped past him, closing the door behind them
both.

“
Problems?” Denizard asked, and the
pointsman shook his head.

“
No. The message is sent and I’ve
got us a way out of the hall. But I had a chance to do a little
snooping on my way back, and I think I know some of what’s going
on.” Quickly, he explained what had happened, describing the papers
he’d found. When he’d finished, Eslingen lifted an
eyebrow.

“
One could almost feel sorry for
Maseigne de Belvis. Whether or not she knows what’s going on,
she’ll lose any chance at the throne when this comes
out.”

b’Estorr shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. You
don’t go to all this trouble, manufacture aurichalcum
illegally—Dis, steal eighty-five children in order to manufacture
aurichalcum—for political gain. It would be like taking a caliver
to a gnat.”

“
I saw the papers,” Rathe said.
“And I know those names, the printers, and I saw one of the sheets.
That’s part of it, Istre.”

“
De Mailhac’s part, anyway,”
Denizard said, and the others looked at her. “De Mailhac is an
Orsandi, they’re related to Belvis by marriage, it would make sense
for her to support that candidacy. It’s a nasty thought, but
suppose Timenard’s duped her, too?”

“
How do you mean?” Rathe said after
a moment, not liking the sound of it.

“
Suppose he has told her that
whatever he’s doing is for Belvis, to help Belvis, but that’s just
a cover?” Denizard shook her head. “I can’t think of anything else
that would make sense. Istre’s right, aurichalcum’s too potent to
waste on mere politics, but I trust Nico’s knowledge of Astreianter
printers.” A fleeting grin crossed her face. “I know to my cost
it’s encyclopedic.”

“
But if aurichalcum is queen’s
gold,” Eslingen said slowly, “if it’s linked to the monarch, why
wouldn’t you use it if you wanted to influence the
succession?”

“
It’s too powerful,” b’Estorr said
again, and Denizard nodded.

“
There are better, less dangerous
ways to affect even a royal decision,” she said. “With fewer
chances of it blowing up in your face.”

Eslingen nodded. “Which brings me to another
thought, then, Aice. Is there any chance of us convincing maseigne
she’s been duped, and getting her—and more to the point, her
household and presumably her guards—on our side?”

“
I doubt she’d listen,” Denizard
said with regret. “She doesn’t much like me—too common for her
taste—and I don’t have any real evidence. We don’t even know what
Timenard is really doing.”

“
Besides,” Rathe said, “the guards
are his.”

“
Lovely,” Eslingen said. “So we’re
back to the original plan?”

Rathe nodded. “So now we wait for second
sundown.”

The brilliant diamond of the winter-sun was already
below the edge of the trees, glinting through the gaps in the
leaves. They watched in silence as it sank further, vanishing at
last behind the shoulder of the hill. When it was well down, the
four slipped down the stairs. As the grooms had said, the back door
was easy enough to find, a small door at the end of a hall that led
past the kitchen. It looked as though it would lead to a storeroom,
and Rathe braced himself for disappointment as he tugged on the
latch. It opened smoothly, without creaking, and a breath of damp
air came in with it, bringing the smell of a midden. Rathe made a
face, and stepped out into a narrow paved courtyard that was
obviously used to store the kitchen’s leavings. The iron gate at
its end was open, and there were no guards in sight. He allowed
himself a sigh of relief—for the first time, it seemed the stars
might be favorable—and they went on out into the deepening
night.