Point of Hopes

Rathe nodded. “I appreciate it. Look, will you come with me to Monteia? You understand what’s happening here better than I do.”

“Of course,” b’Estorr said, and scooped the wedge of gold back into its bag.

Neither man spoke as they made their way from Rat he’s lodgings to the station at Point of Hopes. Rathe caught himself walking faster and faster, as though hurrying might help, might make up for how long it had taken them to figure out what was going on. b’Estorr’s discovery was utterly vital, the first piece of information that made sense of the child‑thefts. If only it hadn’t come too late. Surely not, he told himself, and made himself slow his pace again. If nothing else, they could protect the children who hadn’t been taken, first by arresting the hedge‑astrologers and then by concentrating their efforts on the vulnerable ones. Asheri was one of those, but she had more sense than many a woman grown, and they would be able to deploy the full resources of the station to keep her safe. And surely, surely, knowing why the children had been stolen would help them find the missing ones.

The station courtyard was empty, none of the runners in sight there or in the stables. Rathe caught his breath–he had expected to find Asheri waiting, sitting in the early sun on the edge of the dry trough where she could get the best of the light for her sewing–and shoved open the main door. Jiemin, this morning’s duty point, looked up, startled by the violence of his entrance.

“Nico …?”

“Where’s Asheri?” Rathe demanded, and Jiemin shook her head.

“I haven’t seen her yet. It’s early, Nico, she probably slept in.”

“But I told her to be here by now,” Monteia said, from the door of her workroom. She shut it behind her, shaking her head, and looked from Rathe to the necromancer. “What’s up, Nico?”

Rathe ignored the question for a moment, crossed to look out the back door. The garden was empty even of laundry, and he turned back into the room, barely able to keep the fear at bay. “Istre thinks he knows why the children are being taken. Asheri–”

Monteia cut him off. “Why?”

b’Estorr said, “They all have stars that make them useful– appropriate–for processing aurichalcum.”

Monteia frowned. “Queen’s gold?”

b’Estorr nodded, his blue eyes grave. “And aurichalcum is dangerously powerful, especially now with the starchange approaching.”

Monteia swore under her breath. “And Asheri?” she said, to Rathe.

“She said she knows her nativity to the minute,” he answered, voice suddenly ragged, “but I don’t. I never asked, and she never told me. Her sister might know.”

“Go,” Monteia said. “Both of you–please,” she added tardily, to b’Estorr. “See if she’s at home, find out what her stars are, and get her here where we can take care of her.”

Rathe nodded, and was out the door almost before she’d stopped speaking, b’Estorr on his heels. Asheri lived on the southern edge of Point of Hopes, in the warrens east of the junction of the Customs Road and Fairs’ Road. He had been there before,, and led the way through the labyrinth of narrow streets, barely able to keep from running as he saw the peeling face of the clock that oversaw this corner of the city. It had been reset, though, since the clock‑night: as they turned down the alley that led to a cluster of narrow houses, it struck the half hour, and its tones were echoed from the distant towers of Point of Dreams.

Asheri’s house was no different from any of the half dozen that circled the well‑house at the center of the open space, a plain building one room and a hallway wide, with a strip of muddy garden running beside and in front of the stone sill. A tall woman, unmistakably Asheri’s kin, the sister she had lived with since their mother’s death, had strung a line between two poles, and was hanging laundry, temporarily overshadowing a straggling patch of vegetables. Among the clothes already pinned to the line was the apron Asheri had worn the day before, and Rathe caught his breath again.

“She didn’t burn them,” he said, and heard b’Estorr swear.

The woman looked up at their approach, her eyes narrowing, but her hands never stopped moving on the wet cloth. Somewhere, in one of the other houses, Rathe thought, a child was wailing; even as he looked, he heard a voice exclaiming a rough endearment, and the crying took on a new, muffled rhythm, as though someone had picked up the child and was bouncing it.

“Mijan, where’s Asheri?”

“Missing her already?” Mijan answered, and smiled. “You knew she was meant for better than running your errands. She’s gone.”

“Gone where?” Rathe demanded, and heard b’Estorr swear again.

Mijan set a much‑mended skirt back in her basket, her expression suddenly wary, folded her arms across her thin chest. “To the embroiderers. Last evening at seven o’clock. You know that’s what she wanted, more than anything, that’s why she worked for your lot.”

“She didn’t have the fee,” Rathe said bluntly, and Mijan shook her head.

“No more did she, but she won one of the lottery‑places–you know, they hold four places a year for those who don’t have the means.”

“They hold those at the Spring Balance,” Rathe said, through gritted teeth, “and the Fall Balance. Never at Midsummer, Mijan, you know that. And so did she.”

Mijan was looking genuinely frightened now. “I know, I’m not stupid. But the woman–she was respectable, Rathe, a guildswoman to her fingertips–she said that one of the apprentices they’d chosen this spring couldn’t continue in the place, was sick or something, the family was sick, and Asheri was at the top of the list, the next in line. She passed all the tests, you know, it was just her number wasn’t quite high enough.”

“Which house, Mijan, did you think to ask that? Which master?” Rathe heard his voice rising, didn’t care. “You let her go, when children are disappearing every day?”

“That’s precisely why I let her go,” Mijan shouted back. “Do you think I haven’t worried enough about her, running gods alone know where through every quarter of the city, when children are being stolen in broad daylight? She’s a thousand times safer with the embroiderers than she ever was with your lot.”

Rathe flinched, recognizing the truth of that, and b’Estorr put a hand on his shoulder. “If she’s with the embroiderers, mistress. Asheri knows her nativity, I know that. May we get a copy?”

“Why?” Mijan looked from one man to the other. “Who in Demis’s name are you? Nico I know, but you…”

Rathe took a breath, controlled the anger bred of fear and guilt. “His name’s Istre b’Estorr, Mijan, he’s with the university. A necromancer. And, no, we don’t think any of them are dead, but he’s been helping us, and we know why the children are being taken. And I’m very much afraid Asheri’s one of them.”

“She’s with the embroiderers,” Mijan whispered.

Rathe shook his head. “I devoutly hope so, but–it’s a bad time for coincidence. I need her nativity–please, Mijan. You know I wanted–want–nothing more than for Asheri to find a place in the guild. Let me make sure she has the chance.”

“She’s there, I tell you,” Mijan repeated, but her eyes were wet with sudden tears. “I did what you told us, we washed the clothes, and locked them away, she was wearing my second‑best skirt–and furious she was, too, to think the masters would see her without her having the chance to take it in. I should’ve known, we never have luck.” She shook her head, wiped a hand across her face with angry force. “Her chart’s inside–you’ll have to copy it, though, I won’t let you take it away.”

“Fine,” Rathe said, still struggling with his anger. It wasn’t so much Mijan he was angry at–how could she, how could any southriver housekeeper, pass up the chance to see a kinswoman decently established?–or even Asheri, for taking a chance, but the astrologers and their respectable‑looking accomplice, for playing on the one source of hope children like her had. And that must have been how they lured the others away, he thought. The horoscopes, the questions the children asked, would have given the astrologers a very good idea of what they would have to offer to overcome the children’s fears–give them a chance at their hearts’ desire, and they were young enough to take the chance, even the cleverest, most wary ones. Like Asheri, he added, and Mijan reappeared in the doorway, a wooden tablet in her hand. She gave it to Rathe, who handed it to b’Estorr, trying to ignore Mijan’s small noise of protest. b’Estorr studied it for a moment, then reached into his pocket for a flat‑form orrery, adjusting the rings to the appropriate positions. His mouth tightened then, and he handed the tablet back to Mijan.

“It fits,” he said. “It fits, Nico. She has the key stars, she’s perfect for their operation.”

“What?” Mijan cried, and Rathe took her by the shoulders, gently now.

“No one will hurt her, she’s too valuable. We know why they took her, and some of where, and we will find her, I promise.” He took a deep breath, hoping he could make that true. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?”

Mijan took a deep breath, swallowing her tears. “No. No need. I’ll be fine. Just–find her, Rathe. They said, she’d won a place. It was so much what she wanted, they seemed all right, how could I think… ?” Her voice trailed off, and she shook herself hard. “I’ll be all right,” she said again, as much to convince herself as anyone, and looked back at Rathe. “And if she’s with the embroiderers all this time, I will cut your heart out.”

“If she is,” Rathe answered, “I’ll hand you the knife myself.”

He turned away without waiting for an answer, knowing she didn’t believe it any more than he did. b’Estorr fell into step beside him, stretching his long legs to keep up.

“What now?”

“The embroiderer’s hall,” Rathe answered. “Just in case. But I don’t think she’ll be there.”

There was only a single master in evidence this early in the day, and she greeted them with a certain puzzlement. Rathe explained what they wanted, and even though he’d expected it, felt his heart sink as she shook her head.

“No, we haven’t taken in any new lottery‑prentices. We do redraw if someone drops out, but that hasn’t happened in years–” She broke off as the two men turned away, Rathe calling his thanks over his shoulder.

“Back to Point of Hopes,” he said, and b’Estorr touched his arm.

“The river’s faster from here,” he said. “University privilege.”

They found a boatman more quickly than Rathe would have thought possible, but even so, he fidgeted unhappily until the boat drew up at the Rivermarket landing. Monteia was pacing the length of the main room as they burst through the door, but she stopped at once, seeing Rathe’s face.

“Inside,” she ordered, and jerked her head toward the workroom. Rathe started to follow, but b’Estorr caught his sleeve, handed him the orrery. Rathe took it, careful not to disturb the settings, and preceded the chief point into little room.

“Bad?” she asked, and shut the door behind them.

Rathe nodded. “They’ve taken her. They offered her a place in the embroiderers, the one thing she wanted badly enough to take chances for, and they’ve got her. And, Astree’s Web, it’s my fault. She would never have done this if I hadn’t asked her–”He broke off then, knowing how pointless this was, but Monteia shook her head anyway.

“You don’t know that, Nico. It’s the time of year to have your stars read, and Asheri always was–is–a saving creature. Tell me what happened.”

Rathe took a deep breath, and set the orrery on the worktable. Quickly, he ran through what Mijan had told him, finished with b’Estorr’s analysis. “She’s important to the process, he says, so they shouldn’t hurt her. But, gods, we have to find her.”

Monteia nodded, her expression remote. “I’ll send to Fairs again, tell him what’s happened today–I already told him to arrest any astrologers he found, and why, but I haven’t heard anything yet. This should make him move a little faster, though.” She shook her head. “It’s times like these I wish Astreiant still had walls. I’ll send people to ask at the gates and the inns along the main highway, see if anyone saw her or someone taking a child with them, but I can’t say I’ve a lot of hope for it.”

They hadn’t found any of the other children this way, there was little likelihood Asheri would be any different. Rathe swallowed his anger, said, “There has to be something else we can do.”

Monteia looked at him. “If you think of something, Nico, let me know.”

“I’m sorry.” Rathe shook his head. “She’s a good kid–and it’s my doing, Chief. This one’s my responsibility.”

Eslingen took the river way from Customs Point to Point of Hopes, the early sun warm on his back through the heavy fabric of his second‑best coat. The weight of it, and the stains on the dark green linen, annoyed him unreasonably; if he was going to go to Rathe with this particularly questionable story, he would have preferred to look his best. Inside the station’s wide main room, the duty point looked up at him, blankly at first, and then with recognition.

“Is Rathe around?” Eslingen said, before the woman could say something unfortunate, and she grinned.

“He’s withthe chief point now–Eslingen, isn’t it? You can wait if you want, but it’s a busy morning.”

“Already?” Eslingen murmured, but turned away from the table before she had to answer. A fair‑haired man in a dark red coat, shirt open at the throat, was sitting on the bench that stretched along one short wall, reading through a sheaf of broadsheets. Not the sort of person I’d’ve expected to see here, Eslingen thought, not a merchant but not a knife, either, and only then saw the anvil and star of the Starsmith pinned to the fair man’s cuff. A poet or an astrologer, the soldier decided, or maybe a magist out of his robes, and he smiled. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said, and settled himself on the bench beside the fair‑haired man, keeping a scrupulous distance between them.

The man looked up, his face unsmiling but not unwelcoming, and nodded. “Looking for Nico?”

Eslingen nodded. “A friend of his, are you?”

“I do some work for him from time to time.”

Eslingen looked again at the badge on the man’s cuff. “An astrologer?”

The man shook his head. “A necromancer, actually,” he said, and offered his hand. “Istre b’Estorr. I’m at the university.”

For a wild moment, Eslingen wondered how Rathe could have found out about the bodies already, and have had the foresight to call in a necromancer for something that wasn’t even in his jurisdiction. He had never liked the idea of necromancers, no soldier did–no matter what the scholars said, he thought, some of those deaths had to be untimely. b’Estorr tipped his head to one side, and Eslingen shook himself, took the hand that was held out to him. “My name’s Eslingen, Philip Eslingen. Late of Coindarel’s Dragons.”

“Oh. And currently Hanselin Caiazzo’s knife,” b’Estorr said.

Eslingen looked at him warily, wondering how in all hells he could have known that, wondering, too, what ghosts he might be carrying that the other could feel. b’Estorr smiled faintly, as though he’d guessed the thought.

“Nico mentioned you once, said he owed you a good turn. I’m glad to meet you. It’s made a lot of people much easier to know that Caiazzo has a capable knife to back him again.”

“So I heard,” Eslingen said. “Are you working for Rathe now?”

b’Estorr nodded, the smile vanishing. “I’m afraid so–”

He broke off as the door to the workroom opened, and Rathe burst out again. “Monteia’s sending to Fairs, we’ll see if Claes can’t find one of these damn astrologers, make him tell us what’s going on–” He broke off, seeing Eslingen. “Philip. Sorry, what are you doing here?”

Eslingen looked back at him. “I need to talk to you–Caiazzo sent me–but if this is a bad time–what’s happened?”

Rathe took an unsteady breath. “Asheri, one of our runners. She’s disappeared–been stolen, like the others. And we know a large chunk of how, and why, but still not who, or where they’re being taken.”

“Gods,” Eslingen said.

“So unless it’s really important,” Rathe went on, “you’ll have to wait.”

Eslingen hesitated. “It is important,” he said at last, “but I think I can wait, at least until you’ve gotten this settled.”

Rathe gave him a fleeting smile of thanks, looked at b’Estorr. “Is there any way we can narrow down the location of the mine? Something in the kids’ stars, anything?”

Eslingen froze, his eyes widening. A mine and the missing children in the same breath, and a crazy magist in Mailhac… He took a deep breath. “What’s this about a mine?” Rathe turned on him, eyes angry, and Eslingen held up a hand. “What I was sent to say, it may be more important that I thought. What mine, Rathe?”

“The children who’ve been taken, they all have the right stars to work the process that turns gold into aurichalcum,” the pointsman answered, impatiently. “It’s the only thing we’ve found that binds them together, but now we have to figure out where that gold mine could be.”

Eslingen swore. “Look, Rathe, last night Caiazzo met a man–” He broke off, shaking his head, tried to reorder his thoughts. “There’s an estate in the Ajanes, Mailhac, it’s called, the woman who ostensibly owns the title actually owes Caiazzo a lot of money, and she pays it out of the take of a gold mine that’s part of the estate.”

“Which explains where Caiazzo’s cash comes from. Rathe said, but his eyes were wary. ”And I hear he’s had trouble with money this season.”

Eslingen nodded. “The gold hasn’t come in the way it should. And from what the messenger said, it won’t be. There’s a magist living on the estate, apparently he promised to increase the take, but that was just to get her confidence. According to Mal–the messenger, it’s him, the magist, who’s running everything, and keeping all the gold on the estate. The rumor was, he may be making use of it himself.”

“Gods,” the necromancer murmured, and Rathe waved him to silence.

Eslingen went on, “Caiazzo’s man was attacked on his way here– that’s what I was really sent here for, to tell you who’d left a pair of bodies in the Little Chain Market, and to claim self‑defense, which it was. I was also supposed to tell you about the Ajanine situation, make it clear that, whatever de Mailhac thinks she’s doing, Caiazzo has nothing to do with it.” He shook his head. “But this… this is worse than any of us imagined. I don’t want Caiazzo hanged for a high treason he’s not committing. He’s been going mad from the want of gold, it could be a disaster if he doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t want queen’s gold, he wants spending gold.”

“Caiazzo has a magist in his household, doesn’t he?” Rathe said. “She must have suspected something when she heard the news.”

“She did,” Eslingen answered, “she mentioned aurichalcum, but she thought it was political. Something to do with the starchange and maybe with the clocks–which, as I said, is why I’m here.”

“She would have needed to know the children’s nativities to make the connection,” b’Estorr said, and Rathe nodded.

“Yeah, I can see that. But, gods, now we know–” He broke off as the door to the workroom opened again, and Monteia stepped out, waving a sheet of paper to dry the ink.

“Know what?” she asked, and Rathe bared teeth in a feral grin.

“Where the children are.”

“Where?”

“An estate called Mailhac, in the Ajanes.” Quickly, Rathe outlined Eslingen’s information. “It fits, Chief, and too well to be a coincidence. This has got to be where they are.”

Monteia nodded thoughtfully. “A noble. That would explain how she could afford all these hired hands, or how this magist could, with a noble name to back him.” She looked at Eslingen. “I suppose I believe you when you say Caiazzo’s not involved.”

“If he were,” the soldier answered, “I wouldn’t be here.”

“True enough,” Monteia said.

“We have to send someone after them,” Rathe said, “and I want it to be me. Gods, if we move fast enough, Asheri’s only been gone since last evening, we might be able to overtake them.”

Monteia shook her head. “I can’t send you, Nico, and it’s not because I don’t agree with you. We don’t have the authority outside Astreiant, you know that. That’s the queen’s business.”

“If we can convince her, or her ministers or whoever, intendants probably, to act in time,” Rathe said, bitterly.

“Which is why I want you–and Master b’Estorr and Master Eslingen, if he’s willing–to go to the surintendant,” Monteia went on as though he hadn’t spoken, though Eslingen suspected from the set of her lip that she was barely holding her own temper in check. “Tell him what we’ve found, and see what he can do.”

Rathe nodded, tightly. “Sorry, Chief.”

Eslingen sighed. “Caiazzo is simply going to love this.”

“Caiazzo,” Rathe said, “will appreciate not being hauled up on treason charges. Come on.”

They took a low‑flyer, and Rathe paid without demur. As they climbed out of the carriage outside the Tour, Eslingen glanced uncertainly up at the thick stone walls. It looked more like a fortress–more like the gatehouse it had once been, the strongest point in the city walls–than a court of justice, and he couldn’t help wondering just how much of the old ways still prevailed within those walls, in spite of all the boasting. Caiazzo would not be pleased, he was sure of that, and wished for an instant that there had been time to contact the trader, ask what he wanted done. But Rathe was right, time was short, especially if there was to be any chance of overtaking this last victim. He took a deep breath, and followed the others into the dimly lit building.

Rathe spoke quietly to the first green‑robed clerk he saw, and within minutes, they were ushered into the surintendant’s room. Eslingen glanced around once, quickly, impressed in spite of himself by the delicately painted paneling, fruited vines climbing pale willow trellises, and the obviously expensive furniture. Then the man behind the desk cleared his throat, and Eslingen blinked, startled. The surintendant wore plain black, unrelieved by any lace, just the pale linen at collar and cuffs, and his thinning hair was cut unfashionably short. He raised one sandy eyebrow in chill query, and Eslingen found himself wondering whether the furniture or the clothes represented the man’s real taste.

“We know what’s happening to the children, sir,” Rathe said, and Eslingen saw the older man blink.

“Then you had better sit down, hadn’t you? Magist b’Estorr I know, primarily by reputation, but this gentleman?”

Eslingen met the cold stare calmly. “Philip Eslingen, lieutenant, late of Coindarel’s Dragons, currently of the household of Hanselin Caiazzo.”

“Indeed?” Fourie looked at Rathe, the hint of a smile on his thin lips.

“Not what you think, sir,” Rathe answered, and no longer felt the triumph he had expected. It was a hollow victory, with Asheri lost. “When we determined that the one thing all the lads had in common was that they knew their stars to better than the quarter hour, I asked Istre to look at all of them together, to see if he could find something in common there–why these children, with these stars.”

b’Estorr said, “What I found was that there was only one magistical process for which these nativities, and children, would be suitable. And that is the making of aurichalcum.”

“Even Caiazzo isn’t that stupid, or ambitious that way,” Fourie said. His eyes narrowed. “Those damned hedge‑astrologers, and you were right, Rathe, and I was wrong.” He looked at Eslingen then. “Or was I?”

Eslingen took a long breath, choosing his words carefully. “Master Caiazzo has–interests–in an estate in the Ile’nord, in the Ajanes, more properly. And there’s a gold mine on that estate.”

“Which has been funding his sudden prosperity, I daresay,” Fourie muttered. “Go on.”

“The owner of the estate has taken in a magist,” Eslingen said, “who seems to be keeping the gold for his own purposes, and is willing to kill to keep them secret.” He gave an edited version of the previous night’s events, stressing that Caiazzo had been waiting for an overdue payment. “Master Caiazzo thought it was just de Mailhac pushing to see how much she could get away with, she did that last year, too, or at worst that she’d overspent herself and didn’t have the money to send, never something like this. As soon as he realized it involved politics, he sent me to the points.”

“And that was the last piece we needed,” Rathe said. “The children are at Mailhac, in the Ajanes.”

Fourie leaned back in his chair, pressing his long fingers together at the tips. “It’s never the easiest solution with you, is it, Rathe? An estate in the Ajanes, which means it falls under the rule of four quarters.” He shook his head. “It’ll take time to organize an expedition, a few days at least–”

“We don’t have that much time,” Rathe said. “Putting aside the kids, we don’t know what he’s mining the aurichalcum for, we could be standing on the edge of a disaster–”

b’Estorr cut in, his own voice uncharacteristically urgent. “The clocks–aurichalcum moves clocks, or it can, it has powers most of us don’t even dream of, not in our nightmares. There’s no time to be lost.”

“There’s no time left,” Rathe said.

Fourie lifted a hand, and Rathe subsided reluctantly. “I have no authority outside Astreiant. No pointsman, adjunct point, or surintendant himself has that authority outside the city. Much as I’d like to, much as I desperately want to, I can’t send you or anyone into the Ajanes. I don’t have the power.”

It was an impasse, Eslingen thought, and a bad one. He looked at Rathe, seeing the frustration barely held in check, saw the same anger, better hidden, in the magist’s eyes. He said, slowly, certain he would regret it later, “Denizard–Caiazzo’s household magist–she said Hanse would have to send someone north to deal with all of this. Admittedly, that was before we knew what was going on–” And Caiazzo still doesn’t, he realized abruptly, would be furious when he was told. “–but I can’t see that it’ll change things. Someone will still have to deal with de Mailhac, and I don’t see why that someone can’t also deal with the magist and the children.”

“He has the resources,” Fourie said, with distaste. “And I’m sure a little good will from the judiciary wouldn’t come amiss. Especially given the questionable nature of his involvement in this entire affair.”

“The main thing is the children,” Eslingen answered, and prayed he wasn’t committing himself too deeply for Caiazzo to back him up. “Caiazzo has been made part of this without his knowledge and against his will. I know he’ll want to put it right.”

Fourie stared at him for a long moment, then reached for a sheet of paper. He dipped his pen in the silver inkwell and began to write, saying, “I’m not fond of relying on people like Caiazzo–or anyone outside the judiciary or the nobility, Lieutenant, not your master in particular. This should be a matter of the law. But, as you say, the children have to be our main concern.” He looked at Rathe, his pen never pausing. “Rathe, I want you to go with him. Mind you, this is not an order, I cannot order you to do anything outside the city, but you’re the best man I have.”

“Of course I’ll go,” Rathe said, and Fourie nodded.

“b’Estorr I can’t give any orders at all, but I imagine his talents would come in very useful.”

b’Estorr looked at Eslingen. “If you’ll have me, yes, I’ll come.” His mouth tightened. “I’d like to see the end of this.”

“You’d be welcome,” Eslingen answered, and meant it.

“I wish I could send a troop of the royal guard with you,” Fourie went on, and lifted the sheet of paper, waving it to dry the ink, then reached for his seal and a stick of wax. “Unfortunately, there isn’t time to arrange it. What I can do, have done, is send you with a letter authorizing you to call on the royal auxiliaries in the area.” He glanced at another sheet of paper, looked at Eslingen with another of his thin smiles. “They’re commanded by your old colonel, Lieutenant. It makes one wonder what Coindarel has done this time.” He looked back at Rathe, held out the sheet of paper. “Use it if you need to, Nico. I hope you don’t.”

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.

“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 hope 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?”

“Go ahead.”

Once bathed and dressed, they made their way to Denizard’s room. It was indeed much larger, and the paneling was carved and painted with scenes from some local battle. A long mirror stood in one corner–obviously a new addition to the house, Rathe thought, and surveyed his reflection dubiously. He had brought his best coat, but it still sat badly on him, and the plain wool was creased from the days in the pack. Still, he thought, glancing at the others for reassurance, no one looked much better–Denizard’s skirts were crumpled beneath the concealing magist’s robe, and b’Estorr’s stock had definitely seen better days. Then there was a soft knock at the door and Eslingen came in, elegant in a dark blue coat that set off his pale skin and jet hair to perfection. His linen looked at first glance as though it had been freshly ironed, and the skirts of his coat were arranged to hide the worst of the wrinkles. Rathe shook his head, impressed in spite of himself. Eslingen was going to go head to head with the nobility itself, and just might come out on top. No one speaks a language so precisely as one who isn’t born to it.

“So,” Denizard said. She gave her reflection a final critical glance, and adjusted her lace‑edged cap. “Are we ready?”

“We’d better be,” Rathe said. “How does she seem to you?”

“Nervous,” Denizard said, with a small shake of her head. “Not terribly, but there’s an undercurrent there. She’s not best pleased to see us. That could just be because she knows Hanse is extremely irked, but I don’t think so. She was a lot sharper last year–this spring, for that matter. You saw how she tried to come the aristocrat with that comment about his business?”

Rathe nodded.

“Normally she pulls that off a lot more convincingly. She’s lacking a good deal of her usual ginger,” Denizard said grimly, “and that makes me nervous.” She took a breath. “Shall we go down?”

“Oh, let’s,” Eslingen murmured, bowing Denizard through the door.

A waiting servant led them from their rooms through the main hall to a smaller room that had been converted for dining. A fire burned in the hearth there, small but throwing enough heat to take the worst of the damp from the air, and de Mailhac stood by the hearth, the flames striking highlights from her skirt. She had changed her dress, but the fabric was still the same flattering shade of green, bodice and sleeves embroidered with scrolls of gold. The long table was set for six, Rathe saw, and the light from a dozen thick candles struck slivers of light from silver and glass. It was all a great deal less barbaric than he had expected from an Ajanine noble, he thought. Obviously, de Mailhac furnished her household from Chenedolle proper.

“Now I can bid you a proper welcome to Mailhac,” de Mailhac said. “We may not be in Astreiant, but–I think–we set a table that won’t disgrace us.” She took a breath, though her smile did not dim. “There is another guest here at Mailhac whom you’ll meet shortly, a magist like yourself, Aicelin–Yvonou Timenard. Perhaps you know him? Though I doubt he’s of your college.”

Denizard shook her head. “I’ve not traveled too far from Astreiant, I’m afraid, except on Hanselin’s business. No, I don’t know him, but I do look forward to meeting a colleague.”

Rathe glanced at b’Estorr, but the necromancer’s face was blank. Not a name he knew either, Rathe guessed, and looked back at de Mailhac.

The door opened then, and a man came in, a magist’s dark robe hanging open over a respectable belly. He looked to be past his middle years, his thinning hair almost white, but his round face was unwrinkled, showed nothing but an almost childlike embarrassment.

“Maseigne, I understood you have other guests. Please do forgive my appalling tardiness–I hope you’ve not held dinner on my account.” He trundled over to de Mailhac, looking a little like a child’s clockwork toy, and came to a stop, looking expectantly up at her. She smiled faintly at him–she bettered his height by a good hand’s breadth–and extended a hand to introduce him to the others.

“Yvonou, may I present Aicelin Denizard–also a magist, and an important member of Master Caiazzo’s household. Aicelin, Yvonou Timenard, who has been good enough to join my household.”

“Delighted to meet you,” Timenard exclaimed, and clasped Denizard’s hand with enthusiasm. Watching him, Rathe felt his heart sink. They had come so far, risked so much on what was really a chain of coincidence and guesses, and then to find this, that de Mailhac’s mysterious magist was this child’s toy of a man… He bit back his fears. Looks could easily deceive, he knew that well enough, but even so it was hard to believe that Timenard was capable of anything as complicated as the theft of the children.

De Mailhac introduced the others then, and Timenard offered his hand to Eslingen as well, pronouncing himself pleased to meet another representative of their mutual acquaintance. He was perfectly polite to the other two, but his greeting was less effusive, marking their relative status to a nicety.

“Well, this is pleasant, maseigne and I have been our only company for the past several weeks, it’s always nice to have new faces and fresh conversation–and from the capital, too, that’s an unlooked for treat.”

The door opened again, and de Mailhac nodded with what looked like relief to the servant who stood there. “Dinner is ready,” she said. “Please, be seated.”

They took their places, de Mailhac at the head of the table, Denizard at the foot, and a woman servant began to pour the wine. Timenard was seated at de Mailhac’s right hand, Rathe saw, the position corresponding to Eslingen’s, and took his own place opposite the magist.

“And how is the capital?” Timenard asked. “As exciting as always? We’re so isolated here, we long for tales of the court, don’t we, maseigne?”

“It’s pleasant to have a change,” de Mailhac agreed. Her hand on her wine glass was white‑knuckled, Rathe observed. If she wasn’t careful, she’d shatter the stem and that would draw attention, certainly unwanted. Timenard’s eyes flicked sideways then, and Rathe thought he saw the ghost of a frown cross his round features. De Mailhac seemed to see it as well, and relaxed her grip on the glass. She took a hasty swallow, and set it down again, laying her hand flat on the table top. She wore no rings, Rathe saw, no jewelry at all, and that seemed odd.

“We’re hardly at court, any of us,” Denizard demurred, and Rathe thought he caught a gleam in Timenard’s eye. Not triumph, he thought, but more satisfaction, as though the older magist had scored a point. No, of course none of them would have any dealings with the court, they were all of common birth, no better than merchant class, and rank seemed to matter here, to Timenard and to de Mailhac. It would matter to de Mailhac, seeing as it was a merchant‑venturer who had gotten the better of her enough to secure the rights to her estate and the gold produced on it. But Timenard? There were astrologers at court, certainly, but aside from that, magists were not in great number in the queen’s court. Was he ambitious? Or was he ambitious on behalf of one of the potential candidates, and grateful that none of their guests were likely to know much about the tangles of the succession? Or was it something else altogether?

“No, of course not,” Timenard replied, sounding absurdly sad. “Not working for a trader, as you all do. But surely there is at least gossip you can share? Who’s in favor, who isn’t, who’s brought a new color into favor?”

Denizard and b’Estorr exchanged looks. “I’m afraid we’ve been too busy this summer to pay much attention to anything beyond the great gossip. Everyone talks of the starchange, of course.”

“And the missing children,” Rathe said. He watched Timenard as he spoke, and thought he saw a ghost of something, a shrewd intelligence, maybe, flash in the pale eyes.

“Missing children?” de Mailhac repeated, her voice flat. “We’ve heard nothing of that.”

“But we have, maseigne,” Timenard said. “You remember, the man who came earlier this month, he mentioned something of the sort.” He looked at Rathe, smiling. “Children of the common folk, he said, who had disappeared, or possibly run away. I’m afraid we didn’t pay much attention, under the circumstances.”

“And why would you?” Rathe said softly, fighting to control his anger. “The problem seems to be confined to Astreiant.”

“Sad for the city, but yes,” Timenard agreed.

Denizard shrugged, forced a smiled. “For anything else, I’m afraid we’ve been working too hard to take much notice. I’m sorry to be such an unentertaining guest, I feel as though I’m not earning my keep.”

“Nothing of the sort,” de Mailhac interposed quickly, before Timenard could say anything. The old magist looked absurdly disappointed, and his bottom lip, Rathe would have wagered, trembled as though he were about to cry. What in the name of all the gods are we dealing with here? he thought. Or did I get it all wrong? Is this simply a commercial deal gone wrong, nothing to do with the children? He pushed the thought down. The stories of the wagons passing by Chaix, of the three riders with a child, moving fast, the whole oddity of this evening–it all had to mean something.

De Mailhac turned to Denizard and Eslingen. “And how is Hanselin? We never get to see him here, only when I travel to the court at Astreiant.”

“He’s well enough, maseigne, though, as I said, troubled by the silence and, more importantly, the lack of any deliveries from Mailhac,” Denizard said. Her voice was pleasant enough, but there were teeth behind the words. “He is not a man to cross, maseigne, I do beg you to believe that. And the two of you have an agreement, an oath of honor between you, that he should regret deeply were it to be broken.” The magist lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug.

De Mailhac glanced almost involuntarily at Timenard, and the round man leaned forward.

“Oh, dear, yes, that is fully understood, and very distressing it must be for Master Caiazzo to find his plans delayed. But…” Timenard spread his hands. “He must understand, the mines here at Mailhac are virtually played out. I have been doing everything in my power to help maseigne eke out what we can, but it’s barely enough to support the estate itself, let alone such grand merchant plans as Caiazzo must have in train.”

“Ah. And why not just tell Hanse that?” Denizard asked, still pleasantly. “I’m sure–something–could be worked out.”

“But the people he sent… we sent them back to him with just that message, begging his patience and understanding. Are you saying he never received word?” Timenard blinked at her in what looked like genuine puzzlement.

Denizard turned a crust of bread between her fingers. “No,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Not precisely. As I told the maseigne when we arrived, only one messenger returned to Astreiant, and he was attacked and nearly killed on the road south.”

De Mailhac and Timenard exchanged looks, and the magist laid his hand briefly on the noble’s where it lay on the tablecloth. Rathe, watching closely, couldn’t be sure if the magist meant to comfort or to warn her.

“But that’s–dreadful,” Timenard said. “What must he think of us, of matters here? He must surely think maseigne is trying to renege on–as you say–a pledge of honor, and that is not to be borne.”

“After last summer…” Denizard said, and let the words hang in the air. “You can understand our concern.”

Eslingen cleared his throat. “We understood that the mines did well enough for you to have spent the Spring Balance at court, maseigne. And that’s not a cheap proposition.”

Timenard’s face flushed pink, his bright blue eyes wide and a little angry, and de Mailhac’s eyes fell. The old magist frowned at her, and looked at Eslingen.

“I’m delighted Master Caiazzo’s people are so well informed, but they don’t, perhaps, know everything.”

De Mailhac stirred, seemed about to speak, and Timenard turned to her, continuing earnestly, “Please, maseigne, you must let me explain to them, it’s likely the only thing that will satisfy your associate.”

De Mailhac lifted a hand in permission–or was it acquiescence? Rathe wondered–and Timenard gave her a half bow, turned to speak to Denizard. “As I said, we fully understand the constraints the lack of gold must place on Master Caiazzo, but, also as I said, it has been completely unavoidable. Yes, maseigne visited the court at the Spring Balance, but the reason will, I hope, appease you and Master Caiazzo.”

Denizard inclined her head. “I hope so, too, Magist Timenard. I most sincerely hope so.”

“Maseigne understands the obligation she is under to Caiazzo, rest assured of that, and it was because of this obligation that she attended the queen this spring past. There is, just to the east of this land, an open parcel on which, it is likely, are further deposits, enough to satisfy both Caiazzo and the requirements of managing an estate such as Mailhac. Maseigne petitioned the queen to extend Mailhac’s seigneurial rights to that parcel.”

“I see.” Denizard sounded almost suspiciously demure. “And did Her Majesty grant this petition?”

“It’s still under advisement,” Timenard conceded, a trifle stiffly. “We expect a decision by the Fall Balance.”

“That’s rather late for the trading season, surely,” Eslingen murmured in a tone of silken menace, and Rathe, despite himself, hid a smile. This was a very different Eslingen from the one who had been Devynck’s knife.

“Entirely too late for bankers’ comfort,” b’Estorr agreed.

“But there seems to be little or nothing either Maseigne de Mailhac or Magist Timenard are capable of doing about it,” Denizard said, and managed to make it a mild rebuke.

De Mailhac spread her hands. “I wish there were something I could do, Aicelin, truly. I know Hanselin to be an honorable man, and I have appreciated his forbearing these few months. If there were any way I could supply his needs–and my obligation–then please believe I would.”

Denizard smiled gravely. “I have to, maseigne, and will certainly take your word to Caiazzo, though I’m sure you’ll be willing to show me your plans in more detail–perhaps a visit to the mine, or to this new land, would be in order.” This time, Rathe was sure he saw fear flare in the landame’s eyes, but Denizard continued without hesitation. “In any case, I know he’ll be relieved to hear of the possibility of redress.”

“The mine itself is always dangerous ground, no one goes there,” de Mailhac began, and Timenard cut her off, his voice riding over whatever else she would have said.

“But the miners are competent, maseigne. I’m sure something can be arranged.”

De Mailhac’s smile looked forced, but she murmured something that was obviously meant for’agreement. The rest of the dinner passed in polite conversation, and when the foursome excused themselves, pleading the day’s travel, the landame nodded and managed to look only mildly relieved. Timenard rose with them, his earlier good nature evidently restored by the rich red wine. He summoned servants to light them to their rooms, and wished them a cheerful good night from the bottom of the main staircase, but Rathe could feel his eyes on them as they climbed toward their rooms.

Once the servant had left, the four gathered again in Denizard’s room, and Rathe prodded moodily at the dying fire. Outside the shuttered window, the wind was rising, soughing through the trees above the manor house.

“Someone’s lying, in a big way,” Denizard said after a moment, and b’Estorr nodded. He crossed to the window and pulled the shutters aside, staring out into the half light. The weather was breaking, Rathe saw over the other man’s shoulder, the clouds were shredding to reveal patches of sky and what was left of the winter‑sun’s light. It was another hour or two to the second sunset, he thought, and realized with some surprise that he hadn’t seen a clock in any of the rooms.

“Obviously, but they said so much, and so little, where’s the exact lie?” Eslingen asked. “I don’t believe the mines are played out, not the way that table was set and provisioned, not with gold about the only means of support for an estate like this–does this look like good farmland to any of you?”

“Well, one thing they’re lying about,” Rathe said, “is her stay at court. Or the reason for it.” He got up, went to join b’Estorr at the window. “Look, I served the Judge‑Advocate Foucquet when I was a boy, I’ve seen cases like this. There is no way either the law, or the queen, for that matter, would permit a petty Ile’nord ladyling”–his voice was savage–“to extend her rights to free land. And even if the law permitted it, Her Majesty wouldn’t countenance it.” He remembered standing behind Foucquet in the great hall of the Tour, watching the queen with adolescent awe. She was a tall woman anyway, and her anger at a southern noble who was seeking much the same kind of extension de Mailhac said she sought had only seemed to make her taller. Nobles, she said, could learn to live within their means, certainly within their lands. She would set no potential strife in motion by increasing holdings that had been sufficient and more than sufficient for generations. Free land was just that, and would remain so, for the use of people who farmed or herded for themselves alone, or their families.

Denizard nodded. “I agree. I doubt Her Majesty would extend de Mailhac’s rights in any case, and certainly not over mining land, but I don’t know how much it helps us.” She looked at b’Estorr. “I don’t suppose you recognized this Timenard?”

The necromancer shook his head. “I didn’t see a badge, either.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Eslingen asked, and b’Estorr looked at him.

“It could mean any number of things. The main one is, we can’t tell what his training is–or was, since if he’s making aurichalcum on this scale he’s definitely stepped outside the bounds of any legitimate school. And that means we can’t be sure what he’s capable of.”

“You know,” Denizard said, slowly, “I think he was already here in the spring, when I was. He didn’t wear a magist’s robe then, and I didn’t pay much attention to him–he certainly wasn’t being introduced to the honored guests at that point. But I’m almost sure I saw him.”

Eslingen grimaced. “Well, one thing’s for certain, Malivai was right. It’s him who calls the tune here now. It’s subtle, but when it comes to it, he makes the decisions.”

Rathe nodded. “And I think they were lying about not having heard about the children. She was, certainly, I’m sure she knew they were missing.”

Denizard sighed. “I agree.”

“I did wonder why you’d mentioned that,” Eslingen said.

“I thought it would be more suspicious if we didn’t,” Rathe answered. “Timenard’s agents must have warned him that the city was upset, common folk like me would be bound to have it on their minds, to the exclusion of more important matters.

Denizard grinned. “He does think well of himself, doesn’t he? I haven’t seen so many airs and graces since I was last at court myself– and I’ll bet he’s lower born than any of us.”

Eslingen said slowly, “He’s not what I was expecting, I must say. Are–do you really think he’s behind all this?”

Now that it was said, Rathe was suddenly angry, and knew that the anger was masking his own uncertain fear. He swallowed hard, trying to still his instinctive response, said, “He calls the tune here, just like your messenger said. There’s no gold, though there’s enough money for them to live remarkably well, and de Mailhac, for one, didn’t want us to go to the mine. That’s enough–with everything else, that’s enough for me.”

“There’s more than that,” b’Estorr said, and turned away from the window at last. “Did you notice–did anyone see or hear a clock strike in this house since we’ve gotten here?”

Eslingen blinked. “Now that you mention it,” he began, and in the same moment, Rathe shook his head.

“I was noticing that, actually. Why–P” He stopped then, remembering the clocks in Astreiant striking the wrong hours, too soon, too late, time and the world suddenly askew, at odds with each other. “You think he was responsible for the clock‑night.”

b’Estorr sighed. “I don’t know if he did that. But aurichalcum is a potent metal–it’s one of the few things in the world that’s strong enough to affect a well‑made clock. If he’s mining and manipulating it in quantity, it would certainly throw off the household’s timepieces. And I think it would ultimately be less suspicious to get rid of the clocks than to try to explain why they were running badly.”

“There were clocks here last summer,” Denizard said. “Handsome ones–an old one that had to be an heirloom, and a very nice modern case‑clock up in the gallery, at least from what I saw. They weren’t here this spring. I thought she’d just sold them for the money, but now…”

“What in Dis’s name can he want with that much aurichalcum?”

b’Estorr muttered, and no one answered.

After a moment, Rathe said, “I suppose our next step is to go to the mine, see if the kids are there.”

“What we need to do,” b’Estorr said, and kicked the edge of the hearth, “is to put paid to his plans, whatever they are. And the one sure way to do that is to pollute the mine.”

Rathe looked at him. “I may not want to know this, but how do we do that?”

b’Estorr took a breath. “Oh, it’s fairly easy. The mere presence of adults–worldly wise, probably inappropriately born–in the mine itself will taint the gold and spoil the whole process.” There was a small silence, the fire hissing in the grate. Rathe stared at the coals, trying to imagine getting into a mine without being seen.

“What about the children?” he said aloud, and b’Estorr gave him an unhappy glance.

“If Timenard is mining aurichalcum, creating it in this kind of quantity–he’s put his hands on a source of power that frightens me. It’s the kind of power, at least in potential, that moves mountains, and I mean that literally. You saw what it was like at Wicked’s, and his power will only have increased from then. The children are less important than stopping whatever it is he’s doing, Nico. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

Rathe shook his head, wanting to deny the other’s words, but stopped by the note in the necromancer’s voice, by his own memories. “We can’t just leave them,” he said, and Eslingen cleared his throat.

“We can’t make any real plans until we know what conditions are like at the mine. We might be able to pollute it and get the children free at the same time.”

b’Estorr said quietly, “Of course, the only problem then is that getting out of Mailhac, with or without eighty‑five children, may be rather difficult.”

“Are magists always given to understatement?” Eslingen asked.

Rathe shook his head. “Well, but something like this is what we have the sur’s warrant for. We use it. We send for Coindarel’s regiment.”

“To, basically, attack an Ile’nord holding? Will he come?” Denizard asked, and Eslingen smiled, spoke before Rathe could reply.

“I think I can send a message with the warrant that will bring him. Coindarel has, I think, probably more quarterings than maseigne here.”

“If you can, Philip,” Rathe began, and Eslingen help up a hand.

“I can.”

“So we’re agreed, then,” Rathe said, and looked at b’Estorr. “If we send for Coindarel now, we’ll have–what, three, maybe four hours to do what we have to before he can get here with his troop. That should give you time to do what you need to do with the mine, and at the same time, give us a chance to get the kids into some temporary shelter.”

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 half‑pikes 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.

The wind was still strong, tearing the clouds of the day apart to let through bits of starlight. Rathe stopped, confused by the dark and the sighing trees, and Denizard pushed past him, a dark lantern ready in her hand.

“This way,” she said, and the others followed.

She led them cautiously around the manor house, following some path that Rathe couldn’t see, and brought them out at last beside a small stream. Now, at the height of the summer, it was more sound than water, the stream itself perhaps a foot wide, clattering over the rocks at the center of its bed, but Denizard’s lantern showed higher banks where the spring floods had carved a deeper channel. Beyond the far bank, a path led uphill following the course of the stream, barely wide enough for a man and a pack pony to walk abreast. It rose steeply, without much regard for travellers’ footing on the rocky ground, and Rathe heard Eslingen swear under his breath. Denizard heard him, too, and gave a grim smile.

“It’s all uphill from here,” she said, and the soldier swore again.

“How far?” Rathe asked, adjusting the sword he’d borrowed from b’Estorr, and the woman shrugged.

“According to the deed to the estate, a couple of miles, but it’s always felt further to me. The road gets better about half a mile up–this is the path they use to bring the gold down, they don’t want it to seem easy to strangers.”

Rathe sighed at that and glanced up, wishing that the trees didn’t cut off so much of the starlight. The waning moon was no help at all, had already set, and Denizard’s dark lantern did little more than add to the darkness. Rathe looked away from it deliberately, stretching his eyes as though that would help him find his night sight more quickly somehow, and followed the others up the stony path. As Denizard had promised, it got easier as they climbed higher, widening until two horses could walk abreast, but even so it took most of their concentration to keep from slipping on the rocky track. It was well over an hour later when Eslingen, walking a little ahead of the others, stopped and held out a hand.

Denizard shuttered her lantern instantly. “What is it?” she murmured, her voice barely a breath above a whisper, and Eslingen waved her toward the woods.

“Guardpost,” he murmured. “Only a couple of men, so it’s not the real thing yet.”

“Probably here to catch any of the children who try to make a run for it,” Rathe whispered, and ducked behind b’Estorr into the shadow of a bush. He could see movement now, darker shadows among the trees, and then, as one turned, he saw the spark of a lit slow match bobbing at chest height. He held his breath, seeing that, fought the urge to duck, and the spark moved away again, vanished as the guard turned back to his post.

“Probably,” Eslingen agreed, “but we can’t afford a fight at this stage. We’ll have to go around.”

Denizard made a sound that might have been a sigh. “This way.”

She led them up the slope to her left, climbing cautiously through the trees and rock until they could pass the guards unseen and unheard. The guards’ interest seemed to be focussed on the mine; they stood facing uphill, turning only occasionally to glance back down the road toward Mailhac. They had a brazier with them, and a lantern, Rathe saw, and hoped it had ruined their night vision.

Even after they had passed the guardpost, Denizard did not return to the road but led them along the slope parallel to it, her boots silent in the thick carpet of dead leaves and debris. It was quiet enough, Rathe thought, following more cautiously, but the same soft cover hid all but the largest rocks and was dangerously slick in places, making the footing treacherous. He slipped once, and swore silently, pain shooting up from a wrenched toe, but that eased almost at once and he allowed himself a soft sigh of relief. All they would need now was for someone to get hurt.

Ahead, a light showed between the trees, a cool, diffuse light, and Eslingen stopped, tilting his head to one side. “Mage‑fire?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, and b’Estorr nodded.

“I would say so. They’ll have to work all hours to take advantage of the proper stars, and there’s no better way to light this large a space.”

“This way,” Denizard said, and pointed to her left again. She led them further up the slope where the trees and brush were thicker, crouched at last behind a cluster of rocks and screening bushes. Rathe copied her, then reached aside to part the branches, staring down at the mine. It lay in a hollow, long since cleared, filled with the cool, shadowless light of the mage‑fire like sunlight through fog. If anything, the area seemed surprisingly ordinary, the long run of the sluice lying crooked across the yard, the stone storehouse with its iron‑bound door, the scattering of wooden shacks that must hold tools–ordinary indeed, Rathe thought, except for the children. A gang of twenty or more stood at the long table at the mouth of the sluice, picking listlessly through the rubble that covered its surface. Behind them, the mine entrance loomed, an empty hole framed with heavy timbers. The mage‑light didn’t penetrate its darkness, and Rathe suppressed a shiver at the sight, made himself look more carefully at the yard. There were more guards, of course, a trio–all armed with calivers and swords, though no armor–keeping a close eye on the laboring children, and at least five more scattered across the yard, two by the storehouse, the other three on the hillside to the right of the mine. He shook his head, watching the children work, their movements slow and uncoordinated.

“Why make them work at such an hour?” he asked.

“Taking advantage of a favorable conjunction,” Denizard answered, almost absently, and Rathe nodded. He had known the answer, or could have guessed it, but he was glad to hear another voice.

b’Estorr reached for his pocket orrery, looked up to the sky to find the clock‑stars among the scudding clouds, then held the little engine so that its rings were lit by the reflected glow of the mage‑fire. He twisted one of the inner rings, and frowned as the metal refused to move. Denizard frowned, too, and b’Estorr pressed harder. This time, the orrery turned easily, and he checked the settings.

“Trouble?” Denizard asked, and b’Estorr glanced at her.

“It may just need oiling.”

Denizard lifted an eyebrow at that, and b’Estorr sighed. “Or there’s enough aurichalcum down there to affect it. But whatever it is, that conjunction is ending–it has to be within a degree or two to be effective. So the children should be let off any minute.”

Eslingen nudged Rathe. “Look.” He pointed to one of the guards, who had set down his caliver and was consulting a battered‑looking almanac. A moment later, the man put a whistle to his lips, the shrill sound seeming to make the mage‑fire shiver, and the children stopped what they were doing. One, too slow, too tired, kept going, pulling a chunk of rock from the table, and the closest guard cuffed him, hard, then tossed the rock away. Together he and the others began herding the children back toward the stone storehouse–which had to be the stronghouse for the mine, Rathe realized. What safer place to keep the children than in a place meant to be locked and defended? And how in the name of all the gods are we ever going to get them out of there? he thought. Or, for that matter, how are we going to get into the mine?

Eslingen seemed to have the same thought, and turned to look at the magists. “You expect to get in there?”

b’Estorr nodded. “We have to. It’s the only way to be sure.”

Eslingen slid back down, to sit on the dirt with his back against a rock, and Rathe saw the glint of white as he rolled his eyes. “The madness of magists,” he muttered, and took a breath. “Right, then, I’ll have to clear you a way, won’t I?” He started to get to his feet, but Rathe put a hand on his arm.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Cause a distraction–draw off the guards and keep them busy while the magists do their work.” Eslingen glanced around the rocky ground. “There’s plenty of cover, and we’ve got four pistols between us. We should be able to hold them.”

Rathe shook his head. “If you want to do that, and I think it will work, we have to free the kids first. Otherwise they can use them against us.” He squinted through the trees toward the storehouse. The children had vanished inside, and now the guards were taking up their positions outside the door–only two of them, Rathe saw, but that was enough. “A distraction would be nice for that, too.”

“We could probably provide that,” Denizard said, and b’Estorr showed teeth in an angry smile.

“I’d like nothing better.”

“Can the two of you handle the mine yourselves?” Rathe asked.

“Oh, yes,” Denizard said. “Polluting the mine is really quite simple–I’m sure that’s why the guards aren’t at the entrance itself.”

“It’s just getting away from it that might be difficult,” Eslingen muttered. He shook his head. “This is getting complicated.”

“I don’t think we have any alternative,” Rathe answered. He looked at the magists. “All right. Give us time to get into position, and then– make noise or something. Draw off the guards. We’ll release the kids, and then return the favor.”

“Freeing the children will probably be a good enough distraction in itself,” Eslingen said, and grimaced at Rathe’s glare. “Well, it will be. And they have every incentive not to hurt them, which is more than I can say for us.”

b’Estorr nodded. “As soon as we see the children leave, we’ll head for the mine.”

They were right, Rathe admitted, much as he hated the idea, and nodded shortly. “All right,” he said again. “Let’s go.”

They made their way along the side of the hill, careful to stay well back in the shadow of the trees. The glow of the mage‑fire was both a help and a hindrance, enough to light their way but deceptive in the lack of shadows. It seemed to take forever to reach the slope overlooking the stronghouse, and almost as long again to work their way cautiously down to the edge of the clearing. Rathe was sweating freely, certain that they had taken took long and that the magists would act before they were ready, but made himself stay behind Eslingen, matching the soldier’s pace. At last, they reached the edge of the trees and stood peering out at the building.

“Two guards on the door,” Eslingen said, his voice a mere breath of sound. “But the others have a clear view, damn it.”

Rathe nodded, the weight of the pistol awkward in his belt. At least it was a flintlock, not the matchlocks the guards were carrying, but he wished he had more than one. He jumped as a crack like breaking wood sounded from the other side of the yard, and then realized that the magists were finally moving. The sound was repeated closer in, and the guards started toward it, leaping the stream and heading up the slope.

“There he goes,” Eslingen said softly, and Rathe saw one of the two guards from the stronghouse move to join the others.

“I suppose it was too much to hope they’d both go,” he muttered, and saw Eslingen smile.

“Be grateful for small favors,” he said, and darted forward, pistol raised. He dropped the remaining guard with a single blow and dragged the unconscious figure out of sight while Rathe surveyed the building. There was only a single lock on the door, but it was a heavy one, and he didn’t dare risk the noise trying to shoot it off. He took a step back, peering up into the darkness. There were, of course, no windows–why should there be, in a building designed to keep gold safe?–and he swore softly. Eslingen stepped up beside him, leveling the musket he’d taken from the guard, but Rathe pushed the barrel aside.

“I don’t see that we have any choice,” Eslingen said.

Rathe shook his head. “Oh, yes, we do. Keep an eye out, would you?” The soldier turned obediently to face the yard, shouldering the musket. Rathe pulled a small knife from his sleeve and set to work on the mechanics of the lock. It was not, he saw with considerable relief, a mage lock, and why should it be? Trouble was the last thing Timenard was expecting, his plan had been almost perfect. Not, Rathe thought, propitiatingly, that he had grown careless, or that Rathe thought him a fool. But the lock was a fairly straightforward affair for one born and bred in Astreiant’s southriver. He felt the mechanism give, gave a small grunt of satisfaction, and wrenched the lock from the door. Eslingen gave him a slightly incredulous look.

“Did you learn that before or after you became a pointsman?” he asked. Rathe just bared his teeth at him, and plunged into the darkness. With a small sigh, Eslingen followed, striking a flint and lighting one of the lamps along the wall. There were three barred doors off the little entrance way, two to the right, a single one to the left, each with a grilled opening in the center. Rathe tapped quietly at one of the right‑hand doors. There was no response from behind it, but there was a small scurry of noise from behind its neighbor. Then a face appeared in the small, barred window: Asheri. Rathe let his eyes flicker closed for an instant, then moved to investigate the lock.

She looked surprised when she saw Rathe, and then relieved. “I thought it would have to be you, Nico.”

“I’m glad you had faith in me, Asheri love. Are the boys in the other room?” Rathe asked. This lock was more complex, better built than the one on the main door, and he could feel the knife point slipping on its works without making contact.

“Yes.” She stuck her hand out the window, pointed to the door across the corridor. “Though why they think they have to separate us, I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t imagine the situation is conducive to misbehavior,” Rathe agreed. “Ash, keep the other girls quiet for me while I try to get this door opened. Then get them out and away from here as quickly as you can.”

“Would this help?” Eslingen said, from behind him, and held out a ring of keys. “It was hanging by the door.”

Rathe took them gratefully, found the right key on the second try, and swung the door wide. The room was full of children, all girls, all in the crumpled clothes they’d worn when they’d been taken. Someone–Rathe doubted it was Timenard–had given them straw and blankets, but the improvised beds just made the room look more pathetic. They were all standing now, the largest group huddled together as though they were cold. A tall girl with dark brown hair and wearing a green dress stood near Asheri–she had to be Herisse Robion, Rathe thought, and was almost surprised to realized he had never seen her before.

“It’s all right,” he said aloud, and hoped he sounded soothing. “I’m from Point of Hopes, we’ve come to get you out of here. The doors are open and the guards are busy elsewhere. I want you to head back down the mountain–follow the stream, not the path, it’ll take you to the road–as fast as you can.”

Robion nodded, grabbed the nearest girl, and shoved her toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

The urgency in her voice seemed to reach even the most frightened, and they began to file out the door, slowly at first, then faster. Eslingen shook his head, looked at Rathe. “I’ll cover them from the main door,” he said, and turned away, the matchlock still at the ready.

Asheri said, “I’ll stay with you, Nico.”

Rathe shook his head, trying the next key in the lock. “No, get moving, we’re not done yet.” The lock snapped free at last, and he pulled open the door.

This room looked much like the other except that it was filled with boys watching warily, poised to run or attack. Asheri said, “It’s all right, he’s from Point of Hopes.”

“Nicolas Rathe, adjunct point.” It seemed foolish to introduce himself there in the darkened strongroom, but he hoped it would make them listen. “We’ve got the doors open. Head down the mountain as fast as you can–follow the stream, the girls are ahead of you.”

“They’ve got guns,” a voice said, and there was the sound of a slap.

“Stupid. You want to stay here?”

“We’ve drawn off the guards,” Rathe said, and hoped it would still be true. “Now, get moving. Asheri, go with them.”

The boys began to move, Asheri with them, and Rathe made his way back to the doorway. He drew his pistol as the boys began to dart across the yard, heading for the downhill path and the stream, and joined Eslingen by the door.

“No sign of the guards?” he asked, and Eslingen shook his head.

“Are you thinking this might have been the easy part?”

Rathe nodded, grim‑faced. “I wonder how Istre and Denizard are doing.”

“I haven’t heard them in a while, so I guess they’re at the mine.” Eslingen drew back as the last boy shoved past them. “Maybe they need our help. I’m pretty impure. Do you suppose the less innocent a person is, the quicker the mine could be polluted?”

“Only one way to find out,” Rathe answered, and in the same instant, heard a shout from the hillside.

“Damn kids, get them!”

Rathe swore, heard himself echoed by Eslingen. He could see the first of the guards scrambling down out of the trees clutching his musket, and lifted his own pistol, saw Eslingen level the musket he’d taken from the guard.

“Mine, I think,” Eslingen said, and fired. The sound echoed in the greying darkness, bouncing off the rocky hills, and pulling the guards up short as though by a rope. They were out of range, and knew it, but the leader waved his arms, drawing his men back toward the yard.

“This is not a good spot for a pitched battle, Nico,” Eslingen said, and set the now‑empty musket neatly in the corner of the door.

“Even I can see that, but what choice did we have?” Rathe demanded.

“None, but now we have to think of something else.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Rathe said.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Eslingen said, and drew his pistol right‑handed. “If we can make it to the mine itself, that’ll give us some cover, and some time, right?”

“Right.”

“Go.” Eslingen said, drawing his sword, and he charged for the mine entrance. Rathe pounded after him, practically treading on his heels, knife in one hand, pistol in the other. He heard the snap of shots, and then the angry shout of the leader reminding his people they were out of range. Then they’d reached the entrance and plunged into the darkness. Rathe collapsed against the nearest wall, catching his breath, and peered out into the yard.

Outside, the guards stopped abruptly, unwilling to go in after them. And not unreasonably, Rathe thought, when all they have to do is wait for reinforcements. The mage‑light seemed to stop a few yards in front of the entrance, casting almost no light into the mine itself. Rathe blinked, dazzled by the contrast, and wondered if there were magistical reasons to keep the mage‑fire out of the mine itself. Everything felt ordinary enough, from the mud under his feet to the solid rock at his back, and he shrugged the thought away, looking at Eslingen. “Now what?” he asked, and hoped that, from all his soldiering, the other man might have some cache of ideas for handling what could rapidly become a siege situation. Before he could answer, however, both men caught sight of a light behind them, and Eslingen whirled, leveling his pistol by reflex.

“Easy,” Rathe said, recognizing the footsteps. Denizard’s dark lantern clicked open, throwing a fan of light across the rocky floor.

Denizard and b’Estorr stood behind the wedge of light. In the shadows, it was hard to see their expressions, but Rathe thought they looked sober, and the air teemed with the chill currents of b’Estorr’s ghosts. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise and said, “Were you able to do anything?”

Denizard half nodded, half shrugged. “Oh, polluting the workings was no problem. But if Timenard has taken as much gold as I think he has, and if all that gold has been processed into aurichalcum…” She shook her head. “b’Estorr’s right, it’s too much just to be politics, but what in all hells would require that much gold?”

“Istre?” Rathe turned to the other magist.

“I don’t know. I don’t even want to hazard a guess. But whatever it is, Nico, whatever he’s using it for or making with it, it will give him incredible power.”

“This is all very interesting,” Eslingen began from his place by the entrance, and stopped abruptly. They could all hear it now, a sudden confusion of voices and the sound of horses’ hooves first on stones and the hard‑packed ground of the yard, and then echoing on the bridge over the stream. Rathe swore again, and moved up to stand across the entrance from the soldier, peering cautiously out into the yard. The mage‑light had changed, strengthened, was enough to throw shadows now, and Timenard, an oddly foreshortened figure on a magnificent sorrel horse, had reined in at the center of the yard, seemingly oblivious to the way the horse sidled and danced beneath him. It was truly a gorgeous creature, enough to draw Rathe’s eye even under these circumstances, and he heard Eslingen give a soft whistle of admiration. The mage‑light seemed to gleam from its pale coat and the brighter strands of its mane and tail, turning them to gold. Behind him, a child cried out, and then another, and half a dozen guards appeared at the head of the path, dragging four of the children. They fought back hysterically, shrieking at the tops of their lungs, but the guards dragged them inexorably over the bridge.

“Shut up,” Timenard said, almost conversationally, and they were instantly silent. He had not looked back, but Rathe could feel the focus of his attention change, center on the mine and the dark entrance. He was sure Timenard couldn’t see them, no one looking out from the waxing mage‑light could see into that darkness, but the magist’s eyes were fixed on the spot where he and Eslingen stood.

“And is this how you repay maseigne’s hospitality?” Timenard went on. “We have very strict notions of correct behavior for guests here in the Ile’nord, you know. I strongly suggest you come out of there right now. Or these children will die for your rudeness.” His tone had not changed in the slightest, as though he considered bad manners worthy of a capital punishment. Rathe scowled, torn between anger and a sudden deep fear, and he saw Eslingen stir.

“Oh, right,” the soldier muttered, his eyes roving over the magist and the guards. “And how’s he going to do that? I don’t see any weapons on him, and his people have their hands full with the kids…”

His voice trailed off, less confident than the words, and b’Estorr took a step forward. “He can do it,” he said. “Dis Aidones, can’t you feel it? He can certainly do it.”

Denizard nodded, wordless, her face pale. The lantern trembled in her hand; she looked down at it, frowning, and braced her free hand against the rock of the wall.

Rathe could feel it himself now, a shifting in the air like the presence of b’Estorr’s ghosts, or the tingle of an oncoming storm–and most of all like the clock‑night, the unnatural, uncanny wrongness of it. He could feel the ghosts shy back from it, a cold current nipping his ankles before retreating toward the mine, and tasted dust and heat and something strangely metallic, like lightning gathering. The mage‑light was stronger than ever, clustering into motes of light that swarmed like insects around Timenard and his horse, and Rathe was abruptly certain that the magist could do exactly what he’d threatened. He stepped fully into the entrance where the reflection of the light could reach him, and lifted a hand. “Timenard! Killing the children won’t do you any good at this point. And you need them–”

Timenard made a dismissive gesture and the motes of light seemed to follow, a streak of pale gold in the thick air. “There are others, others more easily obtained than these. My work is too close to completion to be so easily thwarted, and I don’t intend to argue with you. Come out now, all of you, or these children die. It’s a simple equation.”

He crooked his fingers, and the motes of light swerved and clustered, gathering around his hand. Rathe could hear a faint drone, a humming just at the edge of audibility, like the echo of a swarm of bees. “And what happens to us?” he called, struggling to find the words that might delay the magist, stave off whatever powers he called for even a moment longer. “Our deaths for theirs–I don’t know–”

He broke off at the sound of hoofbeats from the Mailhac road. The guards swung, startled, and the biggest of the children wrenched himself half away before the man holding him could grab him again. Rathe swore under his breath, seeing that, and Eslingen cocked his pistol.

“It could be Coindarel,” he began, and in the same instant de Mailhac and a good dozen of her household swept into the clearing. She was hardly dressed for riding, a battered traveling cloak thrown on over the silk dress she had worn to dinner, the embroidered skirt hiked awkwardly up so that she could ride astride, showing practical boots over delicate fancywork stockings.

“What in all hells have you brought down on us, magist?” she shouted. “There’s a royal regiment on the Mailhac road, and the woods are full of your damned children.”

Timenard ignored her, his eyes still fixed on the mine entrance, but Rathe heard the humming fade, felt the unnatural pressure ease a little. De Mailhac lifted her face to the skies, her hair tumbling unbound over her shoulders. “You stupid, ambitious bastard, you’ve finished us. We’ve lost, and all we have left is barely enough time to get away from here and over the Chadroni border.”

Timenard sighed then, and swung in his saddle to face her, his voice still bizarrely calm. “Why should we flee? Why on earth should we flee? This royal regiment will arrive too late, maseigne, a week ago they would have been too late. My work is too far advanced now, they cannot keep me from its completion. Now. I’ll need your men to help me rid the mine of these intruders.” He turned back to the entrance, raised his voice again. “I’m reluctant to shed your blood in the mine itself, but I will do it. And I will kill these children.”

De Mailhac swung herself down from her horse, skirts flying, and started across the yard toward Timenard. She carried a sword, Rathe saw, incongruous over the bright green silk, and there was a small pistol jammed into her sash. Clearly she intended to fight, and Rathe wondered if there was any way they could make use of that.

“We’ve lost our chance to influence the queen’s choice, can’t you see that?” she demanded. “We’re discovered, and we’ve no hope of further gain–of any gain at all. Unless we flee, and now, we’ll take Belvis down with us.”

Timenard ignored her, lifted his hand, fingers crooked, and the air thickened again, the light coalescing into a swarm. Rathe swore under his breath, glanced wildly at the magists behind him.

“Isn’t there something you can do?”

Denizard shook her head, and b’Estorr said, “I’m a necromancer, I don’t even know what he’s calling–”

“Timenard!” de Mailhac demanded. “We have to protect Belvis.”

“Belvis is expendable,” Timenard said, impatiently, as though to an importunate child. “Leave me alone, woman.”

With an inarticulate cry of anger, de Mailhac drew her sword. Timenard flung his hand back, not even bothering to turn, and the swarming light shot from his fingers, struck the landame with a soundless snap. Her arm hung in the air, her whole figure tensed, frozen in mid‑motion. Only her eyes still moved, burning with fury and fear. Not dead, then, Rathe thought, trying to make sense of what he’d seen, not a mortal blow after all, though who knows what it would have done to the kids–

Timenard sighed then, the motion of his shoulders obvious beneath his heavy robe, and swung himself down from his horse. As his feet touched the ground, the horse shimmered as though the air around it was warped by a furnace’s heat. The strands of its mane and tail seemed to fuse, become a solid sheet, and then its neck curled down and its hind legs buckled. For a confused instant, Rathe thought it was reaching for nonexistent grass or trying to sit, but its head curled further, its neck bending impossibly until its nose was tucked under its belly. The strong outlines of its muscles were blurring, too, fading, its forelegs curling under, and its color ran like water, shifting from sorrel to true gold and then to something beyond gold, an unearthly, shadowless luster. The last ghost of the horse‑shape fused and vanished, and in its place stood a set of nested spheres, impaled on a yard‑long axis. Rathe shook his head, trying to deny what stood before him. He had seen the great orrery at the university, both as a boy and at the ceremony that had confirmed the true time, and he recognized the form of the thing. But where the university’s orrery had been brass, solid and secure in its mechanical connections, this was delicate as filigree, the shapes of the rings and the planets outlined with a peculiar iridescence. It had to be made of aurichalcum–of pure aurichalcum, he corrected himself. Even the coin aurichalcum b’Estorr had shown him had lacked that unearthly color.

“Sweet Sofia,” Denizard murmured, and made a warding gesture. b’Estorr took a step forward, towards the entrance, towards the orrery, then stopped, shaking his head. Denizard closed a hand around his arm, her fingers white‑knuckled, but the necromancer didn’t seem to feel her grip.

Rathe looked at them. “What is it? An orrery like that–what can it do?”

“Entirely too much,” Denizard said, grimly.

b’Estorr nodded. “Something that size, with that much aurichalcum–made purely of aurichalcum…” He took a breath. “Instead of drawing its influence from the stars, it could, conceivably, reverse the process. Affect the stars themselves.”

“It can’t do that,” Eslingen said, but the protest was automatic. “That’s impossible.”

“Not anymore,” Denizard answered.

“I think we’ve seen it,” b’Estorr said.

“The clocks?” Rathe asked, and the necromancer nodded.

“To forge something like that, something that powerful–we’re lucky all it did was throw off all the clocks in Astreiant.”

Timenard stooped, lifted the orrery in his gloved hands. It was huge, the largest sphere as large as his torso, but he carried it easily. The iridescence played briefly over his fingers, and faded. “You, in the mine. I hold here the power to reorder the world, to compel the stars themselves to change and to change the world with them, to bring down the powers that are now and set up new powers in their place. You yourselves are commoners all–surely you can see this can only be to your good. Who has been blamed for the disappearances of these children? Leaguers and commoners. Unfair, but the way of the world. I give you a new chance, a new choice. Come out of there and join me. I can give you a better world than the one you live in.”

The words were like a spell, an almost palpable temptation. Rathe shook himself, made himself look past the magist toward the mine road and de Mailhac’s people huddled in confusion. Coindarel was on his way, but even if he arrived in time, what could he do against the power of the orrery? The mage‑light was fading again, replaced by the dimmer light of dawn, and against it the orrery glowed even brighter than before. Pure aurichalcum, Rathe thought, the words running through his mind like a tune he could not forget. Unpolluted by anything else, the purest form of gold.

“Come now,” Timenard called again, “come out and join me.”

Rathe could feel the words tugging at him, a subtle pressure against his knees, as though he stood in an invisible stream. Eslingen took a step forward, then shook himself, scowling, and took two steps back, deeper into the shadows.

“You see what I can offer you,” Timenard crooned. “What I can make you. A better, more just world.”

Rathe shook his head, took a step sideways and stumbled, almost tripped by the invisible current. “More just?” he called, hoping to create some delay until he, any of them, could think of something that might stop the magist. “Whose justice? Yours? And what about the law?”

“The law was set up by nobles to keep commoners like yourself in their places. Don’t be a fool.”

“I won’t,” Rathe said, but in spite of himself the current drew him forward. “I won’t see a world that sets one man up over all others.”

“You will have no choice,” Timenard answered, and touched the orrery’s outermost sphere. The air rang, as though with the aftereffects of music, though there had been no sound. Rathe took another step, and was suddenly aware of the pistol in his hand. It was loaded, and the ball was lead, he thought, lead which was the antithesis of gold to begin with, and which had been sitting in contact with the impure compound of gunpowder. He lifted it, bracing himself against the invisible current of Timenard’s will, and took careful aim, not at the magist but at the orrery itself. He held his breath, and pulled the trigger. The priming powder caught, and then, half a heartbeat later, the pistol fired, the sound shockingly loud, shockingly profane, in the close air. The orrery seemed to sob aloud, a weirdly soundless groan that shook the ground under their feet. Rathe stumbled forward, going to his knees in the muddy ground. Behind him Eslingen cursed and leveled his own pistol, bracing himself against the nearest timber.

“Timenard–”

Behind him, b’Estorr cried, “No, don’t, the gold’s unstable.”

Eslingen hesitated, and in the same moment they saw de Mailhac shake herself, as though the noise, the attack on the orrery, had freed her from her trance. She lunged blindly forward, continuing the move she had begun minutes before. Timenard tried to turn away, his eyes suddenly wide, mouth opening in the beginning of a horrified shout. Her sword pierced the orrery’s spheres, dissolving as it thrust, and the orrery screamed again, a wail of tortured metal. And then de Mailhac’s bare hand touched the axis. Timenard cried out then, his voice lost in the sudden yelling, and fire flashed beneath de Mailhac’s hand. Light surged with it, so that for a moment the two stood locked, their shadows and the orrery’s black at the heart of a ball of fire hotter than any furnace. The smoke came then, crashing back over the ball of light like an ocean wave, and then it, too, was gone. Where it had been, where Timenard and de Mailhac had been, there was nothing except pale ash and a handful of dull, twisted wires.

There was a moment of utter silence, even the children too stunned to cry out. Rathe’s ears were ringing, and he could see the same shock on Eslingen’s face, pale beneath the dark hair. The mage‑light was fading fast now, overtaken by the paler light of dawn, and Rathe shook himself hard.

“Give me your pistol,” he said to Eslingen, but it was b’Estorr who handed him a weapon. Rathe cocked it quickly and stepped out into the yard, leveling the pistol at the nearest guard. Eslingen moved up to join him, his own pistol drawn, and the magists followed.

“Stand away from the children,” Rathe ordered, and was glad to hear that his own voice was relatively calm. De Mailhac’s people were still in shock, he saw, some already looking behind them toward the road; the guard leader glanced at them, and then at the spot where Timenard had stood. Rathe could see the indecision on his face, and pointed the pistol directly at him.

“Stand away,” he said again. “Put down your arms, all of you, or I will fire.”

Before the man could respond, hoofbeats sounded again on the track from Mailhac. Rathe heard Eslingen laugh softly, and one of de Mailhac’s servants tugged injudiciously at her horse’s reins, making the animal snort and sidle. Almost in the same instant, the first of Coindarel’s regiment swept into view, the prince‑marshal himself narrowly in the lead. Timenard’s guard leader looked over his shoulder, his expression unchanging, but slowly lowered his musket. His men copied him, stepping away from the children they had been holding. Coindarel gestured to his men, who fanned out, surrounding both the mine guards and de Mailhac’s party, and a white‑haired sergeant swung down off his horse, holding out his hands to the children. There was another small figure at Coindarel’s saddlebow, Rathe saw, and an instant later realized it was Asheri. He allowed himself a long breath of relief, and Coindarel edged his horse up to the mine, half bowing in the saddle.

“My Philip, I never expected to see you under these circumstances,” he said.

He had to be curious about the explosion, Rathe thought, but wasn’t about to ask any commoner directly. He stilled a laugh, recognizing the hysteria in it.

“Nor are these circumstances I ever expected to see,” Eslingen answered, and carefully uncocked his pistol before jamming it into his belt. “You made good time, sir.”

“How could I resist your appeal?” Coindarel asked. He was as handsome as a prince‑marshal should be, Rathe thought, if somewhat older. He realized that the other was looking at him then, and shook himself back to reality.

“You’re the pointsman, I assume?” Coindarel went on. “Which makes you–unofficially, to be sure–responsible for these brats.”

Rathe nodded, too relieved to be offended. They were going to be all right, he thought, the children were found, and they were going to come safe home at last.

“These can’t be all of them, surely?” Coindarel stood in his stirrups, turning to survey the half dozen or so in the mine yard. A few more children were creeping out from among the trees. Rathe saw, and braced himself to the task of finding the rest. At least Asheri was safe, he thought, and was instantly ashamed.

“No. We–I sent the rest into the forest, down towards Mailhac. They’ve probably scattered, I told them to follow the stream, but we’re going to have to find them, get them back to Astreiant…”

“You don’t have to do anything, pointsman,” Coindarel said. “That’s what we’re here for.” He looked around the yard again, and touched heels to his horse, sending it dancing sideways toward the pile of ash where the magist had stood. “But we seem to be missing someone, by all accounts. Where’s Maseigne de Mailhac–or her pet magist, for that matter?”

Before Rathe could answer. Coindarel’s horse shied, bounced sideways on bunched feet, away from the ashes. Coindarel swore, one arm instantly steadying Asheri, and brought the animal back under control with an effort. Rathe pointed to the pile of ash, the wires that had been the orrery just visible beneath it. “That’s what’s left of them,” he said, and Coindarel lifted his head, eyes wide, looking suddenly like one of his own horses.

“I’m not at all sure I really want to know,” he said at last. “At least, not yet. Not until we’ve found the children, maybe not until we’re back in Astreiant.”

Rathe shook his head. “No, Prince‑marshal,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”

Coindarel lifted an eyebrow, but visibly thought better of it. He wheeled his horse again and trotted back toward the rest of his troop, just coming into sight at the head of the path. There were more children with them, a good dozen, and Rathe allowed himself a long sigh. Coindarel’s men would find them, the children would come to them, and everything would be all right. The sun was rising at last, a breeze rising with it, and the ashes stirred, releasing an odd, acrid smell, hot metal and something more. Rathe winced then, thinking of untimely deaths, and turned to b’Estorr.

“I know this was just. But I also know what Timenard was.” He looked back at the pile of ash, the dull wires half buried in it. “And I don’t want anyone troubled by his ghost.”

“I can do that,” b’Estorr answered, and Rathe nodded.

“Then, please. Do it.” It was his right, as a pointsman and a servant of the judiciary, to ask that, or it would be if they had been in Astreiant and Timenard had died on the gallows. Rathe shook the doubt away. He had told the truth: Timenard’s death had been deserved, and de Mailhac’s with it; if nothing else, treason was a capital crime, and madness like Timenard’s was worse than treason. He nodded again, and b’Estorr nodded back.

“You’re right,” he said, and reached into the pocket of his coat, bringing out his own orrery. The metal was tarnished, as though it, too, had been through the fire, and he blinked, startled.

“Mine, too,” Denizard said, and held up a smaller, double‑ringed disk. “Gods, if that–device–of his was powerful enough to do that just in its destruction…”

“Then Nico’s right, and the ghost ought to be laid, for good and for all,” Eslingen said.

“I agree,” b’Estorr said, absently, adjusting the rings of his orrery. They moved smoothly now, Rathe saw, and shivered, remembering their earlier stubbornness. The necromancer checked the settings a final time, then unfastened his swordbelt, and used the scabbarded blade to draw a circle around the remains of the fire.

“Let me help,” Denizard said, and b’Estorr nodded.

“If you’d set the wards?”

Denizard nodded back, and crouched to begin sketching symbols along the outside of the circle. b’Estorr reached past her, drew more symbols inside the circle, murmuring to himself in a language Rathe didn’t recognize. He drew two more sets of symbols, consulting his orrery each time, and then looked down at Denizard.

“Ready?”

“Done,” Denizard answered, and drew a final symbol in the dirt outside the circle. Rathe felt something give, as though the air itself had collapsed, leaving a space that was somehow outside proper time and space, and b’Estorr reached calmly into the center of the circle, inscribed a final symbol in the air above the pile of ash. There was a flash of light, gone almost before Rathe was sure he’d seen it, and the feeling of dislocation was gone with it.

“Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe nodded.

b’Estorr slipped his orrery back into his pocket and held out a hand to help Denizard to her feet. “That’s bound them, not that there was likely to be much left to trouble anyone. Power like that is called soul‑destroying for a reason.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, and wished he could think of something more.

“Mind you,” b’Estorr went on, “if they want to use the mine again–whoever de Mailhac’s heirs are, they’re unlikely to turn down gold–I’d suggest putting up something a little more solid to mark the spot, otherwise it’ll drive the horses crazy.” He seemed to realize he was babbling, and stopped abruptly, shaking his head. Rathe touched his arm in sympathy, and looked back across the yard to where Coindarel and his men were still gathering the children. There were two more of them on the hill above, he realized, a boy and a girl, and he lifted his hand to wave them down. They saw the gesture, and started toward the others, and a third stepped from behind a tree, picking her way carefully over the stones after them. That must be close to half of them, Rathe thought, and all of them safe and sound, frightened, certainly, but unhurt. That was a better result than he had thought possible even a week ago, and he felt unexpected tears welling in his eyes. He blinked hard, impatient with himself, and Eslingen laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Seidos’s Horse, we did it.” He looked more closely then, and the cheerful voice softened. “You can take them home now, Nico.”

Rathe smiled. “Well, Coindarel can,” he said. “They’re going home, that’s the main thing.” And that, he thought, was more than enough for any man.

Epilogue

« ^

it was a slow journey back to Astreiant, despite the wagons Coindarel commandeered from every farmstead he passed, but the news ran fast ahead of them. By the time they topped the last long hill that led down to the city, the steep slate roofs rising like a stone forest from the paler stones of the houses, the royal residence sitting on its artificial hill to the north as though it floated above the ordinary world, they could see the crowds gathering along the Horsegate Road. The first parents had already reached them, reclaiming their children with shouts and tears of joy. Coindarel slowed his troop to a walk and gave up all pretense at discipline by the time they’d reached the outlying houses. Rathe, riding with the first wagon, was buffeted by the crowds, women and men thrusting flowers toward him and shouting inaudible thanks, clutching at boots and stirrup leathers as though they couldn’t otherwise be sure it was all real. They grabbed at the wagons, too, and a couple of Coindarel’s sergeants moved cautiously to block them so that the horses could keep moving.

Rathe heard a shriek from the nearest wagon, turned sharply, his fear turning to relief as he saw Herisse Robion, her green suit sadly battered now, leaning over the wagon’s side to wave to someone in the crowd. Rathe turned to look, and saw the butcher Mailet, and with him Trijntje Ollre, tears streaming down her face.

“Trijntje!” Herisse cried again, and Rathe touched heels to his horse, edging it through the crowd.

“Need help?” he asked, and the girl turned to him.

“Oh, let me down, make them stop, please, it’s Trijntje, and Master Mailet, and everybody–”

Rathe glanced at the wagoner, who shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, if I stop for her, I’ll have to stop for all of them, and we’ll never get them home.”

He was right, Rathe knew, but the expression on Herisse’s face was too much for him. The wagon wasn’t moving very fast, barely at a walk, and he brought his horse alongside, matching the pace easily.

“Here,” he said, and held out his arm. She scrambled over the wagon’s side, skirt hiked awkwardly, and he caught her around the waist, dragging her half across his saddlebow. She clung to him, and he swung the horse in the same moment, depositing her gracelessly but unbruised at Mailet’s feet. The big man grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her into a rough embrace, and then Trijntje called her name, and the two girls hung sobbing and laughing in each other’s arms. Mailet shook his head, his own expression fond, and looked up at Rathe.

“I’m in your debt, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe shook his head. “It’s my job, Master Mailet–”

“And I’m still in your debt,” Mailet answered, the choler already returning to his face, chin and lower lip jutting dangerously. “I insist.”

Rathe laughed then, suddenly, and for the first time in weeks, genuinely happy. “Have it your way, master,” he said, and nudged his horse forward.

At his side, Eslingen laughed, too. “You can’t seem to get on with that one, Nico.”

Rathe grinned. “I’d like to see his stars,” he began, and saw a hand wave from the crowd. Devynck stood there, Adriana at her side, and he looked back to see Eslingen’s smile widen to delight.

“Adriana, Sergeant,” he called, and swung down off his horse, looping the rein over his wrist.

“You’ll miss the celebration at the Pantheon,” Rathe said, and the other man looked up at him.

“Oh, that’s for Coindarel, you know that. Besides, I’ve been wanting to see them again.” He started toward the two women without waiting for an answer, tugging the horse along with him.

Rathe shook his head–Eslingen was right, of course, the prince‑marshal would take the credit, or, more precisely, would be given most of the credit, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too deeply.

“Nico?” It was Asheri’s voice, from the second wagon, and Rathe turned, brought his horse alongside her.

“Yes? I haven’t seen Mijan yet, if that’s what you wanted.”

“And you won’t, either,” Asheri answered. “She’d never come to something like this, she’s too sure the worst will have happened.”

She sounded impatient, if anything, but Rathe remembered the tears in Mijan’s eyes, the bitter answer to all her own and her sister’s dreams. We never have any luck, she had said, I should have known. As if she’d guessed the thought, Asheri’s face seemed to crumple.

“Take me home, Nico, please?”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll take you home,” he said, and held out his hand so she could scramble across.

Once they were free of the crowd, the streets were almost empty. It didn’t take long to reach the Hopes‑point Bridge. Asheri shifted against his back, muttered something, muffled by the cloth of his coat.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t think it’s fair,” Asheri said, and Rathe frowned.

“What’s not, love?” He could hear bells chiming, and could smell a sudden sweet drift of incense from a household shrine.

“The prince‑marshal getting all the credit. He sweeps in at the last minute, like a hero out of some really improbable romance, he doesn’t even do any of the work, not like you did, Nico, and the others–and the whole city thinks he’s the hero.”

“Well, but he is,” Rathe said, striving for a light tone. “By definition. Prince‑marshals are always the heroes.”

“I think,” she said seriously, “we need some new stories, then.”

Rathe shook his head. “Probably, but don’t fret about it on my account, Ash. People know. They know it was the four of us, and that’s fine. We’re none of us heroes, nor would want to be. Except maybe Philip,” he added, and was glad to surprise a gurgle of laughter from her.

“He does come the gentleman, doesn’t he?” She sobered again. “But it’s still not fair.”

“I meant what I told Mailet,” Rathe said, and realized that he did. “It’s my job.”

“Then you don’t get paid enough,” Asheri muttered.

They turned off Clock Street at last, and threaded their way through the narrow streets to the cul‑de‑sac where Mijan’s house stood. The square around the well‑house was empty, not even the sound of a child drifting from the surrounding houses, but Mijan herself was working in the little garden outside her front door, her back stubbornly to the road from the city. Another woman–a neighbor? Rathe wondered–was standing with her, hands twisted in her mended apron. She looked up sharply at the sound of hoofbeats, though Mijan did not move, and then reached down to touch the other woman’s shoulder. Mijan hunched her back, and didn’t move. Rathe reined his horse to a stop–and he would have to return it to Caiazzo soon, he thought, or pay for stabling–and Asheri slid down from the saddle.

“Mijan?”

Mijan turned at the sound of her voice, scowling, and pushed herself up from the dry dirt. “How could you–?” she began, and Asheri’s voice rose in what sounded like a habitual response.

“Don’t scold, Mijan, I’m fine!”

Mijan shook her head, but Rathe could see the tears on her cheeks. She opened her arms then, and Asheri stepped into their shelter, into Mijan’s fierce embrace, burying her head against her sister’s chest. Mijan rested her chin on the girl’s head. “Oh, Asheri,” she said, and looked at Rathe. “I–thank you, Rathe. I thought sure–” She broke off again, and the other woman took a step forward.

“I said she’d be with the others,” she said. She had an easy, comfortable voice, and an easy smile. “And I said you should have supper waiting.”

Mijan loosened her hold on the girl, her mouth pulling down into her ready scowl. “I wasn’t going to spend good coin on something that might not happen.”

“Then it’s a good thing I did,” the other woman said. “Come along, Mijan, you’re in no shape to cook–you shouldn’t have to cook, either one of you, not after all this, and I’ve got supper on the stove, a whole chicken.” She looked at Rathe, including him in her smile. “You should join us, Master Rathe–you’ll not get better, though I say it who shouldn’t.”

Rathe returned her smile, but shook his head. “I have to report to Point of Hopes,” he said, and backed the horse away.

“I’ll be in tomorrow for work,” Asheri called after him, and he saw Mijan’s mouth tighten in an old disapproval. She said nothing, however, and Rathe lifted his hand in answer, kicking the horse into a slow trot.

The streets were getting more crowded as he made his way back toward Point of Hopes with people coming back from the Horsegate Road who hadn’t bothered to go on to the Pantheon. A fair number carried pitchers of wine and beer, but they were happy drunks, and Rathe couldn’t quite bring himself to care. At Point of Hopes itself, the portcullis was open, and the courtyard was crowded, pointsmen and women for once mingling amicably with people from the surrounding houses. Someone had brought a hogshead into the yard, and the air smelled of spilled beer. Houssaye saw him first, and came to catch the horse’s bridle.

“Nico! You’re back, and well.” His eyes darted to the gate, and back again. “Asheri?”

“With her sister,” Rathe answered, and swung down off the horse at last. “I brought her there myself.”

“Thank Astree and all the gods,” Houssaye said. “I’ll take care of the beast.”

“Thanks,” Rathe answered. He could see Monteia standing in the station’s doorway, a mug of beer in her hand, and lifted his own hand in greeting.

She waved back, and beckoned him over. “Welcome back, Nico– a job well done, by all accounts.”

Rathe blinked, startled, and Eslingen looked over the chief point’s shoulder. “Aagte asked me to see the beer delivered–that’s her gift, sort of an apology for thinking ill of the chief point here, I think.”

And probably a way to get you away from Adriana, Rathe thought. He said, “So you’ve been telling the chief all about it, then?”

“Well, b’Estorr has, more like,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe realized that the necromancer was standing just inside the station, a large pitcher in his hand. “I’m still not fully sure what happened.”

Rathe grinned. “What about the astrologers?” he said to Monteia. “Did you finally get them?”

“Most of them, anyway,” Monteia answered, and looked around the yard. “Come inside, it’s quieter there.”

It was darker, too, and Rathe settled himself on the edge of the duty desk with a sigh of relief. It was good to be back–good to be home, he amended, and couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Between us, Claes and I and Manufactory made points on six of the astrologers,” Monteia went on. “There were a couple more, but they seem to have gotten away, more’s the pity. The thing is, they say they were hired to find the children by a woman called Domalein.”

“Savine Domalein?” Rathe asked, and Monteia nodded.

“Known to us, certainly.”

“Not to me,” Eslingen said.

Rathe grinned. “She’s a tout–a political tout, from the Ile’nord originally, runs three or four printers that we’ve had our eyes on. Her name was in de Mailhac’s papers.”

“Domalein told them she wanted the kids for runners,” Monteia went on, “wanted kids whose stars would predispose them to supporting Belvis. Or at least that’s their story, It was Domalein and a couple of her bravos who actually took the kids. Whether the astrologers believed it or not I’m not convinced, but she paid them well enough to make it worth their while to say they did.”

b’Estorr shrugged, set his pitcher aside. “It would be hard to prove they didn’t know, but they had to suspect something. The stars–there weren’t enough patterns in the horoscopes to make that work, if you ask me.”

“And I’d take it kindly if you’d tell that to the surintendant,” Monteia answered. “He can tell you who to talk to in the judiciary.”

“Looking for a conviction, Chief Point?” the necromancer asked

“Oh, yes,” Monteia answered, and Rathe cut in hastily.

“What happened to Domalein?”

Monteia made a face. “Gone. Probably got out as soon as she heard we were looking for the astrologers, but at least we got to go through her house pretty thoroughly. She left in a hurry, didn’t even stop to burn her papers, and we found plenty of letters from your Maseigne de Mailhac. She was paying for the whole thing, from the printers to the astrologers, and paying handsomely, too.”

“Except that Timenard had something else in mind,” Rathe said suddenly sobered again. He was himself something of a Leveller by heritage and temperament, and Timenard had tried to draw on that, paint a vision of a world without queen or seigneury. An attractive thought, for a southriver rat, except that it would have been Timenard and only Timenard who ruled in their place.

b’Estorr touched him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s a matter of balance, Nico. You can’t compel the stars, not in the long run, no matter how much aurichalcum you have. He could have made things very difficult for a while, very painful, but in the long run, the natural order reasserts itself. We were its agents this time.”

“Personally,” Eslingen said, “I’d be happier without that sort of favor.”

Rathe smiled again, made himself relax. He heard the tower clock strike, and then, a heartbeat later, the case‑clock on the wall echoed it, beating out the hour. The true sun was sinking toward the horizon, the winter‑sun still high in the sky, and he allowed himself a long sigh, tasting the familiar summer smells. He was home, the children were home and safe, and that was the end of it. He looked around, and Eslingen put a cool mug in his hand.

“Drink up,” he said, and Rathe laughed, and let himself be led away to join the celebration.