Point of Hopes

“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 thi

“Maseigne, I understood you have other guests. Please do forgive my appalling tardiness–I hope you’ve not held di

“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. “Di

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.