Point of Hopes

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 gri

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 ru

“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.”