Point of Hopes

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 di

“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.