Point of Hopes

“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 i

“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.