Point of Hopes

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 ru

“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 co

“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 thi

“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–”