Point of Hopes

b’Estorr cut in, his own voice uncharacteristically urgent. “The clocks–aurichalcum moves clocks, or it can, it has powers most of us don’t even dream of, not in our nightmares. There’s no time to be lost.”

“There’s no time left,” Rathe said.

Fourie lifted a hand, and Rathe subsided reluctantly. “I have no authority outside Astreiant. No pointsman, adjunct point, or surintendant himself has that authority outside the city. Much as I’d like to, much as I desperately want to, I can’t send you or anyone into the Ajanes. I don’t have the power.”

It was an impasse, Eslingen thought, and a bad one. He looked at Rathe, seeing the frustration barely held in check, saw the same anger, better hidden, in the magist’s eyes. He said, slowly, certain he would regret it later, “Denizard–Caiazzo’s household magist–she said Hanse would have to send someone north to deal with all of this. Admittedly, that was before we knew what was going on–” And Caiazzo still doesn’t, he realized abruptly, would be furious when he was told. “–but I can’t see that it’ll change things. Someone will still have to deal with de Mailhac, and I don’t see why that someone can’t also deal with the magist and the children.”

“He has the resources,” Fourie said, with distaste. “And I’m sure a little good will from the judiciary wouldn’t come amiss. Especially given the questionable nature of his involvement in this entire affair.”

“The main thing is the children,” Eslingen answered, and prayed he wasn’t committing himself too deeply for Caiazzo to back him up. “Caiazzo has been made part of this without his knowledge and against his will. I know he’ll want to put it right.”

Fourie stared at him for a long moment, then reached for a sheet of paper. He dipped his pen in the silver inkwell and began to write, saying, “I’m not fond of relying on people like Caiazzo–or anyone outside the judiciary or the nobility, Lieutenant, not your master in particular. This should be a matter of the law. But, as you say, the children have to be our main concern.” He looked at Rathe, his pen never pausing. “Rathe, I want you to go with him. Mind you, this is not an order, I ca

“Of course I’ll go,” Rathe said, and Fourie nodded.

“b’Estorr I can’t give any orders at all, but I imagine his talents would come in very useful.”

b’Estorr looked at Eslingen. “If you’ll have me, yes, I’ll come.” His mouth tightened. “I’d like to see the end of this.”

“You’d be welcome,” Eslingen answered, and meant it.

“I wish I could send a troop of the royal guard with you,” Fourie went on, and lifted the sheet of paper, waving it to dry the ink, then reached for his seal and a stick of wax. “Unfortunately, there isn’t time to arrange it. What I can do, have done, is send you with a letter authorizing you to call on the royal auxiliaries in the area.” He glanced at another sheet of paper, looked at Eslingen with another of his thin smiles. “They’re commanded by your old colonel, Lieutenant. It makes one wonder what Coindarel has done this time.” He looked back at Rathe, held out the sheet of paper. “Use it if you need to, Nico. I hope you don’t.”

For an instant, Rathe could only stare at the letter. Whatever he had expected–and he wasn’t at all sure what that had been; Fourie’s temper was notoriously uncertain–this official carte blanche had not been it. If anything, he’d expected more pleasure at Caiazzo’s inadvertent involvement, had half expected the surintendant to take the opportunity to try to trap the trader, to score a point on him at last. And I’ve been unjust, Rathe thought, abashed. The children have always been the main issue; Caiazzo can wait for another day. “Thank you,” he said aloud, and took the paper, folding it carefully, protecting the heavy seal.

“Be off with you, then,” Fourie said. “And bring those children home.”

They took the river to Customs Point, a quick journey with the current, and Eslingen led the way to Caiazzo’s house. The trader had been waiting for him in his workroom, the steward said, glancing warily at Eslingen’s companions, but at the soldier’s nod brought them up the stairs to the gallery. Caiazzo rose as the door opened, but checked when he saw Rathe and the magist.

“Oh, come, surely this is a little elaborate for a simple case of assault, and self‑defense, at that.”

“If it were just a simple case of assault,” Rathe snapped, “I wouldn’t be here. But in fact, you’ve given me the last piece of a very nasty puzzle.”

The trader’s face went still. “What are you talking about?”

Behind him, Denizard stirred, then was silent. Rathe said, “Your gold mine, Hanse–yes, Eslingen told me about it, and a damn good thing he did, too. You think it’s just greed that kept your bought noble from sending you the coin you needed?”

Caiazzo reseated himself behind his desk, fixed Eslingen with a cold stare. “I had thought so, yes. It’s not that unreasonable a thought, is it? But you’re going to tell me there’s more to it.”

Denizard said, quietly, “We knew that, too, Hanse. There’s the magist, and the clocks, to make things urgent.”

“Which is why I sent to the points,” Caiazzo answered. “This isn’t business I want to handle.”

“Except you’re in it up to your neck already,” Rathe said, “and you don’t even know what it is.” He looked at Denizard. “You must have some suspicions about all this.”

The woman shrugged. “A gold mine, and a magist interested in it, keeping the take for himself? Coupled with clocks that strike when they shouldn’t? It speaks of aurichalcum to me, which speaks of politics, though how he’s making the stuff is beyond me. It’s too much for one person to handle, even if you could find the people you needed–” She stopped abruptly, the color draining from her face, and Rathe nodded.

“Couple it with the missing children, and you get a nasty picture.”

Caiazzo looked from the pointsman to his magist. “Is it possible?”

Denizard shook her head. “It’s too many variables. Getting the right nativities would be hard enough–hells, just making sure you have total celibates handling the gold would be hard enough, I don’t care how careful the guilds are, celibate means celibate.”

“The nativities match the process,” b’Estorr said, and Denizard looked at him.

“I know you. I’ve heard you lecture. You’re sure?”

b’Estorr nodded, and she winced.

“Gods, then I suppose it is possible. But it’s crazy.”

“I don’t know him,” Caiazzo said, and Denizard shook herself.

“Sorry. His name’s Istre b’Estorr, he’s a necromancer. I’ll vouch for him.”

Caiazzo said something under his breath. Rathe leaned forward. “It was the hedge‑astrologers, the ones working the fair without bond, that found the kids, and they were careful, did their work well. Most of the kids are under the age where sex becomes a serious curiosity, and every single one knew her or his nativity. You’ve been playing a political game for the first time in your life, Hanse, though it’s not the one Fourie thought it was, but I don’t really care. All I care about is getting the children back safely. The rest–doesn’t exist, as far as I’m concerned.”

Eslingen cleared his throat. “I understood that you’d be sending people to–rectify the situation, sir. I want to go. And so do they.” He nodded toward Rathe and b’Estorr.

“And why in the names of all the gods don’t they just send a royal regiment?” Caiazzo demanded. “No, don’t tell me, too much time, too much money, and better to let some poor trader handle it. Gods, what a mess. Yes, Eslingen, I was pla

“Doing it this way means you stand less chance of losing that land,” Rathe snapped, and stopped, shaking his head. “Thanks, Hanse. I won’t forget this.”