Point of Hopes

“But everyone else will,” Caiazzo said with a dark smile. He reached for a bell that stood on the edge of the table, rang it twice. “You’ll need money and horses, I can get those from the caravan. Take Grevin and Ytier, they’re good men in a fight, and you’ll want men to help with the baggage. You can pass those two off as agents of mine, Aice, no one in Mailhac should have contacts in Astreiant, and Eslingen’s just new to the household.” He stood up as the steward appeared in the doorway.

“Sir?”

“We have a journey to arrange,” Caiazzo said. “There’s a pillar in it for you if everything’s ready by first sunset.”

To Rathe’s amazement, the steward had everything in order by the time the neighborhood clock struck six. Caiazzo’s servants, a pair of tall, greying men who had been soldiers and caravan guards in their younger days, accepted the sudden assignment phlegmatically enough–they were probably used to this sort of thing, Rathe thought. He had sent to Point of Hopes, both to warn Monteia of his departure and to send a ru

“You do know how to ride, don’t you?”

Rathe nodded. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t disgrace you. Rouvalles isn’t going to like this, if all these came out of his train.”

“You know him, too?” Eslingen asked, and the pointsman shrugged.

“I’ve met him.”

Eslingen nodded. “I daresay he isn’t. But he’ll have more time to find replacements than we have to find good mounts.” He slipped a long‑barreled pistol into a tube attached to his saddle, and looked back at Rathe, absently patting the horse’s neck. “Does your friend the necromancer know how to ride?”

“You don’t like him?”

Eslingen sighed. “I–most soldiers are a little wary of necromancers, that’s all. It was a disappointment.”

“Ah.” Rathe turned his head to hide a grin. “Well, don’t worry about him either. He’s Chadroni, born and raised there. He rides.”

The main door opened then, and Denizard and b’Estorr came down the short stairs. Denizard was carrying a small chest under her arm, which the taller of the servants, Grevin, Rathe thought, took from her and added to one of the piles of baggage. b’Estorr had sent to the university for his clothes as well, and carried a worn pair of saddlebags and a long leather case that could only contain swords. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, seeing them, and Rathe gri

“Oh,” he said, “didn’t you know? Istre’s a duellist when he has to be.”

“And how do you reconcile that, necromancer?” Eslingen asked.

b’Estorr glanced at him. “If a fair duel is called, and you’re killed, it’s generally assumed it was your time. One can, after all, reject a duel.”

“I see,” Eslingen said. “Any fighting isn’t likely to be polite, you know.”

b’Estorr smiled, not nicely. “Duels aren’t. At least, in Chadron they’re not.” He turned and began strapping the case expertly to his saddle.

“No,” Eslingen said. “I would guess they’re not.”

They took advantage of the winter‑sun that night, and the next three, the first night camping out by a field smelling sweetly of cut hay and grains. The next night they found farm lodging with an old soldier who now held a small patch of land to farm for himself. He was Chenedolliste, but he welcomed Eslingen as a brother. It was, Rathe reflected, only the ordinary folk of Chenedolle, those who had never carried pike nor musket, who were suspicious and resentful of the Leaguers who now served the queen. The soldiery saw only colleagues who, at one time or another, might well be facing them across a field, or might be at their back. It was all in circumstances, as the stars suggested. When Rathe asked if he’d seen any unusual travelers, someone riding hard, or wagons, the man shook his head without curiosity. He had his farm and paid little attention to anything beyond its edges; neither the children nor the clock‑night had reached him. A farm woman north of Bederres, however, had heard the gossip, and said she’d seen a trio riding hard toward the Gap highway, and one of them had a child at his saddlebow. It wasn’t much, but Rathe clung to it, afraid even to acknowledge his worst fear. If, somehow, they’d gotten it all wrong and the missing children were somewhere else, then he’d only made things worse.

They crossed into the Ile’nord on the morning of the fourth day, the landscape unmistakable when they reached it. Dame school classes taught every Astreiant school child that it was an inhospitable place: certainly it was no place for people who lived by farming and trade. The spine of the land broke through in a low, barren line of hills that rose to the northwest, seeming to get no closer no matter how far they rode. Those hills would grow, Rathe knew, shouldering up to the northwest to become the hills and mountains of Chadron. Somewhere among them was the gash that was the Chadroni Gap, impassable in winter, unless you had overwhelming incentive to get through it. The air here held more than a hint of the coming autumn, a sharpness that blew down from the foothills. Glad as they all were to be free of the city’s heat, it made them all uncomfortably aware of time passing, and it was all Rathe could do not to demand they move faster. But they were already working the horses hard, didn’t dare do more. When Eslingen signaled the next stop, drawing up under a line of trees that looked too orderly to have grown there without encouragement, he made himself relax, sitting slack in the saddle. He was managing well enough, but his muscles were still sore. If you keep on like this, he told himself firmly, you’ll be no good to anyone once we get to Mailhac.

Denizard drew up next to Eslingen, pushing her sweat‑damp hair back up under her cap. “You know these roads, maybe better than I do. What’s the next town?”

Eslingen rested his hands on the pommel of the saddle and looked around him. “I’m not sure, it’s been a while since I’ve taken this road north.”

b’Estorr said, “Chaix, I think, it’s been a few years, but as I recall, it’s three days good riding from Astreiant. There’s a good i

“I know Chaix. We usually come at it from a different direction, it’s a crossroads town, isn’t it?”

“Complete with gallows,” b’Estorr confirmed.

Eslingen rolled his eyes and moved away. “I’d like to give the horses a better rest than we’ve been able to, so let’s say we stop at Chaix tonight.”

Rathe sighed. The soldier was right, he knew that, and besides, he was stiffer than he’d realized from the days of riding and sleeping rough. His lodgings were modest enough, he thought, but at least he had a bed. “At least it’ll give us a chance to get what news there might be about anyone else who’s traveling north,” he said.

It was just past first sunset when they reached Chaix, passing under an arched gate with a clock set into the keystone. The town had no walls, and the arch looked strange, almost forlorn, without the supporting wall to either side. The winter‑sun was still high, casting pale silver shadows along the dusty street, and b’Estorr shaded his eyes, squinting at the signs that hung from the buildings lining the main road. “It’s the Two Flags here, isn’t it?” he asked, and Eslingen gri