Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

“Tell him Nicolas Rathe.”

  The proctor nodded. “Tell him Master Rathe is here, and that it’s an emergency.”

  The student’s eyes widened, but she faded back through the door without a murmur. Rathe fought the instinct to pace, made himself stand still, counting the signs carved across the tops of the doorways, until at last the central door flew open again.

  “Nico! What’s happened?” b’Estorr hurried toward him, his dark grey gown flying loose from his shoulders.

  “I sent the runners to the fair,” Rathe said. “And Asheri came back with a charm that’s different.”

  b’Estorr drew breath sharply. “Let me see.”

  Rathe held the disks out wordlessly, and the necromancer took them from him, held them side by side in the dim light.

  “It’s active,” he said at last. Rathe flinched, and b’Estorr shook his head. “No need to panic, not yet, but I’d like to take a closer look at them. My place?”

  “Fine,” Rathe said, and retraced his path through the yard. If I’ve put Asheri in danger, he thought, gods, what will I do? I thought—you thought the danger would come from the astrologers, he told himself, and you were wrong. Now you have to make it right.

  In b’Estorr’s rooms, the necromancer flung the shutters wide, letting the doubled afternoon sunlight into the room. He set the disks on the table, side by side in the sunlight, and Rathe caught his breath again. In the strong light, the difference in color was very clear, Asheri’s more green than black, and the different pattern of the symbols was starkly obvious. b’Estorr barely glanced at them, however, but went to the case of books and pulled out a battered volume. He flipped through it, glancing occasionally at the disks, and finally set it aside, shaking his head.

  “I don’t recognize the markings, except generally, and they’re not in Autixier. The closest thing—” He reached for the book again, opened it to a drawing of a square charm. Rathe looked at it, and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Istre…”

  The necromancer went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The closest one listed is that, and that’s kind of, well, archaic. It’s meant to bind one’s possessions—”

  “It’s to track her,” Rathe said with sudden conviction. “Gods, Istre, I’ve practically handed her to them.”

  b’Estorr nodded slowly, still staring at the charms. “You could be— I think you are right,” he said. “It could act as a marker, help someone find her later.”

  And that would make sense, Rathe thought. The astrologers to identify the children, someone else to steal them away, later, when they thought they were safe, could be taken unawares. He shook the fear away. “I took it from her within an hour of the reading—she gave it to me. Can they track her without the charm?”

  “I don’t know,” b’Estorr answered. “This is very powerful—more powerful than I would have expected. She should change her clothes, at the very least not wear them again until this is resolved. It might be better to burn them.”

  “Sweet Tyrseis,” Rathe said. Asheri would be hard put to afford a second set of clothes; he and Monteia between them might be able to provide something, but it would be expensive. If Houssaye could follow the astrologer, of course, track him back to his lair, that might do something, but there was no guarantee that the pointsman would succeed. Rathe shook his head. “Istre, I thought the real danger would be from the astrologers themselves, not something like this. How in all the hells can we protect her?”

  b’Estorr lifted the charm again, studying the markings. “That she gave it to you, and you gave it to me—that should help. And then, as I said, get rid of the clothes she was wearing. Burning would be best, but I know what clothing costs.”

  Rathe nodded. “I’ll tell her that, certainly.”

  “And she should be very careful.” b’Estorr looked up, shaking his head. “Which she and you know already, I know. I wish there were more I could do, Nico.”

  “You’ve done a lot,” Rathe answered. He forced a smile. “Now we know a little more of how they’re being stolen, and how they’re being chosen—though, as Monteia says, the hows don’t get us anywhere right now.”

  “Whoever’s doing this,” b’Estorr said, “must be very powerful.”

  “Magistically or politically?” Rathe asked.

  “Either.” b’Estorr gave him an apologetic look. “Not that you didn’t know that, too, but this charm is a pretty piece of work—not at all like the others—and it must cost money to field this many astrologers.”

  Rathe nodded. “I just wish that narrowed the possibilities.”

  He took a low-flyer back to Point of Hopes, wincing at the fee but desperately afraid that Asheri or the others might have left before he could reach them with his warning. As he paid off the driver at the main gate, he could see the knot of runners still gathered in the stable doorway. The younger ones, Laci and Surgi and Lennar, were playing at jacks, while Fasquelle jeered at them from the edge of the trough. Asheri was there, too, setting stitches in a square of linen. It was a practice piece, Rathe knew, against the day she could afford a place in the embroiderers’, and he could taste the fear again at the back of his mouth.

  “Asheri,” he said, and she looked up, automatically folding the cloth over her work. “I need to talk to you.”

  “All right,” she said, sounding doubtful, and followed him into the station.

  Monteia looked up as they arrived, and Rathe saw, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, that Houssaye was with her.

  “No luck?” he asked, and the other pointsman shook his head.

  “He went back toward the caravans, but I lost him there. They seem to have a gift for vanishing. I’m sorry, Nico.”

  Rathe drew breath, and Monteia said firmly, “You did the best you could. What did you find out from the university, Nico?”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid,” Rathe answered. He looked at Asheri. “Asheri, I’m sorry I ever got you into this. The charm he gave you, it’s some kind of a marker. I think you’re in serious danger.”

  “A marker?” Monteia echoed, and Rathe looked back at her.

  “That’s what Istre said. Something to help someone find a child they want to steal.”

  “Gods,” the chief point murmured, and Rathe saw her hand move in a propitiating gesture. “What do we do?”

  “I gave you the marker,” Asheri said, her voice suddenly high and thin. “I don’t have it anymore, surely that makes it all right.”

  “It helps,” Rathe answered. “But Istre said you should also change your clothes. He said you ought to burn these, or at least put them away, don’t wear them until we’ve caught these people.”

  “I can’t burn them,” Asheri said. “I don’t have anything else half this good, not that fits me anymore.”

  Monteia said, “We may be able to do something about that, Ash, since you’re losing the use of them on station business. But if b’Estorr says you shouldn’t wear them, I’d do what he says.” She looked at Rathe. “In the meantime, I’m sending to Fairs with what we have. That’s enough to make Claes arrest these bastards, and if we can catch one, maybe we can get more information out of them.”

  Rathe nodded, some of the fear easing. Monteia was right about that, and Claes would act quickly enough, given this evidence. And if the hedge-astrologers were dodging pointsmen, surely they’d be too busy to steal another child. “I’ll walk you home, Asheri,” he said aloud. “You can change there.”

  The girl made a face, but nodded. “All right. But I’m not burning them. I made this shirt myself. And the cap.”

  “Then put them away,” Monteia said. “And I want to see you here tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Asheri said, and Rathe touched her shoulder, turning her toward the door.

  “We should be able to stop them, now that we know what’s happening,” he said, and hoped it was true.

  10

  « ^ »

  eslingen squatted besid
e the chest that held his weapons, considering the pair of pistols Caiazzo had redeemed from the Aretoneia. He distrusted midnight meetings, liked them even less when the messenger had failed to appear twice already, and a pistol might provide some measure of surprise, if there was trouble. He glanced at the half-open window. On the other hand, it was a damp night, and they were going by river, which increased the chance of misfire; besides, he added, with an inward smile as he shut the chest, a pistol shot inevitably attracted attention, and he’d had entirely too much of that lately. Caiazzo probably wouldn’t thank him, either, for inviting interference in his business. He stood, and belted sword and dagger at his waist, adjusting the open seam of the coat’s skirt so that it left the sword hilt free, and glanced in the long mirror that hung beside the clothes press. The full skirts hid most of the weapon, only the hilt visible at his hip, and it was dark metal and leather, unobtrusive against the dark blue fabric.

  “Are you ready, Eslingen?”

  He turned, to see Denizard standing in the open door. She had put aside her scholar’s gown for a black riding suit, shorter skirt, and a longer, almost mannish coat that buttoned high on the throat, hiding her linen. She carried a broad-brimmed hat as well, also black, and a longish knife—probably right at the legal limit—on one hip.

  She saw where he was looking and smiled, gestured to his own blade. “I assume the bond’s paid on that?”

  “Caiazzo paid it,” Eslingen answered, and she nodded.

  “Be sure you bring the seal.”

  Eslingen touched his pocket, feeling the paper crackle under his hand. “I have it, believe me.”

  “Well, with a pointsman for a friend, you should be all right. Or you would be if it were another pointsman.”

  Eslingen tilted his head curiously. This was the first time anyone had mentioned Rathe since the day he’d been hired. “Stickler, is he?”

  “You mean you didn’t notice?” Denizard answered. “And stiff-necked about it.” She glanced over his shoulder, checking the light. “Come on.”

  Caiazzo was waiting in the great hall, talking, low-voiced, to his steward. He nodded to the man as he saw the others approaching, and the steward bowed and backed away. Caiazzo looked at them, and nodded. “Good. I’m not expecting trouble, mind, but it’s always well to be prepared.”

  “Any word?” Denizard asked, and the trader shook his head.

  “Not since last night.”

  Last night’s message had been a smudged slate, barely legible, delivered by a brewer’s boy, that did nothing more than set a new time and place for the rendezvous. There had been no explanation of why the messenger had missed the previous meetings, or any apology— which could just be the limits of the medium, Eslingen thought, but in times like these, I don’t think I’d like to count on it. He said, “Then maybe we should expect trouble.”

  Caiazzo shot him a glance. “I trust my people, Eslingen, don’t forget it.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about,” Eslingen answered, and the trader grunted.

  “Your point. But there’ll be three of us, plus the boat’s crew. That should be ample.”

  “You’re coming, Hanse?” Denizard asked, and the trader frowned at her.

  “Yes. I’m getting a little tired of doing nothing, Aice.” His tone brooked no argument. The magist sighed, and nodded. Caiazzo smiled, his good humor restored. “Let’s be off, then.”

  Caiazzo’s boat was waiting at the public dock at the end of the street, its crew, a steersman and a quartet of rowers, hunched over a dice game, their backs turned to the other, unattached boatmen, who ignored them just as studiously. The steersman looked up at Caiazzo’s approach, and nudged his people. They sprang to their places, dice forgotten, and Caiazzo stepped easily down into the blunt-nosed craft. Eslingen followed more carefully—he was still not fully happy with boats—and Denizard stepped in after him, seating herself on the stern benches.

  “Point of Hearts,” Caiazzo said, to the steersman. “The public landing just east of the Chain.”

  The steersman nodded, and gestured for the bowman to loose the mooring rope. The barge lurched as the current caught it, and Eslingen sat with more haste than dignity. It lurched again, then steadied as the oarsmen found their stroke, and the soldier allowed himself to relax. Caiazzo was watching him, and smiled, his teeth showing very white in the winter-sun’s silvered light.

  “Not fond of water, Eslingen?”

  The soldier shrugged, not knowing what answer the other wanted, but couldn’t help remembering the astrologer’s warning. He’d been right about the change of employment; Eslingen could only hope he’d be less right about travel by water. Caiazzo looked away again, fixing his eyes on the shimmer of light where the winter-sun was reflected from the current. Eslingen followed the look but could see nothing out of the ordinary, just the sparkle of silver on black water. The winter-sun itself was low in the sky, would set in a little more than an hour, and the brilliant pinpoint hung just above the roofs of the Hopes-point Bridge. And then they were in the bridge’s shadow, the light cut off abruptly, and Eslingen caught himself looking hard for the bridge pillars. He found them quickly enough, the water foaming white around them, and the steersman leaned on the tiller, guiding the boat into the relative calm between them. Eslingen allowed himself a sigh, and Caiazzo looked at Denizard.

  “I’m not convinced, Aice, that there’s going to be much profit in this little jaunt. It may not be scientific, magist, but I’ve got a sick bad feeling about it.”

  “I know,” Denizard said quietly. “So do I.”

  To Eslingen’s surprise, Caiazzo laughed again. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I expected you to contradict me, Aice, or at least tell me not to anticipate trouble. The last thing I needed was for a magist to confirm my fears.”

  “Well, that’s all they are at the moment—the stars are chancy, but not actively bad,” Denizard answered. “But I’d be lying if I said I was comfortable. And night meetings are never my favorite.”

  “The midday ones can be just as dangerous,” Caiazzo murmured, and lapsed into a pensive silence. Denizard sighed, and folded her hands in the sleeves of her coat. Eslingen glanced from one to the other, and wondered if they were also remembering the old woman in her shop at the heart of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives. That had been broad daylight, and he’d been glad to leave alive. He jumped as water splashed over the gunwale, and then told himself not to be foolish. The boatmen knew their business, and besides, they were none of them born to drown.

  They were turning in toward the bank now, the boat rocking hard as the oarsmen fought the current, and Eslingen braced himself against the side of the boat, twisting to look toward the shore. The houses of Point of Hearts stood tall against the dark sky, lights showing here and there in open doorways and unshuttered windows, and he thought he heard a snatch of music carried on the sudden breeze. But then it was gone, and the boat was sliding up to the low landing.

  “Wait here unless I call,” Caiazzo said to the steersman, and the man touched his cap in answer. The trader nodded and levered himself out of the boat without looking back. Eslingen made a face, distrusting the other man’s mood, and hurried to follow.

  “Where to?” he asked, and Caiazzo turned as Denizard pulled herself up onto the low wharf.

  “Little Chain Market,” Caiazzo said. “It’s not far.”

  “But very empty, this time of night,” Denizard said.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Caiazzo snapped. “Why do you think I brought the pair of you?”

  “Let’s hope we’re enough,” the magist answered, and Caiazzo showed teeth in answer.

  “It’s what I pay you for.”

  Eslingen’s mouth tightened—he hated that sort of challenge—but there was no point in protesting. Instead, he loosened his sword in its scabbard, the click of the metal loud in the quiet, and fell into step at Caiazzo’s right. The magist flanked him on the left, her eyes wary.

  It wasn’t far
to the Little Chain Market, as Caiazzo had said—but the street curved sharply, cutting off their view of the river. Eslingen made a face at that: they’d get no help from the boat’s crew, unless they shouted, and that might be too late. Caiazzo stopped at the edge of the open square, staring across the empty cobbles. The market was closed, the stalls shuttered and locked, shop wagons drawn neatly into corners; the winter-sun had dropped below the line of the rooftops, and the shadows were deep in the corners. Eslingen scanned the darkness warily, but nothing moved among the closed stalls.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now we wait,” Caiazzo said, glancing around. “And hope he shows this time.”

  Eslingen grimaced again, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could distinguish one patch of shadow from another now, could make out the shapes of the trestles piled in the mouth of an alley, but there was still nothing moving in the market. He heard something then, a faint sound, like feet scrabbling against the loose stones of the river streets. It could be a river rat, but he moved between it and Caiazzo anyway, cocking his head to listen. Caiazzo moved up beside him, and Eslingen glanced at him, wanting to warn him back, but the trader lifted a hand, enjoining silence. Then Eslingen heard it, too, a wordless sigh with a nasty, liquid note to it. He swore under his breath, and Caiazzo snapped, “Quiet.”

  The shuffling came again, this time more clearly human footsteps, dragging on the stones, and Caiazzo turned toward them. “Who’s there?”

  “For the love of Tyrseis, sieur, help me.”

  Caiazzo’s eyes flickered to Denizard, who nodded.

  “It’s Malivai,” she said, and it was Caiazzo’s turn to swear.

  “Help me,” he said, and started toward the source of the sound. Eslingen went after him, his hand on his sword hilt.

  Malivai—it had to be the messenger, a nondescript shape in a battered riding coat—was leaning against the arch of a doorway, one hand pressed tight against his ribs, the other braced against the stones. Caiazzo took his weight easily, for all the two men were of a height, and eased the man down onto the tongue of a wagon.