Rathe nodded. “And I think they were lying about not having heard about the children. She was, certainly, I’m sure she knew they were missing.”
Denizard sighed. “I agree.”
“I did wonder why you’d mentioned that,” Eslingen said.
“I thought it would be more suspicious if we didn’t,” Rathe answered. “Timenard’s agents must have warned him that the city was upset, common folk like me would be bound to have it on their minds, to the exclusion of more important matters.
Denizard grinned. “He does think well of himself, doesn’t he? I haven’t seen so many airs and graces since I was last at court myself— and I’ll bet he’s lower born than any of us.”
Eslingen said slowly, “He’s not what I was expecting, I must say. Are—do you really think he’s behind all this?”
Now that it was said, Rathe was suddenly angry, and knew that the anger was masking his own uncertain fear. He swallowed hard, trying to still his instinctive response, said, “He calls the tune here, just like your messenger said. There’s no gold, though there’s enough money for them to live remarkably well, and de Mailhac, for one, didn’t want us to go to the mine. That’s enough—with everything else, that’s enough for me.”
“There’s more than that,” b’Estorr said, and turned away from the window at last. “Did you notice—did anyone see or hear a clock strike in this house since we’ve gotten here?”
Eslingen blinked. “Now that you mention it,” he began, and in the same moment, Rathe shook his head.
“I was noticing that, actually. Why—P” He stopped then, remembering the clocks in Astreiant striking the wrong hours, too soon, too late, time and the world suddenly askew, at odds with each other. “You think he was responsible for the clock-night.”
b’Estorr sighed. “I don’t know if he did that. But aurichalcum is a potent metal—it’s one of the few things in the world that’s strong enough to affect a well-made clock. If he’s mining and manipulating it in quantity, it would certainly throw off the household’s timepieces. And I think it would ultimately be less suspicious to get rid of the clocks than to try to explain why they were running badly.”
“There were clocks here last summer,” Denizard said. “Handsome ones—an old one that had to be an heirloom, and a very nice modern case-clock up in the gallery, at least from what I saw. They weren’t here this spring. I thought she’d just sold them for the money, but now…”
“What in Dis’s name can he want with that much aurichalcum?”
b’Estorr muttered, and no one answered.
After a moment, Rathe said, “I suppose our next step is to go to the mine, see if the kids are there.”
“What we need to do,” b’Estorr said, and kicked the edge of the hearth, “is to put paid to his plans, whatever they are. And the one sure way to do that is to pollute the mine.”
Rathe looked at him. “I may not want to know this, but how do we do that?”
b’Estorr took a breath. “Oh, it’s fairly easy. The mere presence of adults—worldly wise, probably inappropriately born—in the mine itself will taint the gold and spoil the whole process.” There was a small silence, the fire hissing in the grate. Rathe stared at the coals, trying to imagine getting into a mine without being seen.
“What about the children?” he said aloud, and b’Estorr gave him an unhappy glance.
“If Timenard is mining aurichalcum, creating it in this kind of quantity—he’s put his hands on a source of power that frightens me. It’s the kind of power, at least in potential, that moves mountains, and I mean that literally. You saw what it was like at Wicked’s, and his power will only have increased from then. The children are less important than stopping whatever it is he’s doing, Nico. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
Rathe shook his head, wanting to deny the other’s words, but stopped by the note in the necromancer’s voice, by his own memories. “We can’t just leave them,” he said, and Eslingen cleared his throat.
“We can’t make any real plans until we know what conditions are like at the mine. We might be able to pollute it and get the children free at the same time.”
b’Estorr said quietly, “Of course, the only problem then is that getting out of Mailhac, with or without eighty-five children, may be rather difficult.”
“Are magists always given to understatement?” Eslingen asked.
Rathe shook his head. “Well, but something like this is what we have the sur’s warrant for. We use it. We send for Coindarel’s regiment.”
“To, basically, attack an Ile’nord holding? Will he come?” Denizard asked, and Eslingen smiled, spoke before Rathe could reply.
“I think I can send a message with the warrant that will bring him. Coindarel has, I think, probably more quarterings than maseigne here.”
“If you can, Philip,” Rathe began, and Eslingen help up a hand.
“I can.”
“So we’re agreed, then,” Rathe said, and looked at b’Estorr. “If we send for Coindarel now, we’ll have—what, three, maybe four hours to do what we have to before he can get here with his troop. That should give you time to do what you need to do with the mine, and at the same time, give us a chance to get the kids into some temporary shelter.”
b’Estorr nodded. “I think it will work. Assuming Coindarel comes.”
“Oh, he will,” Eslingen said.
Denizard handed him her writing kit, and Eslingen seated himself by the fire, balancing the wooden case on his lap. He wrote quickly, the pen scratching across the paper, and Rathe wondered just what he could say that would guarantee the prince-marshal’s arrival. Eslingen had served with Coindarel, the pointsman told himself firmly. He would know what to say.
“Finished,” Eslingen said at last, and folded the paper firmly, adding a blob of wax to seal it.
“I can send it with one of my people,” Denizard said, and Rathe intercepted the note before she could take it.
“I’d better take it. I’m the caravan-master, remember? Who else would go check on the horses?”
He made his way down the side stairs and out into the courtyard, shadowed now as the winter-sun dropped toward the roof. The main gate was still open, he saw, but a pair of sturdy-looking men in half armor lounged against the inside arch of the gate. They looked lazy enough at the moment, but their back-and-breasts were well polished, swords and half-pikes ready for use, and Rathe nodded in their direction, hoping they would assume he was simply checking on the horses. No one challenged him, and he drew a sigh of relief as he ducked into the stable door. He stood for a moment in the sudden dark, the smell of hay and horses strong in his nose, and a voice said softly, “Rathe?”
He turned toward the speaker, and saw the taller of the two grooms standing in the door of one of the stalls. “Grevin.”
The man stepped back, beckoning. “Over here. But keep your voice down, sir, the hostlers sleep in the hayloft.”
Rathe nodded, and came to join them in the narrow space. They had made themselves a bed in the hay, he saw, and felt a brief pang of guilt that they wouldn’t get to use it. “We need to get a message to Coindarel, at Anedelle, as quickly as possible. There are guards on the gate, though—”
“Not a problem,” the other groom said with a grin that showed white in the darkness. “There’s something very strange going on here, and the people don’t like it. There’s a back door that no one’s ever bothered to show this magist of hers.”
“Where?” Rathe demanded.
“By the kitchen,” the groom answered. “It’s right there, they say, but the magist doesn’t concern himself with the servants’ quarters.”
And a good thing, too, Rathe thought. “Then the guards are his?” he asked, and Ytier nodded.
“That’s what they say. I can’t say I’m sorry to be leaving, all things considered.”
“We won’t be able to take the horses, though,” Grevin said.
Ytier shrugged. “We can get mounts at any of the h
ouses along here, if we pay enough. I know these people.”
Rathe reached into his pocket, came up with the letter and his purse, and handed them both across. Ytier took them, weighing the purse briefly in his palm, and nodded.
That should be enough. Even if it isn’t, we can walk to Anedelle in a couple of hours.”
“Good enough,” Rathe said, and hoped it would be so. “Good luck,” he added, and let himself back out into the courtyard.
Rathe crossed the courtyard again, acutely aware of the guards still lounging by the gate, but suppressed the desire to wave to them. Instead he went back into the hall and slipped quietly up the main stairway. As he reached the top, he heard footsteps, then voices, de Mailhac’s and then the magist’s, and dodged instinctively into the first doorway he saw. Caravan-master or not, he had no real desire to explain what he was doing out of his room at this hour, especially after he’d claimed the same exhaustion as the others. He found himself in a long room that smelled faintly of cold ash, and stood for a moment, head tilted to one side, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could hear the footsteps, closer now, and then de Mailhac’s voice, rising querulously as she approached the door.
“—I don’t like this, not right now. They could spoil everything.”
“I told you, and I’m telling you again, this means nothing.” Timenard’s voice was sharper than it had been at dinner, held more authority. It was also coming closer to the door, and Rathe glanced around the room, looking for a hiding place. Tapestries covered the wall to his left, and he put out his hand, testing the space between them and the wall itself. Not much, but maybe enough to hide him, he thought, and took a cautious step toward them, groping for the edge of the heavy fabric. He found it, and in the same moment felt the tapestry sway inward under his hand. There was a niche in the wall, one of the guard posts one still found in the oldest houses, and he slipped into it, letting the tapestry fall back into place over him.
“It’s too late,” Timenard went on. “Our plans are too far advanced—pull yourself together, maseigne, there’s nothing they can do to stop us.”
“I wish I were as confident as you,” de Mailhac said, her voice suddenly louder. Rathe saw light through the gap between the tapestry and the wall, the wavering pallor of a single candle, and held his breath. The light dimmed, moving past him, and he heard the distinct double click as a latch snapped open.
“You should be,” Timenard said. “You can be.”
“But what are we going to do about them?” de Mailhac demanded, her voice fading again. Rathe tipped his head to one side, not daring to shift the tapestries, but didn’t heard the latch close again. De Mailhac’s voice came again, a little muffled, but still too close for comfort. “They are dangerous, Timenard.”
“I don’t deny it,” the magist answered. His voice sounded closer, and Rathe grimaced, flattening his back against the stones of the wall. From the sound of it, Timenard was still in the room—standing in a doorway, maybe, Rathe thought, and that meant he himself was stuck behind the tapestries for a while longer. “And they will be dealt with, maseigne. Leave that to me. But now—”
“The list,” de Mailhac interrupted him, her voice sounding less muffled, and Rathe heard the latch click closed again.
“List?” Timenard echoed, sounding startled.
“The list you wanted,” de Mailhac answered. “You did say you wanted it?”
“Oh, yes,” the magist said, and Rathe thought there was a fractional hesitation in the round man’s voice, as though he’d forgotten ever mentioning a list. And don’t I wish I could get a look at it myself, Rathe thought, but didn’t move a muscle behind the concealing weight of the fabric. He saw the light swell again, caught a brief glimpse of the pinpoint of flame and the shadows of the two, tall and small, and then their footsteps had passed him, were receding down the long hall. Rathe allowed himself a deep breath, but didn’t move immediately, listening for any sign of their return. There was nothing but silence; he counted to a hundred and then to a hundred again without hearing anything more.
He lifted the tapestry aside, stepped back out into the narrow room. It was as dark as before, and empty, but he hesitated, looking for the second door, the one he had heard open and close. There was no sign of it, just the main door, half open to the hall, and the blank paneled walls. Carved paneled walls, he corrected himself, and his interest sharpened. In Astreiant, carvings like that could hide any number of doors and compartments, and in spite of the situation, he couldn’t repress a grin, remembering one of Mikael’s friends, drunk and earnest, explaining how he’d found some rich merchant’s private strongroom behind a similar set of carvings. His eyes were adjusted to the dark by now, and he could make out the pattern, a vine heavy with fruit. Experimentally, he ran his hand along the carved stem, counting clustered grapes, and jammed his thumb painfully against an iron loop like a trigger. He put his thumb in his mouth and used his other hand to work the latch, wincing at the noise.
The door opened onto what seemed to be a small workroom lit only by the winter-sun’s light that seeped in through the gap in the shutters. It was enough to show the worktable and chair and the massive cases that held the estate’s account books. They were locked, and he spared them only a single regretful glance, concentrating instead on the handful of papers scattered across the table top. He picked them up one by one, held them to the light to decipher the stilted handwriting—de Mailhac’s? he wondered. The notes were unsigned, were little more than drafts for the account books or for a more complete letter, but enough of the names were familiar to let him make sort of sense of the whole. There were only a dozen names, or so it seemed, and he recognized four of them as Astreiant printers, and one other—the one who had received the largest amounts—as a woman who had a reputation as political agent in the city. The last sheet was a broadsheet, much creased, with a woodcut of the Starsmith hanging over a mountain and contorted verses that argued for a northern candidate for the succession. Rathe frowned at that—there were three northern candidates, Marselion, Sensaire, and Belvis—and only then realized that the first letters of each line spelled out Belvis’s name. He made a face, and set the sheet back in its place. From the look of things, de Mailhac was definitely supporting Belvis’s candidacy with money and more; he wondered, closing the door gently again behind him, if the palatine had any idea the lengths to which her supporters would go.
The hall seemed quiet now, the servants busy belowstairs, de Mailhac and Timenard long gone, and he slipped back into the main hallway. He made his way back to Denizard’s room without encountering anyone, and tapped gently on the door. It opened at once, and Eslingen looked out at him, frown easing to a sudden grin.
“You took your time,” he said, and Rathe stepped past him, closing the door behind them both.
“Problems?” Denizard asked, and the pointsman shook his head.
“No. The message is sent and I’ve got us a way out of the hall. But I had a chance to do a little snooping on my way back, and I think I know some of what’s going on.” Quickly, he explained what had happened, describing the papers he’d found. When he’d finished, Eslingen lifted an eyebrow.
“One could almost feel sorry for Maseigne de Belvis. Whether or not she knows what’s going on, she’ll lose any chance at the throne when this comes out.”
b’Estorr shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. You don’t go to all this trouble, manufacture aurichalcum illegally—Dis, steal eighty-five children in order to manufacture aurichalcum—for political gain. It would be like taking a caliver to a gnat.”
“I saw the papers,” Rathe said. “And I know those names, the printers, and I saw one of the sheets. That’s part of it, Istre.”
“De Mailhac’s part, anyway,” Denizard said, and the others looked at her. “De Mailhac is an Orsandi, they’re related to Belvis by marriage, it would make sense for her to support that candidacy. It’s a nasty thought, but suppose Timenard’s duped her, too?”
> “How do you mean?” Rathe said after a moment, not liking the sound of it.
“Suppose he has told her that whatever he’s doing is for Belvis, to help Belvis, but that’s just a cover?” Denizard shook her head. “I can’t think of anything else that would make sense. Istre’s right, aurichalcum’s too potent to waste on mere politics, but I trust Nico’s knowledge of Astreianter printers.” A fleeting grin crossed her face. “I know to my cost it’s encyclopedic.”
“But if aurichalcum is queen’s gold,” Eslingen said slowly, “if it’s linked to the monarch, why wouldn’t you use it if you wanted to influence the succession?”
“It’s too powerful,” b’Estorr said again, and Denizard nodded.
“There are better, less dangerous ways to affect even a royal decision,” she said. “With fewer chances of it blowing up in your face.”
Eslingen nodded. “Which brings me to another thought, then, Aice. Is there any chance of us convincing maseigne she’s been duped, and getting her—and more to the point, her household and presumably her guards—on our side?”
“I doubt she’d listen,” Denizard said with regret. “She doesn’t much like me—too common for her taste—and I don’t have any real evidence. We don’t even know what Timenard is really doing.”
“Besides,” Rathe said, “the guards are his.”
“Lovely,” Eslingen said. “So we’re back to the original plan?”
Rathe nodded. “So now we wait for second sundown.”
The brilliant diamond of the winter-sun was already below the edge of the trees, glinting through the gaps in the leaves. They watched in silence as it sank further, vanishing at last behind the shoulder of the hill. When it was well down, the four slipped down the stairs. As the grooms had said, the back door was easy enough to find, a small door at the end of a hall that led past the kitchen. It looked as though it would lead to a storeroom, and Rathe braced himself for disappointment as he tugged on the latch. It opened smoothly, without creaking, and a breath of damp air came in with it, bringing the smell of a midden. Rathe made a face, and stepped out into a narrow paved courtyard that was obviously used to store the kitchen’s leavings. The iron gate at its end was open, and there were no guards in sight. He allowed himself a sigh of relief—for the first time, it seemed the stars might be favorable—and they went on out into the deepening night.
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