Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

  The wind was still strong, tearing the clouds of the day apart to let through bits of starlight. Rathe stopped, confused by the dark and the sighing trees, and Denizard pushed past him, a dark lantern ready in her hand.

  “This way,” she said, and the others followed.

  She led them cautiously around the manor house, following some path that Rathe couldn’t see, and brought them out at last beside a small stream. Now, at the height of the summer, it was more sound than water, the stream itself perhaps a foot wide, clattering over the rocks at the center of its bed, but Denizard’s lantern showed higher banks where the spring floods had carved a deeper channel. Beyond the far bank, a path led uphill following the course of the stream, barely wide enough for a man and a pack pony to walk abreast. It rose steeply, without much regard for travellers’ footing on the rocky ground, and Rathe heard Eslingen swear under his breath. Denizard heard him, too, and gave a grim smile.

  “It’s all uphill from here,” she said, and the soldier swore again.

  “How far?” Rathe asked, adjusting the sword he’d borrowed from b’Estorr, and the woman shrugged.

  “According to the deed to the estate, a couple of miles, but it’s always felt further to me. The road gets better about half a mile up—this is the path they use to bring the gold down, they don’t want it to seem easy to strangers.”

  Rathe sighed at that and glanced up, wishing that the trees didn’t cut off so much of the starlight. The waning moon was no help at all, had already set, and Denizard’s dark lantern did little more than add to the darkness. Rathe looked away from it deliberately, stretching his eyes as though that would help him find his night sight more quickly somehow, and followed the others up the stony path. As Denizard had promised, it got easier as they climbed higher, widening until two horses could walk abreast, but even so it took most of their concentration to keep from slipping on the rocky track. It was well over an hour later when Eslingen, walking a little ahead of the others, stopped and held out a hand.

  Denizard shuttered her lantern instantly. “What is it?” she murmured, her voice barely a breath above a whisper, and Eslingen waved her toward the woods.

  “Guardpost,” he murmured. “Only a couple of men, so it’s not the real thing yet.”

  “Probably here to catch any of the children who try to make a run for it,” Rathe whispered, and ducked behind b’Estorr into the shadow of a bush. He could see movement now, darker shadows among the trees, and then, as one turned, he saw the spark of a lit slow match bobbing at chest height. He held his breath, seeing that, fought the urge to duck, and the spark moved away again, vanished as the guard turned back to his post.

  “Probably,” Eslingen agreed, “but we can’t afford a fight at this stage. We’ll have to go around.”

  Denizard made a sound that might have been a sigh. “This way.”

  She led them up the slope to her left, climbing cautiously through the trees and rock until they could pass the guards unseen and unheard. The guards’ interest seemed to be focussed on the mine; they stood facing uphill, turning only occasionally to glance back down the road toward Mailhac. They had a brazier with them, and a lantern, Rathe saw, and hoped it had ruined their night vision.

  Even after they had passed the guardpost, Denizard did not return to the road but led them along the slope parallel to it, her boots silent in the thick carpet of dead leaves and debris. It was quiet enough, Rathe thought, following more cautiously, but the same soft cover hid all but the largest rocks and was dangerously slick in places, making the footing treacherous. He slipped once, and swore silently, pain shooting up from a wrenched toe, but that eased almost at once and he allowed himself a soft sigh of relief. All they would need now was for someone to get hurt.

  Ahead, a light showed between the trees, a cool, diffuse light, and Eslingen stopped, tilting his head to one side. “Mage-fire?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, and b’Estorr nodded.

  “I would say so. They’ll have to work all hours to take advantage of the proper stars, and there’s no better way to light this large a space.”

  “This way,” Denizard said, and pointed to her left again. She led them further up the slope where the trees and brush were thicker, crouched at last behind a cluster of rocks and screening bushes. Rathe copied her, then reached aside to part the branches, staring down at the mine. It lay in a hollow, long since cleared, filled with the cool, shadowless light of the mage-fire like sunlight through fog. If anything, the area seemed surprisingly ordinary, the long run of the sluice lying crooked across the yard, the stone storehouse with its iron-bound door, the scattering of wooden shacks that must hold tools—ordinary indeed, Rathe thought, except for the children. A gang of twenty or more stood at the long table at the mouth of the sluice, picking listlessly through the rubble that covered its surface. Behind them, the mine entrance loomed, an empty hole framed with heavy timbers. The mage-light didn’t penetrate its darkness, and Rathe suppressed a shiver at the sight, made himself look more carefully at the yard. There were more guards, of course, a trio—all armed with calivers and swords, though no armor—keeping a close eye on the laboring children, and at least five more scattered across the yard, two by the storehouse, the other three on the hillside to the right of the mine. He shook his head, watching the children work, their movements slow and uncoordinated.

  “Why make them work at such an hour?” he asked.

  “Taking advantage of a favorable conjunction,” Denizard answered, almost absently, and Rathe nodded. He had known the answer, or could have guessed it, but he was glad to hear another voice.

  b’Estorr reached for his pocket orrery, looked up to the sky to find the clock-stars among the scudding clouds, then held the little engine so that its rings were lit by the reflected glow of the mage-fire. He twisted one of the inner rings, and frowned as the metal refused to move. Denizard frowned, too, and b’Estorr pressed harder. This time, the orrery turned easily, and he checked the settings.

  “Trouble?” Denizard asked, and b’Estorr glanced at her.

  “It may just need oiling.”

  Denizard lifted an eyebrow at that, and b’Estorr sighed. “Or there’s enough aurichalcum down there to affect it. But whatever it is, that conjunction is ending—it has to be within a degree or two to be effective. So the children should be let off any minute.”

  Eslingen nudged Rathe. “Look.” He pointed to one of the guards, who had set down his caliver and was consulting a battered-looking almanac. A moment later, the man put a whistle to his lips, the shrill sound seeming to make the mage-fire shiver, and the children stopped what they were doing. One, too slow, too tired, kept going, pulling a chunk of rock from the table, and the closest guard cuffed him, hard, then tossed the rock away. Together he and the others began herding the children back toward the stone storehouse—which had to be the stronghouse for the mine, Rathe realized. What safer place to keep the children than in a place meant to be locked and defended? And how in the name of all the gods are we ever going to get them out of there? he thought. Or, for that matter, how are we going to get into the mine?

  Eslingen seemed to have the same thought, and turned to look at the magists. “You expect to get in there?”

  b’Estorr nodded. “We have to. It’s the only way to be sure.”

  Eslingen slid back down, to sit on the dirt with his back against a rock, and Rathe saw the glint of white as he rolled his eyes. “The madness of magists,” he muttered, and took a breath. “Right, then, I’ll have to clear you a way, won’t I?” He started to get to his feet, but Rathe put a hand on his arm.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Cause a distraction—draw off the guards and keep them busy while the magists do their work.” Eslingen glanced around the rocky ground. “There’s plenty of cover, and we’ve got four pistols between us. We should be able to hold them.”

  Rathe shook his head. “If you want to do that, and I think it will work, we have to free
the kids first. Otherwise they can use them against us.” He squinted through the trees toward the storehouse. The children had vanished inside, and now the guards were taking up their positions outside the door—only two of them, Rathe saw, but that was enough. “A distraction would be nice for that, too.”

  “We could probably provide that,” Denizard said, and b’Estorr showed teeth in an angry smile.

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  “Can the two of you handle the mine yourselves?” Rathe asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Denizard said. “Polluting the mine is really quite simple—I’m sure that’s why the guards aren’t at the entrance itself.”

  “It’s just getting away from it that might be difficult,” Eslingen muttered. He shook his head. “This is getting complicated.”

  “I don’t think we have any alternative,” Rathe answered. He looked at the magists. “All right. Give us time to get into position, and then— make noise or something. Draw off the guards. We’ll release the kids, and then return the favor.”

  “Freeing the children will probably be a good enough distraction in itself,” Eslingen said, and grimaced at Rathe’s glare. “Well, it will be. And they have every incentive not to hurt them, which is more than I can say for us.”

  b’Estorr nodded. “As soon as we see the children leave, we’ll head for the mine.”

  They were right, Rathe admitted, much as he hated the idea, and nodded shortly. “All right,” he said again. “Let’s go.”

  They made their way along the side of the hill, careful to stay well back in the shadow of the trees. The glow of the mage-fire was both a help and a hindrance, enough to light their way but deceptive in the lack of shadows. It seemed to take forever to reach the slope overlooking the stronghouse, and almost as long again to work their way cautiously down to the edge of the clearing. Rathe was sweating freely, certain that they had taken took long and that the magists would act before they were ready, but made himself stay behind Eslingen, matching the soldier’s pace. At last, they reached the edge of the trees and stood peering out at the building.

  “Two guards on the door,” Eslingen said, his voice a mere breath of sound. “But the others have a clear view, damn it.”

  Rathe nodded, the weight of the pistol awkward in his belt. At least it was a flintlock, not the matchlocks the guards were carrying, but he wished he had more than one. He jumped as a crack like breaking wood sounded from the other side of the yard, and then realized that the magists were finally moving. The sound was repeated closer in, and the guards started toward it, leaping the stream and heading up the slope.

  “There he goes,” Eslingen said softly, and Rathe saw one of the two guards from the stronghouse move to join the others.

  “I suppose it was too much to hope they’d both go,” he muttered, and saw Eslingen smile.

  “Be grateful for small favors,” he said, and darted forward, pistol raised. He dropped the remaining guard with a single blow and dragged the unconscious figure out of sight while Rathe surveyed the building. There was only a single lock on the door, but it was a heavy one, and he didn’t dare risk the noise trying to shoot it off. He took a step back, peering up into the darkness. There were, of course, no windows—why should there be, in a building designed to keep gold safe?—and he swore softly. Eslingen stepped up beside him, leveling the musket he’d taken from the guard, but Rathe pushed the barrel aside.

  “I don’t see that we have any choice,” Eslingen said.

  Rathe shook his head. “Oh, yes, we do. Keep an eye out, would you?” The soldier turned obediently to face the yard, shouldering the musket. Rathe pulled a small knife from his sleeve and set to work on the mechanics of the lock. It was not, he saw with considerable relief, a mage lock, and why should it be? Trouble was the last thing Timenard was expecting, his plan had been almost perfect. Not, Rathe thought, propitiatingly, that he had grown careless, or that Rathe thought him a fool. But the lock was a fairly straightforward affair for one born and bred in Astreiant’s southriver. He felt the mechanism give, gave a small grunt of satisfaction, and wrenched the lock from the door. Eslingen gave him a slightly incredulous look.

  “Did you learn that before or after you became a pointsman?” he asked. Rathe just bared his teeth at him, and plunged into the darkness. With a small sigh, Eslingen followed, striking a flint and lighting one of the lamps along the wall. There were three barred doors off the little entrance way, two to the right, a single one to the left, each with a grilled opening in the center. Rathe tapped quietly at one of the right-hand doors. There was no response from behind it, but there was a small scurry of noise from behind its neighbor. Then a face appeared in the small, barred window: Asheri. Rathe let his eyes flicker closed for an instant, then moved to investigate the lock.

  She looked surprised when she saw Rathe, and then relieved. “I thought it would have to be you, Nico.”

  “I’m glad you had faith in me, Asheri love. Are the boys in the other room?” Rathe asked. This lock was more complex, better built than the one on the main door, and he could feel the knife point slipping on its works without making contact.

  “Yes.” She stuck her hand out the window, pointed to the door across the corridor. “Though why they think they have to separate us, I don’t know.”

  “I wouldn’t imagine the situation is conducive to misbehavior,” Rathe agreed. “Ash, keep the other girls quiet for me while I try to get this door opened. Then get them out and away from here as quickly as you can.”

  “Would this help?” Eslingen said, from behind him, and held out a ring of keys. “It was hanging by the door.”

  Rathe took them gratefully, found the right key on the second try, and swung the door wide. The room was full of children, all girls, all in the crumpled clothes they’d worn when they’d been taken. Someone—Rathe doubted it was Timenard—had given them straw and blankets, but the improvised beds just made the room look more pathetic. They were all standing now, the largest group huddled together as though they were cold. A tall girl with dark brown hair and wearing a green dress stood near Asheri—she had to be Herisse Robion, Rathe thought, and was almost surprised to realized he had never seen her before.

  “It’s all right,” he said aloud, and hoped he sounded soothing. “I’m from Point of Hopes, we’ve come to get you out of here. The doors are open and the guards are busy elsewhere. I want you to head back down the mountain—follow the stream, not the path, it’ll take you to the road—as fast as you can.”

  Robion nodded, grabbed the nearest girl, and shoved her toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The urgency in her voice seemed to reach even the most frightened, and they began to file out the door, slowly at first, then faster. Eslingen shook his head, looked at Rathe. “I’ll cover them from the main door,” he said, and turned away, the matchlock still at the ready.

  Asheri said, “I’ll stay with you, Nico.”

  Rathe shook his head, trying the next key in the lock. “No, get moving, we’re not done yet.” The lock snapped free at last, and he pulled open the door.

  This room looked much like the other except that it was filled with boys watching warily, poised to run or attack. Asheri said, “It’s all right, he’s from Point of Hopes.”

  “Nicolas Rathe, adjunct point.” It seemed foolish to introduce himself there in the darkened strongroom, but he hoped it would make them listen. “We’ve got the doors open. Head down the mountain as fast as you can—follow the stream, the girls are ahead of you.”

  “They’ve got guns,” a voice said, and there was the sound of a slap.

  “Stupid. You want to stay here?”

  “We’ve drawn off the guards,” Rathe said, and hoped it would still be true. “Now, get moving. Asheri, go with them.”

  The boys began to move, Asheri with them, and Rathe made his way back to the doorway. He drew his pistol as the boys began to dart across the yard, heading for the downhill path and the stream, and joi
ned Eslingen by the door.

  “No sign of the guards?” he asked, and Eslingen shook his head.

  “Are you thinking this might have been the easy part?”

  Rathe nodded, grim-faced. “I wonder how Istre and Denizard are doing.”

  “I haven’t heard them in a while, so I guess they’re at the mine.” Eslingen drew back as the last boy shoved past them. “Maybe they need our help. I’m pretty impure. Do you suppose the less innocent a person is, the quicker the mine could be polluted?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Rathe answered, and in the same instant, heard a shout from the hillside.

  “Damn kids, get them!”

  Rathe swore, heard himself echoed by Eslingen. He could see the first of the guards scrambling down out of the trees clutching his musket, and lifted his own pistol, saw Eslingen level the musket he’d taken from the guard.

  “Mine, I think,” Eslingen said, and fired. The sound echoed in the greying darkness, bouncing off the rocky hills, and pulling the guards up short as though by a rope. They were out of range, and knew it, but the leader waved his arms, drawing his men back toward the yard.

  “This is not a good spot for a pitched battle, Nico,” Eslingen said, and set the now-empty musket neatly in the corner of the door.

  “Even I can see that, but what choice did we have?” Rathe demanded.

  “None, but now we have to think of something else.”

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Rathe said.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Eslingen said, and drew his pistol right-handed. “If we can make it to the mine itself, that’ll give us some cover, and some time, right?”