Authors: Melissa Scott
Tags: #urban fantasy, #fantasy, #gay romance, #alternate world
Point of Hopes
Praise for
Point of Hopes
“
Like Scott and Barnett’s previous
collaboration,
The Armor of Light
(1987), this book features good writing, good
characterization, and exceedingly superior world-building.
Astreiant has a marvelous lived-in quality, and most of the
characters are ordinary middle-class citizens, not members of
either the fantastic elite or the hyperrealistic underclass that
are both so prevalent in fantasy these days. Place this one high in
the just plain-good-reading category.”
—
Booklist
“
Strong, likeable protagonists and a
vividly detailed supporting cast bring an emotional veracity to
this well-wrought tale. A priority addition to any library’s
fantasy collection.”
—
Library
Journal
A novel of Astreiant
Melissa Scott & Lisa A. Barnett
Published by Lethe Press at
Smashwords.com
Copyright © 1995, 2012 Melissa Scott & Lisa A.
Barnett.
All rights reserved. No part of this
work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
First edition published by Tom Doherty Associates,
Inc./Tor Books in 1995.
This edition published in 2012 by Lethe Press,
Inc.
118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018
www.lethepressbooks.com • [email protected]
isbn
:
1-59021-312-2
isbn
-13:
978-1-59021-312-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or
are used fictitiously.
Cover and interior design: Alex Jeffers.
Cover artwork: Ben Baldwin.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Data
Scott, Melissa.
Point of hopes : a novel of Astreiant / Melissa Scott
& Lisa A. Barnett.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59021-312-4 (pbk. : alk. paper)
I. Barnett, Lisa A. II. Title.
PS3569.C672P65 2012
813’.54--dc23
2012004490
To Absent Friends
Prologue
The long room was cool, and very quiet, not even the
sound of a house clock to disturb the silence. The magist who sat
in the guest’s chair by the empty fireplace was very aware of that
unnerving quiet, and folded her hands in her wide sleeves to stop
herself fidgeting with her rings. The room smelled of sour ash, as
though the fire hadn’t been lit in a week or more, for all that it
was only the last day of Lepidas and the Rat Moon. The spring came
late and cold in the Ajanes; she would have been glad of a fire to
cut the chill that clung to the stones of floor and walls. The
heavy tapestries and the one paneled wall did little to warm the
room. She looked around the room again and was reassured by the
sight of silver on the sideboard and wax candles in the
carved-crystal holders, though she could have sworn there had been
a case-clock by the window the last time she’d come to Mailhac.
The landame of Mailhac—who had been plain Jausarande
d’Orsandi, one of five daughters with sixteen quarterings and no
prospects, before she had made her bargain with the magist’s
employer—saw that look from the doorway, and knew it instantly for
what it was. To see a shopkeeper’s daughter, or worse, presuming to
judge her own financial standing, to count the value of silver that
had belonged to this estate for generations, was intolerable.
Still, it had to be tolerated, at least a little longer, and she
smoothed her skirts, displaying long, fair hands against the rich
green silk, and swept forward into the room.
The magist rose to her feet, the drab black of her
gown falling in easy folds over a plain travelling suit, the
wine-colored skirt and bodice dull even in the doubled sunlight
that seeped in through the flawed glass of the single window.
“Maseigne.”
“
Magist.” The landame acknowledged
the other woman’s greeting with a nod, deliberately did not sit,
and was pleased to see the magist stifle a sigh at the reminder of
her place. “What brings you here?”
What do you think?
The magist swallowed that response, and said more
moderately, “We are concerned about the terms of your loan. About
your meeting them.”
Her voice was common, the sharp vowels of the
capital’s poorer districts barely blunted by her education. The
landame achieved a sneer. “I’m surprised to see you here on such an
errand, magist. I thought you were concerned with more important
parts of your master’s—business.”
The magist shrugged, shoulders moving under the
heavy fabric. “You can take it as a compliment to your rank, if you
like. Or you can assume—if you haven’t already heard—that it’s just
because Douvregn was arrested for dueling, and we haven’t found a
knife to replace him yet. As you please, maseigne.”
The landame caught her breath at the insult—how dare
she suggest that her employer would send a common street bully like
Douvregn to deal with an Ajanine noble?—but controlled herself with
an effort that made her hands tremble. She stilled them, stilled
her thoughts, reminding herself that she, they, needed time to
finish the work at hand, time to get all the pieces into place, but
once that was accomplished, neither she nor any of her rank would
ever have to crawl to folk like the magist again. “Douvregn was
getting above himself, then,” she observed, and was annoyed when
the magist grinned.
“
No question, maseigne, one prefers
to leave blood sports to the seigneury. However, that’s hardly the
matter under discussion.” The magist let her smile fade to the look
of grave inquiry that had intimidated far less cultured opponents.
“We expect the gold at Midsummer—by the First Fair, maseigne, not
like last year.”
The landame met the other woman’s stare without
flinching, though inwardly she was cursing the impulse that had
made her delay the previous year’s payment. That had been petty
spite, nothing more, but it seemed as though it would haunt her
dealings now, interfering with her current plans. She said, “But
the payment was made by Midsummer, magist, as agreed in our bond. I
cannot be held responsible for the vagaries of the weather.”
The magist’s mouth tightened fractionally. She knew
perfectly well that the other had held back the previous year’s
payment until the last possible moment, though she doubted that the
landame had any real conception of the effects that delay had had
on her employer’s business. “Of course not, maseigne, but, as one
who is experienced in such matters, may I suggest you allow more
time for bad weather this year? The roads between Astreiant and the
Ajanes can be difficult even at the height of summer.”
The landame bent her head with a passable imitation
of grace, hiding her anger at the condescension in the other’s
voice. “I’ll take that suggestion to heart, magist. As you say, I’m
not as familiar as you are with the proper handling of trade.”
“
How could you be, maseigne?” the
magist answered, and the landame was suddenly uncertain if her
insult had even been recognized.
“
When will you be leaving us?” she
asked abruptly, and wondered then if she’d spoken too
soon.
“
In the morning,” the magist
answered. “As soon after second sunrise as we can manage, I think.
Enjoyable as your hospitality is, maseigne”—the flicker of her eyes
around the chilly room pointed the irony of the words —“we have
business to attend.”
“
Of course,” the landame answered,
hiding her rage, and the magist moved toward the door.
“
Then if you’ll permit me,
maseigne, I’d like a word or two with your steward.”
The landame bit back her first furious answer—how
dare the woman interfere in the running of a noble’s household?—and
waved a hand in gentle dismissal. “As you wish.”
“
Thank you, maseigne,” the magist
answered, and bowed before slipping from the room.
The landame swore as the door closed behind her,
looking around for something to throw, but controlled her temper
with an effort. This was not the time, was too early to tip her
hand—but when the time came, she vowed silently, when my kinswoman
sits on the throne, then you will pay, magist, you and your
employer both. That thought, the reminder of her plans, steadied
her, and she turned toward the chamber she used for her private
business. The catch was hidden in the paneling, hard to find even
for someone who knew where to look, and she had to ran her thumb
over the carved clusters of fruit before she found it. She
unlatched the door and went on into the little room. It smelled of
stale scent and windows that had been closed too long, and she made
a face and flung open the shutters. The air that rushed in was
chill despite the sunlight—the estate lay in the high hills, and
the manor had been built for defense rather than gracious
living—and she considered for a moment calling a servant to relight
the fire in the stove. But that would take too long; she had come
here only to calm herself with the reminder of her plans, and would
be gone again before anyone would hear the summons bell.
She went to the case that held the estate’s books
instead, unlocked it, and reached behind the cracking volume that
held the estate’s charter to pull out a thin, iron-bound box. She
set that down on the table, fumbling beneath her bodice for its
key, and unlocked it, stood looking with satisfaction at the papers
that nearly filled it. The handwriting was her own, laborious and
old-fashioned—these were not matters that could be trusted to any
secretary, no matter how discreet—and the words, the plans they
outlined, were frankly treasonous. But the star-change was almost
upon them, the Starsmith, ruler of monarchs and astrologers, was
about to pass from the Shell to the Charioteer, and that meant that
times were ripe for change. The Queen of Chenedolle was getting
old, was childless, and had little prospect now of bearing an heir
of her own body; with no direct heir, the succession was open to
anyone within the far-flung royal family who possessed the
necessary astrological kinship. Law and simple prudence demanded
that she name her successor before the star-change, before the
events that shift portended actually came to pass. The landame
allowed herself a slight, almost rueful smile, studying the jagged
letters. In practice, there were only a handful of possible
candidates—the queen’s first cousin, the Palatine Marselion, chief
among them; then the palatines Sensaire and Belvis, both
granddaughters of the previous monarch’s sister; and finally the
Metropolitan of Astreiant, who was only the daughter of the queen’s
half sister but was rumored to have the queen’s personal favor, as
well as a favorable nativity. Her own chosen candidate, the
Palatine Belvis, to whom she was related by marriage as well as the
more general kinship among the nobles of the Ile’nord and the
Ajanes, was rumored to be deeply out of favor at court, for all
that her stars were easily as good as Astreiant’s. The landame’s
smile widened then. But that would change, she vowed silently. She
had taken the first steps toward ensuring Belvis’s accession at the
Spring Balance; the next step was well in hand—as long as the
magist’s employer could be kept at arm’s length until after
Midsummer.
She sorted through the top layer of papers—letters
to her agent in the capital, blotted accounts, guarded letters to
Belvis herself, and the palatine’s equally guarded replies—and
finally found the sheet she wanted. It was not her own, but from
her agent: an accounting of the money already spent and a request
for more, along with its proposed uses. Most of it would go to the
half dozen astrologers who were at the heart of her plan; the rest
would go to the printers who sold the broadsheets that promoted
Belvis’s cause and to the dozen or more minor clerks and copyists
who carried out her agent’s business at court and in the tangles of
the city bureaucracy. She looked at the total again, grimacing, but
copied the number onto a slip of paper, and closed the box again,
pressing hard on the lid to make sure the lock caught.
