Point of Hopes (67 page)

“
I can do that,” b’Estorr answered,
and Rathe nodded.

“
Then, please. Do it.” It was his
right, as a pointsman and a servant of the judiciary, to ask that,
or it would be if they had been in Astreiant and Timenard had died
on the gallows. Rathe shook the doubt away. He had told the truth:
Timenard’s death had been deserved, and de Mailhac’s with it; if
nothing else, treason was a capital crime, and madness like
Timenard’s was worse than treason. He nodded again, and b’Estorr
nodded back.

“
You’re right,” he said, and
reached into the pocket of his coat, bringing out his own orrery.
The metal was tarnished, as though it, too, had been through the
fire, and he blinked, startled.

“
Mine, too,” Denizard said, and
held up a smaller, double-ringed disk. “Gods, if that—device—of his
was powerful enough to do that just in its
destruction….”

“
Then Nico’s right, and the ghost
ought to be laid, for good and for all,” Eslingen said.

“
I agree,” b’Estorr said, absently,
adjusting the rings of his orrery. They moved smoothly now, Rathe
saw, and shivered, remembering their earlier stubbornness. The
necromancer checked the settings a final time, then unfastened his
swordbelt, and used the scabbarded blade to draw a circle around
the remains of the fire.

“
Let me help,” Denizard said, and
b’Estorr nodded

“
If you’d set the
wards?”

Denizard nodded back, and crouched to begin
sketching symbols along the outside of the circle. b’Estorr reached
past her, drew more symbols inside the circle, murmuring to himself
in a language Rathe didn’t recognize. He drew two more sets of
symbols, consulting his orrery each time, and then looked down at
Denizard.

“
Ready?”

“
Done,” Denizard answered, and drew
a final symbol in the dirt outside the circle. Rathe felt something
give, as though the air itself had collapsed, leaving a space that
was somehow outside proper time and space, and b’Estorr reached
calmly into the center of the circle, inscribed a final symbol in
the air above the pile of ash. There was a flash of light, gone
almost before Rathe was sure he’d seen it, and the feeling of
dislocation was gone with it.

“
Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said,
under his breath, and Rathe nodded.

b’Estorr slipped his orrery back into his pocket and
held out a hand to help Denizard to her feet. “That’s bound them,
not that there was likely to be much left to trouble anyone. Power
like that is called soul-destroying for a reason.”

“
Thanks,” Rathe said, and wished he
could think of something more.

“
Mind you,” b’Estorr went on, “if
they want to use the mine again—whoever de Mailhac’s heirs are,
they’re unlikely to turn down gold—I’d suggest putting up something
a little more solid to mark the spot, otherwise it’ll drive the
horses crazy.” He seemed to realize he was babbling, and stopped
abruptly, shaking his head. Rathe touched his arm in sympathy, and
looked back across the yard to where Coindarel and his men were
still gathering the children. There were two more of them on the
hill above, he realized, a boy and a girl, and he lifted his hand
to wave them down. They saw the gesture, and started toward the
others, and a third stepped from behind a tree, picking her way
carefully over the stones after them. That must be close to half of
them, Rathe thought, and all of them safe and sound, frightened,
certainly, but unhurt. That was a better result than he had thought
possible even a week ago, and he felt unexpected tears welling in
his eyes. He blinked hard, impatient with himself, and Eslingen
laid a hand on his shoulder.

“
Seidos’s Horse, we did it.” He
looked more closely then, and the cheerful voice softened. “You can
take them home now, Nico.”

Rathe smiled. “Well, Coindarel can,” he said.
“They’re going home, that’s the main thing.” And that, he thought,
was more than enough for any man.

It was a slow journey back to Astreiant, despite the
wagons Coindarel commandeered from every farmstead he passed, but
the news ran fast ahead of them. By the time they topped the last
long hill that led down to the city, the steep slate roofs rising
like a stone forest from the paler stones of the houses, the royal
residence sitting on its artificial hill to the north as though it
floated above the ordinary world, they could see the crowds
gathering along the Horsegate Road. The first parents had already
reached them, reclaiming their children with shouts and tears of
joy. Coindarel slowed his troop to a walk and gave up all pretense
at discipline by the time they’d reached the outlying houses.
Rathe, riding with the first wagon, was buffeted by the crowds,
women and men thrusting flowers toward him and shouting inaudible
thanks, clutching at boots and stirrup leathers as though they
couldn’t otherwise be sure it was all real. They grabbed at the
wagons, too, and a couple of Coindarel’s sergeants moved cautiously
to block them so that the horses could keep moving.

Rathe heard a shriek from the nearest wagon, turned
sharply, his fear turning to relief as he saw Herisse Robion, her
green suit sadly battered now, leaning over the wagon’s side to
wave to someone in the crowd. Rathe turned to look, and saw the
butcher Mailet, and with him Trijntje Ollre, tears streaming down
her face.

“
Trijntje!” Herisse cried again,
and Rathe touched heels to his horse, edging it through the
crowd.

“
Need help?” he asked, and the girl
turned to him.

“
Oh, let me down, make them stop,
please, it’s Trijntje, and Master Mailet, and
everybody—”

Rathe glanced at the wagoner, who shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir, if I stop for her, I’ll have to stop for all of
them, and we’ll never get them home.”

He was right, Rathe knew, but the expression on
Herisse’s face was too much for him. The wagon wasn’t moving very
fast, barely at a walk, and he brought his horse alongside,
matching the pace easily.

“
Here,” he said, and held out his
arm. She scrambled over the wagon’s side, skirt hiked awkwardly,
and he caught her around the waist, dragging her half across his
saddle-bow. She clung to him, and he swung the horse in the same
moment, depositing her gracelessly but unbruised at Mailet’s feet.
The big man grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her into a rough
embrace, and then Trijntje called her name, and the two girls hung
sobbing and laughing in each other’s arms. Mailet shook his head
his own expression fond and looked up at Rathe.

“
I’m in your debt, Adjunct
Point.”

Rathe shook his head. “It’s my job, Master
Mailet—”

“
And I’m still in your debt,”
Mailet answered the choler already returning to his face, chin and
lower lip jutting dangerously. “I insist.”

Rathe laughed then, suddenly, and for the first time
in weeks, genuinely happy. “Have it your way, master,” he said, and
nudged his horse forward.

At his side, Eslingen laughed too. “You can’t seem
to get on with that one, Nico.”

Rathe grinned. “I’d like to see his stars,” he
began, and saw a hand wave from the crowd. Devynck stood there,
Adriana at her side, and he looked back to see Eslingen’s smile
widen to delight.

“
Adriana, Sergeant,” he called and
swung down off his horse, looping the rein over his
wrist.

“
You’ll miss the celebration at the
Pantheon,” Rathe said and the other man looked up at
him.

“
Oh, that’s for Coindarel, you know
that. Besides, I’ve been wanting to see them again.” He started
toward the two women without waiting for an answer, tugging the
horse along with him.

Rathe shook his head—Eslingen was right, of course,
the prince-marshal would take the credit, or, more precisely, would
be given most of the credit, but he couldn’t bring himself to care
too deeply.

“
Nico?” It was Asheri’s voice, from
the second wagon, and Rathe turned, brought his horse alongside
her.

“
Yes? I haven’t seen Mijan yet, if
that’s what you wanted.”

“
And you won’t, either,” Asheri
answered. “She’d never come to something like this, she’s too sure
the worst will have happened.”

She sounded impatient, if anything,
but Rathe remembered the tears in Mijan’s eyes, the bitter answer
to all her own and her sister’s dreams.
We
never have any luck,
she had said,
I should have known.
As if
she’d guessed the thought, Asheri’s face seemed to
crumple.

“
Take me home, Nico,
please?”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll take you home,” he said, and
held out his hand so she could scramble across.

Once they were free of the crowd, the streets were
almost empty. It didn’t take long to reach the Hopes-point
Bridge.

Asheri shifted against his back, muttered something,
muffled by the cloth of his coat.

“
What’s that?”

“
I don’t think it’s fair,” Asheri
said, and Rathe frowned.

“
What’s not, love?” He could hear
bells chiming, and could smell a sudden sweet drift of incense from
a household shrine.

“
The prince-marshal getting all the
credit. He sweeps in at the last minute, like a hero out of some
really improbable romance, he doesn’t even do any of the work, not
like you did, Nico, and the others—and the whole city thinks he’s
the hero.”

“
Well, but he is,” Rathe said,
striving for a light tone. “By definition. Prince-marshals are
always the heroes.”

“
I think,” she said seriously, “we
need some new stories, then.”

Rathe shook his head. “Probably, but don’t fret
about it on my account, Ash. People know. They know it was the four
of us, and that’s fine. We’re none of us heroes, nor would want to
be. Except maybe Philip,” he added, and was glad to surprise a
gurgle of laughter from her.

“
He does come the gentleman,
doesn’t he?” She sobered again. “But it’s still not
fair.”

“
I meant what I told Mailet,” Rathe
said, and realized that he did. “It’s my job.”

“
Then you don’t get paid enough,”
Asheri muttered.

They turned off Clock Street at last, and threaded
their way through the narrow streets to the cul-de-sac where
Mijan’s house stood. The square around the well-house was empty,
not even the sound of a child drifting from the surrounding houses,
but Mijan herself was working in the little garden outside her
front door, her back stubbornly to the road from the city. Another
woman—a neighbor? Rathe wondered—was standing with her, hands
twisted in her mended apron. She looked up sharply at the sound of
hoofbeats, though Mijan did not move, and then reached down to
touch the other woman’s shoulder. Mijan hunched her back, and
didn’t move. Rathe reined his horse to a stop—and he would have to
return it to Caiazzo soon, he thought, or pay for stabling—and
Asheri slid down from the saddle.

“
Mijan?”

Mijan turned at the sound of her voice, scowling,
and pushed herself up from the dry dirt. “How could you—?” she
began, and Asheri’s voice rose in what sounded like a habitual
response.

“
Don’t
scold
, Mijan, I’m fine!”

Mijan shook her head, but Rathe could see the tears
on her cheeks. She opened her arms then, and Asheri stepped into
their shelter, into Mijan’s fierce embrace, burying her head
against her sister’s chest. Mijan rested her chin on the girl’s
head. “Oh, Asheri,” she said and looked at Rathe. “I—thank you,
Rathe. I thought sure—” She broke off again, and the other woman
took a step forward.

“
I said she’d be with the others,”
she said. She had an easy, comfortable voice, and an easy smile.
“And I said you should have supper waiting.”

Mijan loosened her hold on the girl, her mouth
pulling down into her ready scowl. “I wasn’t going to spend good
coin on something that might not happen.”

“
Then it’s a good thing I did” the
other woman said. “Come along, Mijan, you’re in no shape to
cook—you shouldn’t have to cook, either one of you, not after all
this, and I’ve got supper on the stove, a whole chicken.” She
looked at Rathe, including him in her smile. “You should join us,
Master Rathe—you’ll not get better, though I say it who
shouldn’t.”

Rathe returned her smile, but shook his head. “I
have to report to Point of Hopes,” he said, and backed the horse
away.

“
I’ll be in tomorrow for work,”
Asheri called after him, and he saw Mijan’s mouth tighten in an old
disapproval. She said nothing, however, and Rathe lifted his hand
in answer, kicking the horse into a slow trot.

The streets were getting more crowded as he made his
way back toward Point of Hopes with people coming back from the
Horsegate Road who hadn’t bothered to go on to the Pantheon. A fair
number carried pitchers of wine and beer, but they were happy
drunks, and Rathe couldn’t quite bring himself to care. At Point of
Hopes itself, the portcullis was open, and the courtyard was
crowded, pointsmen and women for once mingling amicably with people
from the surrounding houses. Someone had brought a hogshead into
the yard, and the air smelled of spilled beer. Houssaye saw him
first, and came to catch the horse’s bridle.