Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Not a bad idea,” Eslingen started to rise, stopped by a hand on his arm. He looked down at b’Estorr, who shook his head slightly, and Eslingen grimaced in comprehension. “We’ll be up a little later. I want to check on the horses.”

Rathe, who had missed the exchange, just nodded and headed back towards the stairs, grateful for Eslingen’s understanding, anxious for a few moments to himself, to let the fears run wild and then to put them away, firmly, and for all. Tomorrow they would be at Mailhac. Then it was only a matter of time before everything was resolved.

11

« ^ »

the next morning dawned rainy, and the air smelled more than ever of the coming autumn. Rathe glared at drizzle beyond the tiny windows as he shaved and dressed, but got his impatience under control before he climbed down the creaking stairs to the main room. They would still reach Mailhac by the end of the day, and that was all that mattered. Eslingen was standing by one of the windows in the common room, looking out at the grey, wet sky. He shook his head, hearing the other’s approach, but didn’t turn.

“We may not make as good time today,” he said mournfully. “Seidos’s Horse, I hate wet travel.”

“I suppose the weather had to break sometime,” Rathe answered, more philosophically than he felt. He hoped the rain wasn’t an omen, and dismissed the thought as being foolish beyond all permission. He accepted a cup of thick, smoky‑smelling tea from the yawning waiter and joined Denizard at one of the square tables, wrapping his fingers around the warmed pottery.

“It couldn’t have waited another day?” When there was no answer, Eslingen drew himself away from the window and sat back down opposite Rathe. “It could be worse,” he said. “It could be snow.”

Rathe just looked at him. Eslingen raised his hands in defense. “I’ve seen it, snow this time of year, and not that much further north than we are now. Miserable marching it was, too.”

“Sounds like the Chadroni Gap, and from the sound of it, you were in one of the higher parts,” b’Estorr said, from the doorway. He shook the rain from his cloak, hung it near the porcelain stove in one corner of the common room.

“Yes, well, that’s not so very far north of here, is it?”

“There’s north, and north,” b’Estorr agreed with a shrug. He sat down at the table, wrapping his hands around a cup, and glanced at Rathe. “I couldn’t have asked for better weather. If it’s stormy at Mailhac, and I think it will be, from what they told me at the temple, there’s not going to be any work done in the mine today.”

Rathe allowed himself a breath of relief and gave the necromancer a nod of thanks. That was good news–it could only be good news: whatever delayed the magist’s work gave them more time to find the children, and to free them before they had outlived their usefulness.

“How so?” Eslingen asked.

“The wind and rain carry too much corruption,” b’Estorr answered, “and this magist has taken too much trouble this far to spoil it all by carelessness. It may not be a pleasant ride today, but that’s all to the good.”

Denizard made a noise that might have been disparagement or agreement. “Are we ready, then?”

Rathe nodded, stood up, setting aside his half‑finished cup of tea. “I’d like to get there before nightfall. I want to see what this place looks like on first impression.”

Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “Spoken like a soldier.”

Rathe looked at him, grinned. “I’m sure you meant it as a compliment.”

As Rathe had feared, the riding was worse than the past few days had been. The dry dust of the roads had been turned overnight into a thin mud, and the wind blew chill from the northeast, driving the rain through the thin summer fabrics of their garments. When they hit the first of the true foothills, the pack horses began to labor, and they had to slow their pace to keep together on the narrow track. Eslingen swore softly and steadily as the horses’ hooves slithered and caught on the rock‑strewn mud, and the horses seemed to take confidence from the murmured words, dragging themselves and their riders up the ever‑steeper roads. He was the only one who spoke; the others kept silent, faces tucked close to their chests, not wanting to get a mouthful of the cold rain. The first sunset was almost on them by the time they came opposite a massive boss of stone where the track tilted down again, curving out of sight around the side of the hill. Denizard pulled up beneath a stand of wind‑twisted trees and let the others draw abreast. She took a breath and gestured.

“That’s the Mailhac estate.”

It was hard to see at first. Shadows already filled the narrow intervening valley, and the land itself was rough, all rocks and angles, the greyed green of the scrub fading into the brown grey of the outcrops. The main house fit into its surroundings almost uncannily well. It was an old place, the stone as grey as the land around it, and obviously built for the Ajanine wars, with stocky towers on each corner of a square central building. Some of the upper windows had been enlarged, the old arrow‑slits broken out and filled with glass, but it still had the look of a fortress rather than a home. Rathe shook his head, staring at it. “Gods,” he said quietly. “What a rotten place for children.”

Denizard nodded. “It looks much better when it’s not raining, I promise you, but–yes.”

“They’ll be expecting us,” b’Estorr said, wiping the rain from his face, and Eslingen nodded.

“There’s someone in the west tower, see? Now, I know this is rough country, but there’s been peace in this corner of it for awhile. I wonder what de Mailhac’s expecting.”

“Us, probably,” Denizard said, and Rathe looked sharply at her.

“What do you mean? If they were warned, the children could be in serious danger, could be used as hostages–” He broke off as the magist shook her head.

“De Mailhac has to assume that Hanse will be sending someone to find out what’s going on, that’s all I meant. And it’s in her interest to convince us that there’s absolutely nothing wrong. That’s what she did at the beginning of the summer, and I’m ashamed to say, I believed her.” She beckoned to the nearest groom, who edged his horse a few steps closer. “When we get there, I want you two to stay with the horses–make whatever excuse you have to, but I want to be sure some of us can get away if we have to.”

“Coindarel’s camped at Anedelle?” Eslingen asked, and b’Estorr nodded.

“Near enough to make them nervous, anyway. They’re not fond of soldiers in these parts.”

Eslingen gave him a sour look. “We may be glad of them soon enough.”

Rathe sighed, impatient again, and looked back at the house. The clouds seemed thinner now, though the rain seemed as heavy as ever, and the stones of the manor seemed strangely paler in the brighter light. “We’re wasting time,” he murmured, unable to stop himself, and Denizard gave him a sympathetic glance.

“Come on, then,” she said, and touched heels to her horse.

By the time they reached the house, the rain had stopped. The household had been well warned of their approach, and servants appeared with torches to light them through the main gate. It had held a portcullis once, and Rathe, glancing to his right, saw Eslingen looking curiously at the remains of the machinery. They emerged into a narrow courtyard, the horses’ hooves suddenly loud on the wet stones, and more servants came running to catch their bridles. Their own grooms slid down to join them, and took unobtrusive control of the pack horses. A woman stood in the doorway of the main house, the torchlight gleaming from the rich silk of her skirts: the landame of Mailhac had come herself to greet them.

Denizard swung herself down from her horse, and the others followed suit, trailed behind her toward the doorway. “Maseigne,” she said, and de Mailhac nodded in answer.

“Magist, it’s good to see you again. Welcome to my house. I trust all is well?”

You know it’s not, Rathe thought, hearing a faint, breathless note in the woman’s voice. She was a pretty woman about his own age, maybe a little older, with fine hands that she displayed to advantage against the dark green of her skirts. Her hair was red, unusually so, almost matching the torchlight, and her skin was correspondingly pale, seemed to take luster from the rich silk of her high collar. She was obviously one who liked her luxuries, Rathe thought; no wonder she’d taken Caiazzo’s bargain.

“Master Caiazzo is concerned about some matters,” Denizard said, bluntly, and Rathe saw the landame’s smile falter. She recovered almost at once, but he guessed the others had seen as well.

“But where are my manners?” Denizard went on. “Maseigne, let me present Philip Eslingen, late lieutenant in the royal regiment, and now part of the household. Istre b’Estorr, who handles the northern trade for Master Caiazzo, and Nicolas Rathe, caravan‑master.”

“Gentlemen.” De Mailhac inclined her head a calculated few inches.

“Lieutenant Eslingen speaks for Caiazzo as I do,” Denizard said. “You’ll forgive my bringing so large a party, but one of Hanselin’s messengers was attacked while returning from Mailhac, so we had, we felt, reasonable fear of bandits in the hills.”

“If that’s the case, I think you were quite wise,” de Mailhac said. “We’ll certainly have no trouble housing your people, or your animals. I’m extremely disturbed to hear about the messengers, though. I hope they’re well.”

“We have hopes,” Denizard said, deliberately vague.

“I’m pleased to hear it. Come in, please. It’s a vile night, I’m sorry you had to travel in such weather. And I know very well that Mailhac doesn’t show to advantage in conditions like this. I hope you told your companions it’s not normally this forbidding.”

She kept up a constant stream of polite conversation as she led them into the great hall. A generous fire was burning in the massive fireplace, and Rathe moved closer to it, feeling the steam beginning to rise from his wet clothes. They were all thoroughly soaked, and de Mailhac gave orders for baths to be drawn. “I’ll let you take the chill off–I’ve had my people lay fires in your rooms for you, and I’ve had wine sent up. It can only help, on a night like this. When you’re ready, Magist Denizard, I hope you will all join me for dinner. We don’t often have guests; I’m looking forward to a very pleasant evening.”

“As are we, and thanks for your hospitality, maseigne. Hanselin told me to apologize for coming on you without warning, but as I’m sure you understand, the business of the gold has become urgent. Most urgent,” Denizard amended with a smile that, as yet, had no teeth in it, but instead the promise of steel.

De Mailhac lifted her head slightly. “Of course. I do understand that his–business–is somewhat dependent on this estate. But we can discuss this at dinner, or after.”

They had been given rooms suited to their status, Rathe saw, with some amusement. Denizard’s was the largest, Eslingen’s somewhat smaller, and he himself had been tucked into a much smaller room with b’Estorr. There was barely room for the tub between the hearth and the single large bed, and the necromancer laughed softly.

“I’d forgotten how they treat merchants here. It makes me almost homesick.”

Rathe grunted, stripping out of his still‑damp clothes. Their luggage, such as it was, was already waiting, and he reached for his own bag. De Mailhac’s servants were regrettably efficient; he hoped that her guard were less so, and then shook that thought away. “Do you want the bath first, or shall I?”

“Go ahead.”

Once bathed and dressed, they made their way to Denizard’s room. It was indeed much larger, and the paneling was carved and painted with scenes from some local battle. A long mirror stood in one corner–obviously a new addition to the house, Rathe thought, and surveyed his reflection dubiously. He had brought his best coat, but it still sat badly on him, and the plain wool was creased from the days in the pack. Still, he thought, glancing at the others for reassurance, no one looked much better–Denizard’s skirts were crumpled beneath the concealing magist’s robe, and b’Estorr’s stock had definitely seen better days. Then there was a soft knock at the door and Eslingen came in, elegant in a dark blue coat that set off his pale skin and jet hair to perfection. His linen looked at first glance as though it had been freshly ironed, and the skirts of his coat were arranged to hide the worst of the wrinkles. Rathe shook his head, impressed in spite of himself. Eslingen was going to go head to head with the nobility itself, and just might come out on top. No one speaks a language so precisely as one who isn’t born to it.

“So,” Denizard said. She gave her reflection a final critical glance, and adjusted her lace‑edged cap. “Are we ready?”

“We’d better be,” Rathe said. “How does she seem to you?”

“Nervous,” Denizard said, with a small shake of her head. “Not terribly, but there’s an undercurrent there. She’s not best pleased to see us. That could just be because she knows Hanse is extremely irked, but I don’t think so. She was a lot sharper last year–this spring, for that matter. You saw how she tried to come the aristocrat with that comment about his business?”

Rathe nodded.

“Normally she pulls that off a lot more convincingly. She’s lacking a good deal of her usual ginger,” Denizard said grimly, “and that makes me nervous.” She took a breath. “Shall we go down?”

“Oh, let’s,” Eslingen murmured, bowing Denizard through the door.

A waiting servant led them from their rooms through the main hall to a smaller room that had been converted for dining. A fire burned in the hearth there, small but throwing enough heat to take the worst of the damp from the air, and de Mailhac stood by the hearth, the flames striking highlights from her skirt. She had changed her dress, but the fabric was still the same flattering shade of green, bodice and sleeves embroidered with scrolls of gold. The long table was set for six, Rathe saw, and the light from a dozen thick candles struck slivers of light from silver and glass. It was all a great deal less barbaric than he had expected from an Ajanine noble, he thought. Obviously, de Mailhac furnished her household from Chenedolle proper.

“Now I can bid you a proper welcome to Mailhac,” de Mailhac said. “We may not be in Astreiant, but–I think–we set a table that won’t disgrace us.” She took a breath, though her smile did not dim. “There is another guest here at Mailhac whom you’ll meet shortly, a magist like yourself, Aicelin–Yvonou Timenard. Perhaps you know him? Though I doubt he’s of your college.”

Denizard shook her head. “I’ve not traveled too far from Astreiant, I’m afraid, except on Hanselin’s business. No, I don’t know him, but I do look forward to meeting a colleague.”

Rathe glanced at b’Estorr, but the necromancer’s face was blank. Not a name he knew either, Rathe guessed, and looked back at de Mailhac.

The door opened then, and a man came in, a magist’s dark robe hanging open over a respectable belly. He looked to be past his middle years, his thinning hair almost white, but his round face was unwrinkled, showed nothing but an almost childlike embarrassment.

“Maseigne, I understood you have other guests. Please do forgive my appalling tardiness–I hope you’ve not held dinner on my account.” He trundled over to de Mailhac, looking a little like a child’s clockwork toy, and came to a stop, looking expectantly up at her. She smiled faintly at him–she bettered his height by a good hand’s breadth–and extended a hand to introduce him to the others.

“Yvonou, may I present Aicelin Denizard–also a magist, and an important member of Master Caiazzo’s household. Aicelin, Yvonou Timenard, who has been good enough to join my household.”

“Delighted to meet you,” Timenard exclaimed, and clasped Denizard’s hand with enthusiasm. Watching him, Rathe felt his heart sink. They had come so far, risked so much on what was really a chain of coincidence and guesses, and then to find this, that de Mailhac’s mysterious magist was this child’s toy of a man… He bit back his fears. Looks could easily deceive, he knew that well enough, but even so it was hard to believe that Timenard was capable of anything as complicated as the theft of the children.

De Mailhac introduced the others then, and Timenard offered his hand to Eslingen as well, pronouncing himself pleased to meet another representative of their mutual acquaintance. He was perfectly polite to the other two, but his greeting was less effusive, marking their relative status to a nicety.

“Well, this is pleasant, maseigne and I have been our only company for the past several weeks, it’s always nice to have new faces and fresh conversation–and from the capital, too, that’s an unlooked for treat.”

The door opened again, and de Mailhac nodded with what looked like relief to the servant who stood there. “Dinner is ready,” she said. “Please, be seated.”

They took their places, de Mailhac at the head of the table, Denizard at the foot, and a woman servant began to pour the wine. Timenard was seated at de Mailhac’s right hand, Rathe saw, the position corresponding to Eslingen’s, and took his own place opposite the magist.

“And how is the capital?” Timenard asked. “As exciting as always? We’re so isolated here, we long for tales of the court, don’t we, maseigne?”

“It’s pleasant to have a change,” de Mailhac agreed. Her hand on her wine glass was white‑knuckled, Rathe observed. If she wasn’t careful, she’d shatter the stem and that would draw attention, certainly unwanted. Timenard’s eyes flicked sideways then, and Rathe thought he saw the ghost of a frown cross his round features. De Mailhac seemed to see it as well, and relaxed her grip on the glass. She took a hasty swallow, and set it down again, laying her hand flat on the table top. She wore no rings, Rathe saw, no jewelry at all, and that seemed odd.

“We’re hardly at court, any of us,” Denizard demurred, and Rathe thought he caught a gleam in Timenard’s eye. Not triumph, he thought, but more satisfaction, as though the older magist had scored a point. No, of course none of them would have any dealings with the court, they were all of common birth, no better than merchant class, and rank seemed to matter here, to Timenard and to de Mailhac. It would matter to de Mailhac, seeing as it was a merchant‑venturer who had gotten the better of her enough to secure the rights to her estate and the gold produced on it. But Timenard? There were astrologers at court, certainly, but aside from that, magists were not in great number in the queen’s court. Was he ambitious? Or was he ambitious on behalf of one of the potential candidates, and grateful that none of their guests were likely to know much about the tangles of the succession? Or was it something else altogether?

“No, of course not,” Timenard replied, sounding absurdly sad. “Not working for a trader, as you all do. But surely there is at least gossip you can share? Who’s in favor, who isn’t, who’s brought a new color into favor?”

Denizard and b’Estorr exchanged looks. “I’m afraid we’ve been too busy this summer to pay much attention to anything beyond the great gossip. Everyone talks of the starchange, of course.”

“And the missing children,” Rathe said. He watched Timenard as he spoke, and thought he saw a ghost of something, a shrewd intelligence, maybe, flash in the pale eyes.

“Missing children?” de Mailhac repeated, her voice flat. “We’ve heard nothing of that.”

“But we have, maseigne,” Timenard said. “You remember, the man who came earlier this month, he mentioned something of the sort.” He looked at Rathe, smiling. “Children of the common folk, he said, who had disappeared, or possibly run away. I’m afraid we didn’t pay much attention, under the circumstances.”

“And why would you?” Rathe said softly, fighting to control his anger. “The problem seems to be confined to Astreiant.”

“Sad for the city, but yes,” Timenard agreed.

Denizard shrugged, forced a smiled. “For anything else, I’m afraid we’ve been working too hard to take much notice. I’m sorry to be such an unentertaining guest, I feel as though I’m not earning my keep.”

“Nothing of the sort,” de Mailhac interposed quickly, before Timenard could say anything. The old magist looked absurdly disappointed, and his bottom lip, Rathe would have wagered, trembled as though he were about to cry. What in the name of all the gods are we dealing with here? he thought. Or did I get it all wrong? Is this simply a commercial deal gone wrong, nothing to do with the children? He pushed the thought down. The stories of the wagons passing by Chaix, of the three riders with a child, moving fast, the whole oddity of this evening–it all had to mean something.

De Mailhac turned to Denizard and Eslingen. “And how is Hanselin? We never get to see him here, only when I travel to the court at Astreiant.”

“He’s well enough, maseigne, though, as I said, troubled by the silence and, more importantly, the lack of any deliveries from Mailhac,” Denizard said. Her voice was pleasant enough, but there were teeth behind the words. “He is not a man to cross, maseigne, I do beg you to believe that. And the two of you have an agreement, an oath of honor between you, that he should regret deeply were it to be broken.” The magist lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug.

De Mailhac glanced almost involuntarily at Timenard, and the round man leaned forward.

“Oh, dear, yes, that is fully understood, and very distressing it must be for Master Caiazzo to find his plans delayed. But…” Timenard spread his hands. “He must understand, the mines here at Mailhac are virtually played out. I have been doing everything in my power to help maseigne eke out what we can, but it’s barely enough to support the estate itself, let alone such grand merchant plans as Caiazzo must have in train.”

“Ah. And why not just tell Hanse that?” Denizard asked, still pleasantly. “I’m sure–something–could be worked out.”

“But the people he sent… we sent them back to him with just that message, begging his patience and understanding. Are you saying he never received word?” Timenard blinked at her in what looked like genuine puzzlement.

Denizard turned a crust of bread between her fingers. “No,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Not precisely. As I told the maseigne when we arrived, only one messenger returned to Astreiant, and he was attacked and nearly killed on the road south.”

De Mailhac and Timenard exchanged looks, and the magist laid his hand briefly on the noble’s where it lay on the tablecloth. Rathe, watching closely, couldn’t be sure if the magist meant to comfort or to warn her.

“But that’s–dreadful,” Timenard said. “What must he think of us, of matters here? He must surely think maseigne is trying to renege on–as you say–a pledge of honor, and that is not to be borne.”

“After last summer…” Denizard said, and let the words hang in the air. “You can understand our concern.”

Eslingen cleared his throat. “We understood that the mines did well enough for you to have spent the Spring Balance at court, maseigne. And that’s not a cheap proposition.”

Timenard’s face flushed pink, his bright blue eyes wide and a little angry, and de Mailhac’s eyes fell. The old magist frowned at her, and looked at Eslingen.

“I’m delighted Master Caiazzo’s people are so well informed, but they don’t, perhaps, know everything.”

De Mailhac stirred, seemed about to speak, and Timenard turned to her, continuing earnestly, “Please, maseigne, you must let me explain to them, it’s likely the only thing that will satisfy your associate.”

De Mailhac lifted a hand in permission–or was it acquiescence? Rathe wondered–and Timenard gave her a half bow, turned to speak to Denizard. “As I said, we fully understand the constraints the lack of gold must place on Master Caiazzo, but, also as I said, it has been completely unavoidable. Yes, maseigne visited the court at the Spring Balance, but the reason will, I hope, appease you and Master Caiazzo.”

Denizard inclined her head. “I hope so, too, Magist Timenard. I most sincerely hope so.”

“Maseigne understands the obligation she is under to Caiazzo, rest assured of that, and it was because of this obligation that she attended the queen this spring past. There is, just to the east of this land, an open parcel on which, it is likely, are further deposits, enough to satisfy both Caiazzo and the requirements of managing an estate such as Mailhac. Maseigne petitioned the queen to extend Mailhac’s seigneurial rights to that parcel.”

“I see.” Denizard sounded almost suspiciously demure. “And did Her Majesty grant this petition?”

“It’s still under advisement,” Timenard conceded, a trifle stiffly. “We expect a decision by the Fall Balance.”

“That’s rather late for the trading season, surely,” Eslingen murmured in a tone of silken menace, and Rathe, despite himself, hid a smile. This was a very different Eslingen from the one who had been Devynck’s knife.

“Entirely too late for bankers’ comfort,” b’Estorr agreed.

“But there seems to be little or nothing either Maseigne de Mailhac or Magist Timenard are capable of doing about it,” Denizard said, and managed to make it a mild rebuke.

De Mailhac spread her hands. “I wish there were something I could do, Aicelin, truly. I know Hanselin to be an honorable man, and I have appreciated his forbearing these few months. If there were any way I could supply his needs–and my obligation–then please believe I would.”

Denizard smiled gravely. “I have to, maseigne, and will certainly take your word to Caiazzo, though I’m sure you’ll be willing to show me your plans in more detail–perhaps a visit to the mine, or to this new land, would be in order.” This time, Rathe was sure he saw fear flare in the landame’s eyes, but Denizard continued without hesitation. “In any case, I know he’ll be relieved to hear of the possibility of redress.”

“The mine itself is always dangerous ground, no one goes there,” de Mailhac began, and Timenard cut her off, his voice riding over whatever else she would have said.

“But the miners are competent, maseigne. I’m sure something can be arranged.”

De Mailhac’s smile looked forced, but she murmured something that was obviously meant for’agreement. The rest of the dinner passed in polite conversation, and when the foursome excused themselves, pleading the day’s travel, the landame nodded and managed to look only mildly relieved. Timenard rose with them, his earlier good nature evidently restored by the rich red wine. He summoned servants to light them to their rooms, and wished them a cheerful good night from the bottom of the main staircase, but Rathe could feel his eyes on them as they climbed toward their rooms.

Once the servant had left, the four gathered again in Denizard’s room, and Rathe prodded moodily at the dying fire. Outside the shuttered window, the wind was rising, soughing through the trees above the manor house.

“Someone’s lying, in a big way,” Denizard said after a moment, and b’Estorr nodded. He crossed to the window and pulled the shutters aside, staring out into the half light. The weather was breaking, Rathe saw over the other man’s shoulder, the clouds were shredding to reveal patches of sky and what was left of the winter‑sun’s light. It was another hour or two to the second sunset, he thought, and realized with some surprise that he hadn’t seen a clock in any of the rooms.

“Obviously, but they said so much, and so little, where’s the exact lie?” Eslingen asked. “I don’t believe the mines are played out, not the way that table was set and provisioned, not with gold about the only means of support for an estate like this–does this look like good farmland to any of you?”

“Well, one thing they’re lying about,” Rathe said, “is her stay at court. Or the reason for it.” He got up, went to join b’Estorr at the window. “Look, I served the Judge‑Advocate Foucquet when I was a boy, I’ve seen cases like this. There is no way either the law, or the queen, for that matter, would permit a petty Ile’nord ladyling”–his voice was savage–“to extend her rights to free land. And even if the law permitted it, Her Majesty wouldn’t countenance it.” He remembered standing behind Foucquet in the great hall of the Tour, watching the queen with adolescent awe. She was a tall woman anyway, and her anger at a southern noble who was seeking much the same kind of extension de Mailhac said she sought had only seemed to make her taller. Nobles, she said, could learn to live within their means, certainly within their lands. She would set no potential strife in motion by increasing holdings that had been sufficient and more than sufficient for generations. Free land was just that, and would remain so, for the use of people who farmed or herded for themselves alone, or their families.

Denizard nodded. “I agree. I doubt Her Majesty would extend de Mailhac’s rights in any case, and certainly not over mining land, but I don’t know how much it helps us.” She looked at b’Estorr. “I don’t suppose you recognized this Timenard?”

The necromancer shook his head. “I didn’t see a badge, either.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Eslingen asked, and b’Estorr looked at him.

“It could mean any number of things. The main one is, we can’t tell what his training is–or was, since if he’s making aurichalcum on this scale he’s definitely stepped outside the bounds of any legitimate school. And that means we can’t be sure what he’s capable of.”

“You know,” Denizard said, slowly, “I think he was already here in the spring, when I was. He didn’t wear a magist’s robe then, and I didn’t pay much attention to him–he certainly wasn’t being introduced to the honored guests at that point. But I’m almost sure I saw him.”

Eslingen grimaced. “Well, one thing’s for certain, Malivai was right. It’s him who calls the tune here now. It’s subtle, but when it comes to it, he makes the decisions.”

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.”