Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

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

“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.

Epilogue

« ^

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 saddlebow. 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.

“Nico! You’re back, and well.” His eyes darted to the gate, and back again. “Asheri?”

“With her sister,” Rathe answered, and swung down off the horse at last. “I brought her there myself.”

“Thank Astree and all the gods,” Houssaye said. “I’ll take care of the beast.”

“Thanks,” Rathe answered. He could see Monteia standing in the station’s doorway, a mug of beer in her hand, and lifted his own hand in greeting.

She waved back, and beckoned him over. “Welcome back, Nico– a job well done, by all accounts.”

Rathe blinked, startled, and Eslingen looked over the chief point’s shoulder. “Aagte asked me to see the beer delivered–that’s her gift, sort of an apology for thinking ill of the chief point here, I think.”

And probably a way to get you away from Adriana, Rathe thought. He said, “So you’ve been telling the chief all about it, then?”

“Well, b’Estorr has, more like,” Eslingen answered, and Rathe realized that the necromancer was standing just inside the station, a large pitcher in his hand. “I’m still not fully sure what happened.”

Rathe grinned. “What about the astrologers?” he said to Monteia. “Did you finally get them?”

“Most of them, anyway,” Monteia answered, and looked around the yard. “Come inside, it’s quieter there.”

It was darker, too, and Rathe settled himself on the edge of the duty desk with a sigh of relief. It was good to be back–good to be home, he amended, and couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Between us, Claes and I and Manufactory made points on six of the astrologers,” Monteia went on. “There were a couple more, but they seem to have gotten away, more’s the pity. The thing is, they say they were hired to find the children by a woman called Domalein.”

“Savine Domalein?” Rathe asked, and Monteia nodded.

“Known to us, certainly.”

“Not to me,” Eslingen said.

Rathe grinned. “She’s a tout–a political tout, from the Ile’nord originally, runs three or four printers that we’ve had our eyes on. Her name was in de Mailhac’s papers.”

“Domalein told them she wanted the kids for runners,” Monteia went on, “wanted kids whose stars would predispose them to supporting Belvis. Or at least that’s their story, It was Domalein and a couple of her bravos who actually took the kids. Whether the astrologers believed it or not I’m not convinced, but she paid them well enough to make it worth their while to say they did.”

b’Estorr shrugged, set his pitcher aside. “It would be hard to prove they didn’t know, but they had to suspect something. The stars–there weren’t enough patterns in the horoscopes to make that work, if you ask me.”

“And I’d take it kindly if you’d tell that to the surintendant,” Monteia answered. “He can tell you who to talk to in the judiciary.”

“Looking for a conviction, Chief Point?” the necromancer asked

“Oh, yes,” Monteia answered, and Rathe cut in hastily.

“What happened to Domalein?”

Monteia made a face. “Gone. Probably got out as soon as she heard we were looking for the astrologers, but at least we got to go through her house pretty thoroughly. She left in a hurry, didn’t even stop to burn her papers, and we found plenty of letters from your Maseigne de Mailhac. She was paying for the whole thing, from the printers to the astrologers, and paying handsomely, too.”

“Except that Timenard had something else in mind,” Rathe said suddenly sobered again. He was himself something of a Leveller by heritage and temperament, and Timenard had tried to draw on that, paint a vision of a world without queen or seigneury. An attractive thought, for a southriver rat, except that it would have been Timenard and only Timenard who ruled in their place.

b’Estorr touched him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s a matter of balance, Nico. You can’t compel the stars, not in the long run, no matter how much aurichalcum you have. He could have made things very difficult for a while, very painful, but in the long run, the natural order reasserts itself. We were its agents this time.”

“Personally,” Eslingen said, “I’d be happier without that sort of favor.”

Rathe smiled again, made himself relax. He heard the tower clock strike, and then, a heartbeat later, the case‑clock on the wall echoed it, beating out the hour. The true sun was sinking toward the horizon, the winter‑sun still high in the sky, and he allowed himself a long sigh, tasting the familiar summer smells. He was home, the children were home and safe, and that was the end of it. He looked around, and Eslingen put a cool mug in his hand.

“Drink up,” he said, and Rathe laughed, and let himself be led away to join the celebration.