Point of Hopes p-1 Read online

  Point of Hopes

  ( Point - 1 )

  Melissa Scott

  Lisa A. Barnett

  Nicholas Rathe is a pointsman, a watchman in the great city of Astreiant, the capital of the Kingdom of Chenedolle. It is the time of the annual trade fair, and the city is filled with travelers, and someone is stealing children. The populace is getting angry and frightened and is looking for someone to blame, especially some foreigner. Nicholas, in the midst of all this, must find the children and save the city.

  Point Of Hopes

  Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett

  the first pointsman book

  A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0

  click for scan notes and proofing history

  Contents

  |Prologue|

  |1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|

  |Epilogue|

  TOR®

  A Tom Doherty Associates Book / New York

  Also by Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett

  The Armor of Light

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  POINT OF HOPES

  Copyright © 1995 by Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Edited by David G. Hartwell

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10010

  Tor Books on the WorldWide Web:

  http://www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Scott, Melissa

  Point of hopes / by Melissa Scott & Lisa Barnett.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-85844-2

  I. Burnett. Lisa A. II. Title.

  PS3569.C672P65 1995

  813’.54—dc20 95-35364

  CIP

  First Edition December 1995

  Printed In the United States of America

  To Absent Friends

  point of hopes

  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 run 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 starchange 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 starchange, 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.

  “Maseigne?” The man who peered around the edge of the door tipped his head to one side like one of the fat gargoyles that infested the manor’s upper stories. “I hope everything’s all right—she, that so-called magist, is hardly a cultured person. Hardly someone one would choose to handle such a delicate business…” He saw the landame’s eyebrows lift at that, and added, “If one had had other options, of course. I thank my stars I’ve been able to offer some assistance there.”

  “And I’m grateful,” the landame said, with only the slightest hesitation. She placed the box back into the cabinet, set the estate’s charter back against it, then closed the double door and relocked it.

  The man straightened his head. He had discarded his usual robe for the duration of the magist’s visit, wore a slightly out-of-fashion suit, his linen fussily gathered at neck and sleeves, cravat fastened in a style too young for his sixty years. “I take it all went well, maseigne? She had no suspicions?”

  “I don’t think so.” The landame shook her head, her lip curling. “No, I’m sure not. All she wanted was the money.”

  The old man nodded, his ready smile answering her contempt. “Good. Excellent, maseigne, and I understand she’s leaving tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Better still,” the man said, and rubbed his hands together. “And she said nothing? No mention of the clocks, or the—well, of your investments?”

  The things she had sold to finance his work, he meant, and she knew it perfectly well. A faint frown crossed her brow, but she said only, “No, nothing. As I said.”

  “Of course, maseigne, forgive my concern. But things are delicately balanced just now, and I wouldn’t want to take any unnecessary chances—”

  “No,” the landame said firmly. “No more do I. But she said nothing.” Fleetingly, she remembered the way the other woman had looked around the outer room, the way her eyes had run over the silver and the wax candles and the blown glass, but shook the memory away. The magist had seen only the proper signs of wealth and standing; there was nothing to make her suspicious.

  “Even about the clocks?” the man continued. He saw the landame’s frown deepen to a scowl, and spread his hands, ducking his head in apology. “Forgive me, maseigne, but she is a magist, and that is the one thing that might rouse her suspicions. And we cannot afford that, not yet.”

  “She said nothing,” the landame said, again. “And I didn’t see any indication that she’d noticed anything.” In spite of herself, her eyes strayed to the empty spot on the shelf, imperfectly filled by a statue of a young man with a bunch of grapes, where her own case-clock had once stood. “My people aren’t exactly pleased by that, you know. The clock in Anedelle is too far away, they tell me, they can barely hear the chime unless the wind’s in the right quarter—”

  The man held up his hand, and the landame checked herself. “Maseigne, I know. But it is necessary, I give you my word on it. To have clocks in the house now would—well, it would offer too many chances of revealing our plans ahead of time, and that would never do.”

  The landame sighed. She was no magist, knew no more of those arts than most people—less, if the truth were told; her education had been neglected, and in her less proud moments, she admitted it. If he said he couldn’t work while there were clocks in the house, well, she would have to rely on him. “Very well,” she said, but the man heard the doubt in her voice.

  “Maseigne, what can I do to convince you? I only want what you want, the accession of a proper queen to the throne of Chenedolle, and an end to the erosion of noble privilege. And I assure you, if the clocks—and very fine clocks they were, too, which is part of the problem—if they had stayed in the manor, our plan would be betrayed as soon as I begin the first operations. They cannot remain—and none can be brought back into the household, not by anyone, maseigne. Otherwise, I cannot offer you my services.”

  His tone was as deferential as always, eager, even, but the landame heard the veiled threat beneath his fawning. “Very well, I said. There will be no clocks in the house.
”

  “Thank you, maseigne, I knew you would understand.” The man bowed deeply, folding his hands in front of him as though he still wore his magist’s robes. “I think, then, that I can promise you every success.”

  “I trust so,” the landame said, grimly.

  “I assure you, maseigne,” the man answered. “The time is propitious. I cannot fail.”

  1

  « ^ »

  it was, they all agreed later, a fair measure of Rathe’s luck that he was the one on duty when the butcher came to report his missing apprentice. It was past noon, a hot day, toward the middle of the Sedeion and the start of the Gargoyle Moon, and the winter-sun was just rising, throwing its second, paler shadows across the well-scrubbed floor of Point of Hopes. Rathe stared moodily at the patterns thrown by the barred windows, and debated adding another handful of herbs to the stove. The fire was banked to the minimum necessary to warm the pointsmen’s food, but the heat rolled out from it in waves, bringing with it the scent of a hundred boiled dinners. Jans Ranazy, the other pointsman officially on this watch, had decided to pay for a meal at the nearest tavern rather than stand the heat another minute, and Rathe could hardly blame him. He wrinkled his nose as a particularly fragrant wave struck him—the sharp sweet scent of starfire warring with the dank smell of cabbages—but decided that anything more would only make it worse.

  He sighed and turned his attention to the station daybook that lay open on the heavy work table in front of him, skimming through the neat listing of the previous day’s occurrences. Nothing much, or at least nothing out of the ordinary: this was the fair season, coming up on the great Midsummer Fair itself, and there were the usual complaints of false weight and measure, and of tainted or misrepresented goods. And, of course, the runaways. There were always runaways in the rising summer, when the winter-sun shone until midnight, and the roads were clear and open and crowded enough with other travelers to present at least the illusion of safety. And the Silklanders and Leaguers were hiring all through the summer fairs, looking for unskilled hands to man their boats and their caravans, and everyone knew of the merchants—maybe half a dozen over three generations, men and women with shops in the Mercandry now, and gold in their strongboxes, people who counted their wealth in great crowns—who’d begun their careers running off to sea or to the highways.