Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett

"Point Of Hopes: the first pointsman book . "

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.