“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.