“Seidos’s Horse,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe nodded.
b’Estorr slipped his orrery back into his pocket and held out a hand to help Denizard to her feet. “That’s bound them, not that there was likely to be much left to trouble anyone. Power like that is called soul‑destroying for a reason.”
“Thanks,” Rathe said, and wished he could think of something more.
“Mind you,” b’Estorr went on, “if they want to use the mine again–whoever de Mailhac’s heirs are, they’re unlikely to turn down gold–I’d suggest putting up something a little more solid to mark the spot, otherwise it’ll drive the horses crazy.” He seemed to realize he was babbling, and stopped abruptly, shaking his head. Rathe touched his arm in sympathy, and looked back across the yard to where Coindarel and his men were still gathering the children. There were two more of them on the hill above, he realized, a boy and a girl, and he lifted his hand to wave them down. They saw the gesture, and started toward the others, and a third stepped from behind a tree, picking her way carefully over the stones after them. That must be close to half of them, Rathe thought, and all of them safe and sound, frightened, certainly, but unhurt. That was a better result than he had thought possible even a week ago, and he felt unexpected tears welling in his eyes. He blinked hard, impatient with himself, and Eslingen laid a hand on his shoulder.
“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.”