Rathe nodded, the weight of the pistol awkward in his belt. At least it was a flintlock, not the matchlocks the guards were carrying, but he wished he had more than one. He jumped as a crack like breaking wood sounded from the other side of the yard, and then realized that the magists were finally moving. The sound was repeated closer in, and the guards started toward it, leaping the stream and heading up the slope.
“There he goes,” Eslingen said softly, and Rathe saw one of the two guards from the stronghouse move to join the others.
“I suppose it was too much to hope they’d both go,” he muttered, and saw Eslingen smile.
“Be grateful for small favors,” he said, and darted forward, pistol raised. He dropped the remaining guard with a single blow and dragged the unconscious figure out of sight while Rathe surveyed the building. There was only a single lock on the door, but it was a heavy one, and he didn’t dare risk the noise trying to shoot it off. He took a step back, peering up into the darkness. There were, of course, no windows–why should there be, in a building designed to keep gold safe?–and he swore softly. Eslingen stepped up beside him, leveling the musket he’d taken from the guard, but Rathe pushed the barrel aside.
“I don’t see that we have any choice,” Eslingen said.
Rathe shook his head. “Oh, yes, we do. Keep an eye out, would you?” The soldier turned obediently to face the yard, shouldering the musket. Rathe pulled a small knife from his sleeve and set to work on the mechanics of the lock. It was not, he saw with considerable relief, a mage lock, and why should it be? Trouble was the last thing Timenard was expecting, his plan had been almost perfect. Not, Rathe thought, propitiatingly, that he had grown careless, or that Rathe thought him a fool. But the lock was a fairly straightforward affair for one born and bred in Astreiant’s southriver. He felt the mechanism give, gave a small grunt of satisfaction, and wrenched the lock from the door. Eslingen gave him a slightly incredulous look.
“Did you learn that before or after you became a pointsman?” he asked. Rathe just bared his teeth at him, and plunged into the darkness. With a small sigh, Eslingen followed, striking a flint and lighting one of the lamps along the wall. There were three barred doors off the little entrance way, two to the right, a single one to the left, each with a grilled opening in the center. Rathe tapped quietly at one of the right‑hand doors. There was no response from behind it, but there was a small scurry of noise from behind its neighbor. Then a face appeared in the small, barred window: Asheri. Rathe let his eyes flicker closed for an instant, then moved to investigate the lock.
She looked surprised when she saw Rathe, and then relieved. “I thought it would have to be you, Nico.”
“I’m glad you had faith in me, Asheri love. Are the boys in the other room?” Rathe asked. This lock was more complex, better built than the one on the main door, and he could feel the knife point slipping on its works without making contact.
“Yes.” She stuck her hand out the window, pointed to the door across the corridor. “Though why they think they have to separate us, I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t imagine the situation is conducive to misbehavior,” Rathe agreed. “Ash, keep the other girls quiet for me while I try to get this door opened. Then get them out and away from here as quickly as you can.”
“Would this help?” Eslingen said, from behind him, and held out a ring of keys. “It was hanging by the door.”
Rathe took them gratefully, found the right key on the second try, and swung the door wide. The room was full of children, all girls, all in the crumpled clothes they’d worn when they’d been taken. Someone–Rathe doubted it was Timenard–had given them straw and blankets, but the improvised beds just made the room look more pathetic. They were all standing now, the largest group huddled together as though they were cold. A tall girl with dark brown hair and wearing a green dress stood near Asheri–she had to be Herisse Robion, Rathe thought, and was almost surprised to realized he had never seen her before.
“It’s all right,” he said aloud, and hoped he sounded soothing. “I’m from Point of Hopes, we’ve come to get you out of here. The doors are open and the guards are busy elsewhere. I want you to head back down the mountain–follow the stream, not the path, it’ll take you to the road–as fast as you can.”
Robion nodded, grabbed the nearest girl, and shoved her toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.”
The urgency in her voice seemed to reach even the most frightened, and they began to file out the door, slowly at first, then faster. Eslingen shook his head, looked at Rathe. “I’ll cover them from the main door,” he said, and turned away, the matchlock still at the ready.
Asheri said, “I’ll stay with you, Nico.”
Rathe shook his head, trying the next key in the lock. “No, get moving, we’re not done yet.” The lock snapped free at last, and he pulled open the door.
This room looked much like the other except that it was filled with boys watching warily, poised to run or attack. Asheri said, “It’s all right, he’s from Point of Hopes.”
“Nicolas Rathe, adjunct point.” It seemed foolish to introduce himself there in the darkened strongroom, but he hoped it would make them listen. “We’ve got the doors open. Head down the mountain as fast as you can–follow the stream, the girls are ahead of you.”
“They’ve got guns,” a voice said, and there was the sound of a slap.
“Stupid. You want to stay here?”
“We’ve drawn off the guards,” Rathe said, and hoped it would still be true. “Now, get moving. Asheri, go with them.”
The boys began to move, Asheri with them, and Rathe made his way back to the doorway. He drew his pistol as the boys began to dart across the yard, heading for the downhill path and the stream, and joined Eslingen by the door.
“No sign of the guards?” he asked, and Eslingen shook his head.
“Are you thinking this might have been the easy part?”
Rathe nodded, grim‑faced. “I wonder how Istre and Denizard are doing.”
“I haven’t heard them in a while, so I guess they’re at the mine.” Eslingen drew back as the last boy shoved past them. “Maybe they need our help. I’m pretty impure. Do you suppose the less innocent a person is, the quicker the mine could be polluted?”
“Only one way to find out,” Rathe answered, and in the same instant, heard a shout from the hillside.
“Damn kids, get them!”
Rathe swore, heard himself echoed by Eslingen. He could see the first of the guards scrambling down out of the trees clutching his musket, and lifted his own pistol, saw Eslingen level the musket he’d taken from the guard.
“Mine, I think,” Eslingen said, and fired. The sound echoed in the greying darkness, bouncing off the rocky hills, and pulling the guards up short as though by a rope. They were out of range, and knew it, but the leader waved his arms, drawing his men back toward the yard.
“This is not a good spot for a pitched battle, Nico,” Eslingen said, and set the now‑empty musket neatly in the corner of the door.
“Even I can see that, but what choice did we have?” Rathe demanded.
“None, but now we have to think of something else.”
“I’m open to suggestions,” Rathe said.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Eslingen said, and drew his pistol right‑handed. “If we can make it to the mine itself, that’ll give us some cover, and some time, right?”
“Right.”
“Go.” Eslingen said, drawing his sword, and he charged for the mine entrance. Rathe pounded after him, practically treading on his heels, knife in one hand, pistol in the other. He heard the snap of shots, and then the angry shout of the leader reminding his people they were out of range. Then they’d reached the entrance and plunged into the darkness. Rathe collapsed against the nearest wall, catching his breath, and peered out into the yard.