Point of Hopes (6 page)

“
Eslingen.”

He turned, recognizing the voice, hand going to his
hat in automatic salute. “Captain.”

Connat Bathias nodded in response and looked past
his lieutenant to the last half-dozen troopers lined up at the
paymasters’ table. A royal intendant stood with them to supervise
the payout, conspicuous in her black-banded judicial robe, and
there were three well-armed men—back-and-breast, short-barreled
calivers, swords, and daggers—at her back, guarding access to the
iron-bound chest that held the money. “How goes it?”

“
Almost done,” Eslingen answered.
“No complaints so far.” Nor were there likely to be: Bathias’s
company was made up mostly of experienced troopers, who knew what
their pay should be, and the royal paymasters were generally
honest, at least under the queen’s eye.

“
And the horses and the
weapons?”

Eslingen looked away again. “As agreed. The
Horsemaster took the mounts in hand, and we let the people who
wanted to buy back their weapons. Those who didn’t already own
them, of course.” Which was well over half the troop, and those
that didn’t had mostly paid the captain’s inflated price to keep
their calivers: most of them would want to hire out again as soon
as possible, and this late in the season most captains would want
people with their own equipment. There was still plenty of fighting
to be done, along the Chadroni Gap and north past the Meis River,
and Dragons were always in demand, particularly for the nasty
northern wars, but there was no time to outfit a man.

Bathias nodded. The horses were part of his
perquisites, to sell or keep as he chose, and Eslingen suspected he
would sell most of them: with the troop disbanding, there was no
point in keeping half a hundred animals, and there were other
captains who would be willing to buy. Coindarel had persuaded
Aimeri de Martreuil to add an extra company to his Auxiliary Horse,
and to take most of the gentleman-officers, the commissioned
officers; he would probably buy the horses, as well. “I’m willing
to let you purchase your mounts, Eslingen. There’s no point in
seeing you unhorsed.”

Eslingen hesitated, tempted and rather flattered by
the offer, but shook his head. He couldn’t afford to pay for
stabling in the city for more than a month or two, and he had no
way of knowing how long it would be before he found work he liked.
“Thank you, sir, but I’ll have to pass.”

Bathias nodded again, and looked uneasily toward the
empty platform. He was a young man, the fourth child, Eslingen
understood, of an impoverished Ile’nord noble, with two older
sisters and a brother between him and whatever income the family
estates provided: a commission and an introduction to the
Prince-marshal de Coindarel would be the best his mother could do
for him. Not that an introduction to Coindarel was the worst she
could have done, Eslingen added, with an inward smile. Bathias was
young, and very handsome in the golden Ile’nord fashion; his hair,
long and naturally curling, glowed in the double light of sun and
winter-sun like polished amber, and his skin had taken only
delicate color from the spring campaign. Coindarel notoriously had
an eye for a pretty young man, and was inclined to indulge himself
in his officers. He picked his juniors, the sergeants and
lieutenants who did the real work, with more care, but, all else
being equal, a handsome man could go far in Coindarel’s service.
Eslingen had earned his sergeancy the hard way, but his promotion
to lieutenant, and the royal commission that came with it, had come
by way of Coindarel’s roving eye.

“
Will you be going with Martreuil,
Eslingen?” Bathias asked, and the older man shook himself back to
the present.

“
No, sir. There are plenty of other
companies still hiring, even this late in the season.” It was a
sore point—Eslingen had lost any claim to gentility when he lost
his commission, and Martreuil, it had been made very clear, was
taking only Coindarel’s gentleman-officers—and he was relieved when
Bathias merely grunted, his mind already clearly elsewhere.
Probably on the palace, Eslingen thought. Bathias was of noble
birth and could claim board and lodging from the queen on the
strength of it, and he could do worse than to be seen at court,
too.

“
I’m sorry to hear it,” Bathias
said. “You’re a good officer, and could do well in the royal
service.”

“
Thank you, sir.” Eslingen kept his
face still with an effort, waiting for the dismissal. The line at
the paymaster’s table had dwindled to a single trooper, a skinny,
huge-handed former stable boy whom Eslingen had signed on at an inn
outside Labadol because he’d needed someone who could handle the
major-sergeant’s bad-tempered gelding. Then he, too, had accepted
his pay and made his mark on the muster list, and turned away to
join his fellows waiting at the edge of the Drill Ground. The
taverns and inns where most of the recruiting officers did their
work lay only a few steps away, along the Horse-Gate
Road.

“
You’ve served me well,” Bathias
said, and held out his hand. Eslingen took it, startled at this
presumption of equality, and then Bathias had released him, and was
reaching into his own wide sash. “And, Eslingen. I know you’re not
a sergeant anymore, but I also know we didn’t serve out the season.
Will you take this from me, as a token of my appreciation?” He held
out a bag the size of a man’s hand. It was embroidered—not
expensively, Eslingen thought, probably by one of the farm-girls we
took on at Damais—with Bathias’s arms and the regimental
monogram.

Eslingen took it, stiffly, and felt, through the
linen and the coarse threads of the monogram, the square shape and
weight of at least a pillar. That was more than he could afford to
refuse, and he tucked the purse into his own sash. “Thank you,
sir,” he said again, stiff-lipped, saluted, and turned away.

The rest of the company’s sergeants were standing by
the sundial that stood at the city end of the Drill Ground, and
Anric Cossezen, the senior sergeant, lifted a hand to beckon him
over. Eslingen came to join them, and Maggiele Reymers said,
“You’ve come up in the world, Philip, if the captain deigned to
give you his hand.”

“
He gave me drink-money, too,”
Eslingen said, before any of the others could point it out, and
Saman le Tamboer laughed.

“
Betwixt and between, Philip,
neither fish nor fowl.”

Eslingen shot the other man a look of dislike—le
Tamboer had a sharp tongue on him, to match his sharp Silklands
eyes—and Cossezen said, “Have you given a thought to Ganier’s
offer? It’s decent money, and a good chance for plunder.”

“
If,” le Tamboer added,
honey-sweet, “the lieutenant doesn’t mind serving with us peasants
again.”

Eslingen ignored him, said to Cossezen, “I’ve
thought about it, yes, and I’ve wondered why a man with Ganier’s
reputation is still hiring, so late in the year.”

Reymers laughed. “That had crossed my mind,
too.”

“
Ganier always hires his dragons
last,” Cossezen said.

Eslingen shook his head. “I’ve fought in the
Payshault, Anric. I’ve no mind to do it again, not this year. I’ll
see who else is hiring.”

“
No one,” le Tamboer
said.

“
Then I’ll wait until someone is,”
Eslingen answered.

“
How nice to have the money,” le
Tamboer muttered.

Eslingen ignored him, and Reymers said, “If you need
lodging, Philip—”

“
I don’t have any place in mind,”
Eslingen said.

“
There’s a tavern in Point of
Hopes, south of the river. It’s called the Old Brown Dog, off the
Knives’ Road.” Reymers cocked her head. “Do you know Astreiant at
all?”

“
I can find it,” Eslingen answered.
Or if I can’t, I can ask at the Temples when I change my money. “So
I can get lodging there?”

Reymers nodded. “A woman named Aagte Devynck runs
it—she’s from Altheim, but she served Chenedolle as well as the
League during the War. She’s always glad to house a fellow Leaguer,
and the place is clean and cheap enough.”

Eslingen grinned. “How’s the beer?” Chenedolle, and
Astreiant in particular, were known for their wines; the measure of
a League tavern was its beer.

“
Good enough,” Reymers answered.
“She buys it from a Leaguer brewer—and he’s got enough custom that
he hasn’t had to change his ways.”

“
Thanks, Mag,” Eslingen said. “I’ll
look her up.”

There was a little silence then, and Eslingen looked
away. Parting was always awkward—you never knew who would die on
campaign, or, worse, come home maimed or blinded—and there was
always that moment of recognition, as quickly put aside. “Good luck
with Ganier, then,” he said aloud, and turned away, lifting a hand
to wave to the cluster of boys who had been hovering at the edges
of the Drill Ground to see the soldiers mustered out. Half a dozen
came running, and Eslingen pointed to the first two who looked big
enough. “You, there, and you. A demming each if you’ll carry my
gear to the Aretoneia.”

The older of the boys scraped a hasty bow, and
answered, “Yes, sir, to the Aretoneia.”

The younger said, “May I carry your piece, please,
sir?”

“
You may not,” Eslingen answered,
striding to the last cart—almost emptied now—where his baggage was
waiting. He tossed the bigger boy his heavy saddlebags, and the
smaller locked case that held his pistols. The boy slung the bags
over his shoulder and stood waiting, but Eslingen judged he had
about as much as he could carry. He handed the smaller boy his
cased swords, also locked, and the pouch that held his own supply
of powder and lead, and slung his caliver across his shoulder. It
felt odd to be without the engraved gorget of his rank, or the
royal monograms on the caliver’s sling, and he ran his thumb across
the darker spot where the split-silver disks had been removed. But
there was no point in regrets, not yet; he lifted a hand to the
other sergeants, still standing by the sundial, and started down
the Horsegate Road, the two boys following at his heels.

There were pointsmen on duty at the Horsegate
itself, two men in the heavy leather jerkins that served them for
rough-and-ready armor, crowned truncheons at their belts. At the
sight of the little party, the older of the pair stepped into the
gate, holding up his hand. “Hold it, soldier. Those are well
outside the limits.” He pointed to the caliver, and then to the
cased swords. “You’ll have to leave them, or pay a bond.”

Eslingen sighed ostentatiously—he had been through
this routine before, every time he came to Astreiant—and slipped
his hand into his purse. “I’m taking them to the Temple for
safekeeping, pointsman, surely that’s allowed.”

“
They’re still oversized,” the
older man said. “And that means a bond. A horsehead a piece, that’s
the law—that’s two seillings, Leaguer, our coin.”

Eslingen bit back his first answer—there was no
point in antagonizing the points on his first day in Astreiant—and
pulled two of the silver coins from his purse. “Two seillings,
pointsman. May I pass?”

The pointsman stepped back, bowing too deeply, his
plumed hat nearly brushing the ground. “Have a pleasant stay in our
city.”

Eslingen ignored him, and walked through the sudden
cool of the gate, almost a tunnel in the thick wall, to emerge into
the bright doubled sunlight and the bustle of the city’s center. He
took the easiest route toward Temple Fair and the Aretoneia, down
the broad expanse of the Horsegate Road to the Horsefair itself. No
one sold horses there anymore, of course—Astreiant was too large,
too prosperous, to buy and sell horses within its richest
districts—but the law still kept the space open and beaten flat,
the dust damped three times a day by water-carriers in city livery.
At this hour, it was busy with the afternoon merchants, selling
everything except food from vividly painted pushcarts. Eslingen
sighed to himself, seeing the rolls and figures of lace laid out on
the black carts clustered in front of the Laciers’ Hall, but turned
resolutely away. It would be apprentices’ work—masters’ work was
sold within the hall, free of the dust and dirt of the street—but
it was still beyond his means to have lace at his cuffs and
collar.

He turned instead toward College Street, slowing his
steps so that the boys could keep up with him in the press of
people. The younger boy was breathing hard, but he and his fellow
seemed to be managing their burdens well enough. Still, it was a
relief to step into the shadow of the overhanging buildings of
College Street, out of the cheerful bustle of the Horsefair. This
was another of the old neighborhoods, not as rich as Riversedge or
the Mercandry, but prosperous enough. The shop signs were freshly
painted, some showing touches of gilt and silvering, and more than
half displayed the snake-and-gargoyle design of the
Merchants-Venturer above the door frame, promising goods brought to
Astreiant by the long-distance traders. He smelled Silklands spices
as he passed one open door, and saw a woman emerge from a side door
carrying a string of bright red peppers; at the next door, an
apprentice sat in the sunlight outside the door, a tray of polished
stones balanced on her lap. It was a nice display, Eslingen
acknowledged silently—the stones were rivvens from Esling, gaudy
enough to catch the eye, but not worth stealing—and touched his hat
as he passed. The girl—young woman, he amended—looked up at him, a
smile lightening her intent face, but then went back to her
work.

The Aretoneia lay on the western edge of Temple
Fair, at the mouth of a street where most of the buildings still
carried the wrought iron lanterns that meant they belonged to the
university. Most of them were rented out, either to shopkeepers and
craftsmen, but here and there the lanterns were still lit and once
he saw a scholar in an ochre-banded gown leading a class in
recitation. A toddler clung to her skirts, and she stooped, lifted
it without missing a beat. Temple Fair was as busy as ever,
travellers clustering around the Pantheon, the broadsheet sellers
doing a brisk business at their tables under the awnings along the
east side of the square, the book-printers and their apprentices
trying to look aloof beyond them. Eslingen hesitated, tempted by
the tables of broadsheets and the sample prophecies displayed on
the sun-faded boards, but turned instead into the narrow door of
the Aretoneia: business, after all, before pleasure. He nodded to
the senior of the two soldiers on duty at the door—both older men,
past the rigors of a campaign season but not too old to put up a
decent defense, not that anyone would be stupid enough to attack
the Aretoneia—and shouldered past them into the temple.