Point of Hopes p-1 Page 12

  “I think I saw one of them near the fair, Nico, but I can’t be sure… It was a long black robe, but it might have had a badge, I just couldn’t see.” That was Lennar, speaking slowly, carefully. A couple of the others were nodding, Asheri included.

  “Have any of them approached any of you?” he asked, and was relieved to see them all shake their heads definitively. “Right, then. It’s probably nothing, they probably just don’t want to pay the temple bond for casting horoscopes. But thanks for letting me know. And what I said before, I meant—be careful.”

  There were shrugs, looks of bravado, but these kids were smart, they wouldn’t take any risks, they’d do as they were told. And that, Rathe told himself, was the best he could do, wishing that there weresome sort of charm to protect them from danger.

  4

  « ^ »

  eslingen leaned against the bar of the Old Brown Dog, letting his gaze roam over the crowd filling the main room. It was smaller than the night before’s, and that had been smaller than the crowd the night before that: Devynck’s regular customers had been dwindling visibly for the past week. First it had been the butchers’ journeymen and junior masters, the ones who had passed their masterships but not yet established their own businesses, who had vanished from the tap, then it had been the rest of the locals, so that Devynck was back to her original customers, soldiers and the few transplanted Leaguers who lived within walking distance in either Point of Hopes or Point of Dreams. And there were fewer of the latter every night. Eslingen looked around again, searching for familiar faces. Marrija Vandeale, who ran the brewery that supplied the Dog, was still there, holding court under the garden window, but her carter was missing, and Eslingen guessed it would only be a matter of time before Vandeale took her drinking elsewhere.

  There were still a sizable number of soldiers in attendance, the half dozen who lodged with Devynck and a dozen or so others who had found rooms in the neighborhood, and Eslingen wasn’t surprised to see a familiar face at the corner table. Flory Jasanten had lost a leg in the League Wars, though no one knew which side he’d served— probably both, Eslingen thought, without malice—and had turned to recruiting to make his way. At the moment, he was contracting for a company of pioneers that had lost a third of their men in a series of skirmishes along the border between Chadron and the League, a thankless job at the best of times, but particularly difficult in the summer, when the risk of disease was greatest. And given the pioneer’s captain, a man generally acknowledged to be competent, but whose unlucky stars were almost legendary… Eslingen shook his head, and looked again toward Jasanten’s table. Jasanten would be lucky to get anyone with experience to sign on.

  As he’d expected, there was only a single figure at the table, a gangly blond youth with a defiant wisp of beard that only managed to make him look younger than his twenty years. As he watched, the young man nodded, and reached across the table to draw a careful monogram on the Articles of Enlistment. Well, one down, Eslingen thought, and Jasanten looked up then, meeting his eyes. Eslingen lifted his almost empty tankard in silent congratulations; Jasanten smiled, mouth crooked, and then frowned as a slim figure leaned over the table to speak to him. It was a boy, Eslingen realized, looked maybe fourteen or fifteen—just past apprentice-age, at any rate—and felt himself scowl. That was all Devynck needed, to have kids that age using the Old Brown Dog to run away to be soldiers, and he pushed himself away from the bar, intending to tell Jasanten exactly that. Before he could reach that table, however, the older man shook his head, first with regret, and then more firmly, and the boy stalked away toward the kitchen door.

  Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of relief—he didn’t really want to alienate any of Devynck’s few remaining customers—but seated himself on the stool opposite Jasanten anyway.

  “You’re not looking for work,” Jasanten said, but smiled again.

  “Not with Quetien Filipon,” Eslingen agreed. “Besides, I had my fill of pioneering by the time I was nineteen.”

  Jasanten grunted. “I wish you’d tell that one that.” He tipped his head sideways, and Eslingen glanced casually in the direction of the miniscule gesture. The boy was back, carrying a half pint tankard, and hovering on the edge of a table of soldiers, three men and a woman who’d been paid off from de Razis’ Royal Auxiliaries the same day that Coindarel’s Dragons had been disbanded. The tallest of the men saw him, and grinned, edged over to make a place for him at the table.

  “Who is he?” Eslingen asked. He was well dressed, for one thing, that jerkin was good linen, and the embroidery at his collar and cuffs— black and red, to hide the dirt—had cost a few seillings even second hand. Some mother had paid well for her son’s keep, and would not take kindly to his hanging about here listening to soldiers’ tales, or worse.

  “He said his name’s Arry LaNoy,” Jasanten answered, “but I doubt it. He wanted to sign on—hells, he wanted to sign on with me last season, and I told him then he needed to grow. So he’s back this year, and he’s not much bigger.”

  “I doubt he took kindly to that.”

  “No more did he.” Jasanten made a noise that was almost a chuckle. “And I’m not unaware of what’s going on in Astreiant, either.”

  “You’d have to be deaf and blind not to be,” Eslingen muttered.

  “Just so. So I told him he’d need his mother’s permission to sign on, Filipon wasn’t taking drummers or runners without it, and he swore me blind he was an orphan.”

  “Not in that shirt, he’s not.”

  “I’m not blind,” Jasanten answered. “And I told him so, so he stalked off in a sulk.” He nodded to the table of soldiers. “My guess is, he’s trying to talk them into taking him on, and he won’t be particular about what he offers them.”

  Eslingen sighed. “That’s all we need.”

  “That’s rather what I thought,” Jasanten said, and leaned back to summon a passing waiter. “And seeing as you’re Aagte’s knife—”

  “It’s my business to deal with it,” Eslingen finished for him. “Thanks, Flor, I won’t forget it.”

  Jasenten smiled, and the younger man pushed himself to his feet, one eye still on the table where the soldiers and the boy were talking. By the look of them, it would be a while before the boy could get around to making his request; he could tell from the way the three exchanged looks that they were just showing off, enjoying an audience that wasn’t all that much younger than the youngest of them. And they might have the sense not to listen—the woman, certainly, had a commonsense grace to her—but at the moment Devynck couldn’t afford to take the chance.

  Eslingen reached across the bar to catch Loret’s shirt as the big man worked the tap of the biggest barrel. “Is Adriana in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.” Loret barely paused in his work. “You want her?”

  “Yes. Or Aagte.”

  “I’ll tell them,” the other waiter, Hulet, said, from behind him, and disappeared through the kitchen door. Eslingen leaned his weight against the heavy wooden counter, resisting the desire to look back at the boy—LaNoy, or whatever his name really was—to be sure he was still sitting with the soldiers. At last the door opened, and Adriana came out, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “What is it? Mother’s busy.”

  “Trouble in potential,” Eslingen answered. “You see the table there, the three from de Razis’ Auxiliaries? Do you know the boy with them?”

  Adriana sighed, the air hissing through her teeth. “Oh, I know him, all right. Felis Lucenan, his name is, his mother’s an apothecary down by the river. Mother told him he wasn’t welcome here anymore.”

  “Shall I throw him out?” Eslingen asked. “Or, better yet, take him home myself.”

  The kitchen door opened again before she could answer, and Devynck herself came out. “Trouble, Philip?”

  “Felis Lucenan’s back,” Adriana said.

  “Areton’s—” Devynck broke off, shaking her head. “The little bastard’s more trouble than he�
��s worth.”

  “I’ll take him home,” Eslingen offered, and Devynck shook her head again.

  “You will not. I don’t want you accused of child-theft. No, I’ll send a runner to his mother, tell her to come and retrieve him. You just keep him here.” She smiled then, bitterly. “And maybe I’ll post a complaint at Point of Hopes, make her keep her spawn at home.”

  “Good luck,” Adriana muttered, and Devynck glared at her.

  “You go, then, tell Anfelis he’s here and I don’t want him. Get on with it, it’ll take you a quarter-hour to get to the shop, and then you’ll have to wake the woman.”

  “Yes, mother.” Adriana stripped off her apron, bundling it under the bar.

  “And as for you—” Devynck turned her gaze on Eslingen. “See that he doesn’t get away—and doesn’t sign on to anything we’ll regret later.”

  “Right, sergeant,” Eslingen answered, automatically. Devynck nodded, turned back to the kitchen. Eslingen rested his elbows on the bar, let his gaze wander over the crowd again, though he kept half an eye on the boy, still sitting at the table, leaning forward eagerly to hear the soldiers’ stories. A quarter of an hour to his mother’s shop, Devynck had said, and the same back again, plus whatever time it took to wake the apothecary—say three-quarters of an hour, if not an hour, he thought, and heard the tower clock strike half past ten. The winter-sun would be setting soon, and he hoped Adriana walked carefully. Astreiant’s streets were as safe as any, better than many as long as the winter-sun shone, and besides, he told himself, Devynck’s daughter would know how to use the knife she carried at her belt. Still, he wished it had been him, or one of the waiters, to go, though that would probably have warned the boy that something was up.

  He sighed, shifted his elbows to a more comfortable position on the scarred counter. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to go lay a hand on the brat, make sure he couldn’t get away before his mother arrived to claim him, but the thought of the boy’s probable reaction was enough to keep him where he was. All he would need was for the brat to accuse of him of being the child-thief, and even the other soldiers would be inclined to believe it, if only to defend themselves from similar accusations. Better to wait, he told himself, do nothing unless the boy tries to leave, at least not until his mother’s here.

  Luckily, the boy seemed engrossed in the trio’s stories. Eslingen made himself relax, stay still, counting the minutes until the clock struck again. Not long now, he thought, and in the same moment, heard the clatter of hooves and the rattle of a low-flyer drawing up outside the door. The boy heard it, too, and looked up, the color draining from his face. No one took a carriage to the Old Brown Dog, and he guessed instantly what it must be. He started up from the table, the soldiers staring after him, heading for the back door, but Eslingen stepped smoothly into his way, caught him by the shoulder.

  “Hold on, son, what’s your hurry?”

  Behind them, the inn’s main door opened, and Eslingen felt the boy slump under his hand.

  “Philip?” Adriana called, from the doorway, and Eslingen turned in time to see a stocky woman sweep past her.

  “Felis! How many times have I told you, I won’t have you coming down here like this.”

  The boy rolled his eyes, and allowed himself to be transferred to her hold. Eslingen felt a sudden, sneaking sympathy for him, and suppressed it, ruthlessly. The stocky woman—Lucenan, her name was, he remembered—looked him up and down, and gave him a stern nod.

  “I’m grateful for your intervention, sir.”

  The “sir,” Eslingen knew, was more a response to the cut of his coat than to his service. He said easily, “I doubt you had anything to be concerned with, madame, no one’s hiring boys this late in the season.”

  “It wasn’t the hiring I was worried about,” Lucenan said, grimly.

  Eslingen nodded. “A word in your ear, madame,” he said, and eased her toward the door. She went willingly, though her hand on her son’s shoulder showed white knuckles, and the boy winced at her grip. “If the boy’s this determined—there’ll be places after the fall balance, for the winter campaigns, good places for a boy to start. Let him sign on then, til the spring. He may not like the taste of it.”

  “No son of mine,” Lucenan began, and then visibly remembered to whom, or what, she was speaking. “Thanks for your concern, sir, but Felis—what he does when he comes of age, well, I can’t stop him, but until then, I won’t help him get himself killed.”

  Eslingen sighed, recognizing a familiar attitude, and held the door for her. As he’d expected, the low-flyer was waiting, the driver keenly interested in the proceedings. He handed them into the coach—the woman seemed surprised and pleased by the gesture, though the boy rolled his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking, and earned a slap for his presumption—and stepped back to watch it roll away.

  Adriana was waiting by the bar, a glass, not the usual tankard, in her hand. As he approached, she slid it toward him, and he took it with a nod of thanks. There was a dram or so of a clear, sweet-smelling liquor in the bottom of it, and he drained it with a smile. The fiery liquor, distilled grain spirit with a strong flavor of mint, burned its way down his throat, and he set the glass down with a sigh.

  “The next,” Adriana said, “you pay for.”

  “That’s all right, then,” Eslingen answered. Menthe was imported from Altheim, and wasn’t cheap there. He shook his head. “I hope it’s done some good.”

  “Can’t hurt,” Adriana answered. “Tell me something, Philip, what do your stars say about your death?”

  Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a personal question, surely—or were you planning something I should know of?”

  “Neither killing nor bedding you, so get your mind off it,” Adriana said, but he could see the color rise in her dark cheeks. “No, I’m sorry, I know it came out wrong, but Felis—” She stopped, took a breath, looked suddenly younger than her years. “Anfelis told Mother why she won’t let Felis go, aside from he’s her only kid. His stars are bad for war, he’s likely to die by iron.”

  Eslingen sighed, the menthe still hot on his tongue. “Then he’d be a fool to sign on, surely. You’d be surprised how many of us have those stars, though.” It was an ill-omened thought. He smiled, and said brightly, “I, however, am like to live to a ripe age, comforting women and men to my last days.”

  “Comfort seems unlikely,” Adriana retorted, and swung back behind the bar. Eslingen watched the kitchen door close behind her, his smile fading. Returning the Lucenan boy to his mother could only improve the Old Brown Dog’s reputation—he hoped. There were a handful of butchers, the journeyman Paas chief among them, who seemed to go out of their way to find something bad to say about anything Devynck did. Eslingen sighed again, suddenly aware that it was nearing midnight, and turned to survey the thinning crowd in the taproom. Everything seemed quiet enough, the three soldiers leaning close over an improvised dice board, Jasanten limping in from the garden, his crutch loud on the wooden floor, the woman musician who worked in one of the theaters in Point of Dreams nodding over her pint and a plate of bread and cheese, and Eslingen hoped that things would stay that way, at least until tonight’s closing.

  Eslingen woke to the sound of someone knocking on his door. He rolled over, untangling himself from the sheets, and winced at the sunlight that seeped in through the cracks in the shutters. He could tell from the quality of the light that it was well before the second sunrise, and as if to confirm the bad news, the tower clock sounded. He counted the strokes—eight—before he sat up, swearing under his breath.

  “Eslingen? You awake?”

  Eslingen bit back a profane response, said, as moderately as he was able, “I am now.”

  “There’s a pointsman to see you.”

  “Seidos’s Horse!” Eslingen swallowed the rest of the curse. “What in the name of all the gods does he want with me?”

  “Didn’t say.” The voice was definitely Loret’s. “Aagte sa
ys, will you please come down?”

  Eslingen sighed. He doubted that Devynck had been that polite— unless of course she was trying to impress the pointsman—and he swung himself out of bed. “Tell her I’ll be down as soon as I put some clothes on.”

  “All right,” Loret said, and there was a little silence. “It’s Rathe,” he added, and Eslingen heard the sound of his footsteps retreating toward the stairs.

  And what in all the hells do I care which pointsman it is? Eslingen swallowed the comment as pointless, and crossed to his chest to find clean clothes. His best shirt was sorely in need of washing, and his second best needed new cuffs and collar, and the third and fourth best were little better than rags. He made a face, but shrugged on the second best, hoping the pointsman wouldn’t notice the frayed fabric and the darned spot below the collar. He finished dressing, winding his cravat carefully, and thought that the fall of its ends would hide the worst of it. There was no time to shave, but he tugged his hair into a loose queue, and then made his way down the stairs to the tap.

  Rathe was standing in the middle of the wide room, the light of the true sun pouring in through the unshuttered windows and washing over him, turning his untidy curls to bronze as he bent his head to note something in his tablets. Devynck stood opposite him, arms folded across her chest, and the two waiters were loitering behind the bar, trying to pretend they were doing something useful. Jasanten, the only one of the lodgers who had his breakfast at the tavern, as a concession either to past friendship or to his missing leg, was watching more openly from his table in the corner.

  “—complaint,” Devynck was saying, and Eslingen hid a grin. So she was going to go through with her threat of the night before.