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 doorframe, promising goods brought to Astreiant by the longdistance 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.