Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Knives’ Road was as busy as the other streets, and narrowed by the midden barrels that stood in ranks beside each butcher’s hall. Outside one hall, a barrel had overflowed, and gargoyles scratched and scrabbled in the spilled parings, quarreling over the scraps. Eslingen gave it a wide berth, as did most of the passersby, but as he drew abreast of the hall a boy barely at apprenticeship came slouching out with a broom to clean up the mess. The gargoyles exploded away, shrieking their displeasure, some scrambling up the corner stones of the hall, the rest lifting reluctantly on their batlike wings. Eslingen ducked as a fat gargoyle flew straight at him; it dodged at the last minute, swept up to a protruding beam and sat scolding as though it was his fault. The creatures were sacred to Bonfortune, the many‑faced, many‑named god of travelers and traders, but if they weren’t an amusing nuisance, Eslingen thought, someone would have found justification for getting rid of them centuries ago. Their chatter followed him as he turned onto the street Baeker had mentioned.

The Old Brown Dog stood at its end, completely blocking the street. It was a prosperous‑looking place, three, maybe four stories tall, if there were servants’ rooms under the eaves. The sign–a sleeping dog, brown with a grey muzzle–was newly painted, and the bush that marked the house as Leaguer tavern was a live and flourishing redberry in a blue and white pot. A gargoyle was rooting among the dropped fruit but took itself off with a shriek as he got closer. The benches to either side of the door were empty, but the main room seemed busy enough for mid afternoon, half a dozen tables filled and a waiter sweating as he hauled a barrel up through a trap from the cellar. Light poured in from an open door on the opposite side of the room– a door that gave onto a garden, he realized. The air smelled of beer and pungent greenery and the first savory whiffs of the night’s dinner.

The waiter got the barrel up onto its stand behind the bar, and let the trap door down again. He wiped his hands on the towel tied around his waist, and nodded to Eslingen. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I understood you rented rooms,” Eslingen answered.

The man gave him a quick, comprehensive glance, taking in the heavy soldier’s boots and the saddlebags slung over his shoulder, but never took his hands from the towel. “That’s up to the mistress,” he said. “And if we have a room. Adriana!”

A moment later, the top half of the door behind the bar opened– the kitchen door, Eslingen realized–and a young woman leaned out. She had taken the sleeves off her bodice while she cooked, and her shirtsleeves were pinned back to the shoulder, showing arms as brown as new bread; her tightly curled hair and broad nose were unmistakable signs of Silklands blood. “Yeah?”

“Is Aagte there?”

“Mother’s busy.”

“There’s man come about a room.”

“Oh?” The woman–she was probably about twenty, Eslingen thought, not precisely pretty but with a presence to her that wasn’t at all surprising in the tavernkeeper’s daughter and heir–tipped her head to one side, studying him with frank curiosity. “Who are you, then?”

Eslingen stepped up to the bar, gave her his best smile. “My name’s Philip Eslingen, last of Coindarel’s Dragons. Maggiele Reymers said the Brown Dog rented rooms.”

“We do.” The woman–Adriana, the waiter had called her– returned his smile with interest, showing perfect teeth. “I’ll fetch Mother.” Before he could answer, she popped back into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

Eslingen set the saddlebags at his feet–the floor looked clean enough, and he was glad to be rid of their weight–and leaned against the bar. The waiter had vanished in response to a shout from the garden, but he was aware of the tavern’s regulars watching from their tables, and did his best to ignore their stares. Reymers had said that Devynck kept a Leaguer house; her regulars must be used to the occasional, or more than occasional, soldier passing through.

The kitchen door opened again–both halves, this time–and a stocky woman came out, pushing her grey hair back under the band of an embroidered cap. She wasn’t very tall, but she had the familiar sturdy build and rolling walk of the longtime horse trooper, and Eslingen touched his hat politely. “Sergeant Devynck?”

The rank was a guess, but he wasn’t surprised when she nodded and came forward to lean on the bar opposite him. “That’s right. And you’re–Eslingen, was it?”

“Philip Eslingen, ma’am, just paid off from Coindarel’s regiment. Maggiele Reymers told me you rented rooms.”

Devynck nodded again. She had a plain, comfortably homely face, and startlingly grey eyes caught in a web of fine lines. The daughter, Eslingen thought, had obviously gotten her looks from her father.

“That’s right. Three seillings a week, all found, or one if you just want the room. How long would you want it for?”

“That depends. Maybe as long as the fall hirings.”

“I see. No taste for the current season–what rank, anyway, Eslingen?”

“I had my commission this spring,” Eslingen answered. “Before that, I was senior sergeant.”

“Ah.” This time, Devynck sounded satisfied, and Eslingen allowed himself a soundless sigh of relief. She, at least, would understand the awkwardness of his position; it would be a reason she could sympathize with for sitting out a campaign. Hearing the change in her voice, he risked a question.

“Three seillings a week all found, you said. What’s that include?”

“Use of the room, it’s a bed, table, stove, and chair, and clean linen once a week. The boy empties your pot and rakes the grate, and the maid’ll do the cleaning, Demesdays and Reasdays in the morning. You haul your own water, there’s a pump out back.” Devynck’s eyes narrowed, as though she were considering something, but she said only, “I suppose you’ll want to see the room first.”

“Please,” Eslingen answered.

Devynck glanced over her shoulder, as though gauging whether she could afford to leave the kitchen, then came out from behind the bar. “Stairs are through the garden.”

Eslingen followed her out the back door. The garden was bigger than he’d realized, stretching almost twice the length of a normal city plot, and there were fruit trees along one wall, the hard green apples little bigger than a child’s fist. There were tables nearer the door and the ground around them was beaten bare; beyond that area, rows of woven fence kept the drinkers out of plots crowded with plants. Pig apples ripened on their sprawling vines, yellow against the dark green leaves, and he thought he recognized the delicate fronds of carrots in the nearest patch. The pump, as promised, was by the door, a spout shaped like Oriane’s Seabull roaring above a cast‑iron trough; the pump handle was iron, too, and looked nicely weighted. A well‑worn path led between the fences to an outhouse by the back wall.

The stairs ran up the side of the tavern, and Eslingen followed Devynck up past the first floor landing, wondering if he would be offered a space under the eaves with the servants. She stopped at the second floor, however, producing a bunch of keys from her belt, unlocked the door and stood aside to let him past. Eslingen glanced surreptitiously at the lock as he went by, and was relieved to see a sturdy double bolt.

“First on the right,” Devynck said, and Eslingen went on down the well‑scrubbed hall.

The door she had indicated stood ajar. Eslingen pushed it open–it too had a solid‑looking lock attached–and went on into the room. It was surprisingly bright, the light of the twin suns casting double shadows: the single window overlooked the garden, and there was glass in the casement rather than the cheaper oiled paper. The bed looked clean enough, the mattress lying bare on its rope cradle, the plain curtains knotted up to keep away the dust; as promised, there was a table big enough to seat two for private dinners, and a single barrel chair. A ceramic stove was tucked into the corner by the window, its pipe running out the wall above the casement. It was small, Eslingen thought, but would at least keep off the worst of the chill in winter, and let him make his own tea and shaving water. It was all ordinary furniture, clearly bought second‑or thirdhand, or relegated to the lodgers’ rooms when Devynck’s own family had no further use for them, but still perfectly serviceable. He could, he thought, be reasonably comfortable here.

As if she had read his mind, Devynck said, “I offer lodgers a break on the ordinary. Two seillings more a week, and you can have two meals a day below, dinner and supper. You take what we’re serving, but it’s generally good, though I say it myself.”

The smell that had come from the kitchen was tempting enough, Eslingen admitted. He looked around the room again, pretending to study the furniture, and added up the costs. Five seillings a week wasn’t bad; that came to two pillars a lunar month–twenty‑one months, if he bought nothing else and earned nothing else, neither of which was likely, and in practice he should only have to stay in Astreiant until the spring, thirteen months at most. He glanced at the whitewashed walls, the well‑scrubbed floorboards, and nodded slowly. “It sounds reasonable, sergeant. I’ll take it.”

Devynck nodded back. “Meals, too?”

“Please.”

“Wise man. You won’t find it cheaper unless you cook for yourself.” Devynck smiled. “I’ll need the first week in advance.”

“Agreed.” Eslingen reached into his pocket, took out his purse, and searched through the coins until he found a single heirat. The snake coiling across its face gleamed in the sunlight as he handed it across. Devynck took it, turned it to check the royal mint‑mark, and slipped it deftly into her own pocket.

“Make yourself at home, Eslingen. I’ll send someone up with your linens and your key. We lock the main door at midnight, mind, but one of the boys will let you in if you come back later.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen answered, and the woman turned away, skirts rustling. Eslingen shut the door gently behind her, and stood for a moment contemplating the empty room. As always when he moved into a new place, either quartered on some stranger or in lodgings of his own, he felt an odd thrill, half apprehension, half anticipation; the room, the city, the air, and the sunlight coming in through the open window, felt somehow thick, heavy with potential. He set his saddlebags beside the bed–he would need a clothes press, or at least a chest, he thought, and wondered if he could borrow something suitable from Devynck–and went to the window, leaned out into the scent of the fruit trees and spilled beer, grateful for that note of commonality.

To his surprise, it was Adriana who appeared with the sheets and blankets, followed by a pair of waiters carrying a battered storage chest. At her gesture, they set it down inside the door, and headed back to their other jobs. Adriana nodded cheerfully and began to make up the bed.

“You’re from Esling, then?” she asked.

Eslingen nodded, watching her work–the sheets were mended, but looked impeccably clean, and the blankets were only minimally patched–said, “I left some years ago, though.”

“Mother left Altheim when she was sixteen.” Adriana loosened the curtains, slapped them smartly to loosen what little dust had been allowed to gather, then stooped to the chest, dragging it further into the room. Eslingen bent to help her, and found himself looking down the front of her bodice, at the cleavage between two nice breasts. He smiled, realized she was aware of his stare, and looked quickly away.

“Where do you want this?” Adriana asked.

“Oh, under the window would be fine,” Eslingen answered, more or less at random, and together they carried the heavy chest across the room.

“So you were with Coindarel’s regiment,” Adriana went on, and lifted the chest’s lid to reveal a squat chamberpot, an equally unpretentious kettle, and a washbasin and jug. “One hears a great deal about Coindarel.”

I wouldn’t be surprised, Eslingen thought. He said, “I doubt all of it’s true.”

“Oh?” She smiled, a not quite openly mischievous expression that started a dimple in one dark cheek. She seemed about to say something, but then changed her mind, her smile still amused and secret. “I brought a candle‑end for you, but after that, you’ll buy your own.”

“Thanks.” Eslingen watched her out of the corner of his eye, wondering just which of the many rumors she had heard. Probably the one about Coindarel choosing his officers for their looks, he thought, and didn’t know whether to be regretful or relieved. She was pretty–more than pretty, really, and Devynck’s daughter would have a substantial share in her mother’s business, if not the whole of it, since he’d seen no other sisters–but he would be wise to keep hands off until he knew her intentions. Not that he would be so lucky as to attract an offer of marriage–I think well of myself, he admitted, with an inward smile of his own, and with reason, but there’s not a woman alive who’d think I have enough to offer her to make that contract worth her while. But there were other obligations, other degrees of interest and desire, and until he knew more about her, it would be wise to step warily. She was certainly of an age to be thinking about children.

Adriana’s smile widened briefly, as though she’d guessed what he was thinking, but she said only, “That’s your furniture, sergeant–and Mother does charge for damage. The kitchen’s open from six o’clock to first sundown, you can eat any time then. I’ve told the waiters not to charge you.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said again, and Adriana answered, “My pleasure, sergeant.”

“Certainly mine,” Eslingen replied automatically, and wondered if he’d been entirely wise. Adriana flashed him another quick grin, showing teeth this time, and let herself out in a flurry of skirt and petticoat.

Left to himself, Eslingen leaned out the window to check the sundial that stood in the garden below. Past four, he guessed, from the length of the shadows, but couldn’t see the dial itself. He would want a timepiece of some sort, he thought, frowning–one needed to keep rough track of the hours; even the least observant did their best to avoid their unlucky times–and then a tower clock sounded from the direction of the Street of Knives, a strong double chime marking the half hour. There would be no missing that sound; probably the real difficulty would be learning to sleep through it every night. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief, and began methodically to unpack his belongings.

He had traveled light, of necessity. It didn’t take long to arrange the borrowed furniture to his satisfaction, and to fold his spare clothes neatly into the bottom of the chest. The locked case that held his pistol went beneath his clean shirts: in the morning, he thought, I’ll buy a lock for the big chest, too. There would be other errands to run, as well–find the nearest bathhouse and barber, buy candles of his own, and herbs for the chest, to keep the moths out, and find a laundress, too, and a decent astrologer, I’ll probably have to go back to the university for that–but he put those plans firmly aside for the moment, and reached into the bottom of the right‑hand saddlebag for the carved tablets that were his portable altar. Like most rented rooms from the League to Cazaril in the south, this one had a niche set into the wall beside the door, and he walked over to examine it. It was typical, except for the lack of dust–Devynck was clearly a ferocious housekeeper–just a space for an image or two and a shallow depression to hold the hearth fire, but it was certainly more than adequate for him. He unfolded the hinged diptych, Areton, painted ochre since Eslingen couldn’t afford gilt, dancing on the right‑hand panel, Phoebe as guardian of health in solar splendor on the left. He should probably honor Seidos, too, he thought, not for the first time–he had been born under Seidos’s signs, the Horse and the Horsemaster–but Seidos was patron of the nobility, not of common soldiers. Maybe I’ll ask the magist when I have my stars read, he thought, but he hadn’t done it yet. He tilted his head to once side, studying the altar. He would need to buy a candle for the Hearthmistress, along with the ones for his own use, but those would be easily enough found at any chandler’s shop. He added that to his mental list, and stretched out on the bed, settling himself for a nap before dinner.

The tower clock woke him at five, and again at half past, and at six. He sighed then, swung himself off the bed, and began to tidy himself for dinner. The sun was very low as he made his way down the stairs into the garden, but he guessed it would be another hour at least before it actually set. The air smelled of the cooking food, rich with onions and garlic, and he realized suddenly that he was hungry. Very hungry, he amended, and hoped Devynck’s portions were generous.

The main room was only moderately crowded, and he guessed that Devynck made most of her profit from her beer. He found an empty table beside one of the streetside windows, and lifted a hand to signal the nearest waiter. The man nodded back, but took his patron’s orders before coming over to Eslingen’s table.

“You’re the new lodger–Eslingen, isn’t it? I’m Loret.”

“That’s right.” Eslingen eyed him curiously, recognizing a wrestler’s or blacksmith’s breadth of shoulder beneath the loose smock, and wondered if Devynck often had trouble here.

“Then you get the ordinary. Do you want beer with that? It’s a demming extra for a pitcher.”

“That’s fine.”

Loret nodded, and Eslingen watched him walk away, dodging tables on his way to the kitchen hatch. Loret had the look of country boys who enlisted out of ignorance and deserted after their first battle, good boys with all the wrong stars, more often than not–which was hardly fair, he told himself, considering that Loret was probably born and bred in Astreiant. And big men weren’t all gentle; he’d learned that the hard way, years ago.

It wasn’t long before Loret returned with the tray of food and the sweating pitcher of beer. He set them neatly down, and waited until Eslingen had paid for the beer before answering the next customer’s shout. Eslingen made a face at the caution, but had to admit it was probably justified. Devynck’s clientele would be no better than the average. The food was good–a thick stew, Leaguer style, with a decent serving of beef to supplement the starchy roots that made up the bulk of the dish, and half a loaf of good wheat bread with a dish of soft cheese on the side–and the beer was better. It had been a while since he had eaten Leaguer food–Coindarel’s quartermasters had been mostly Chenedolliste, like their men–and he took his time, savoring the rich meat broth.

“Philip! Philip Eslingen!”

The voice was unexpectedly familiar, and Eslingen looked up, startled, to see Dausset Cijntien waving at him from the center of the room. Eslingen waved back, wondering what the other was doing in Astreiant–the last he had heard, Cijntien had signed on with a longdistance trader, leading a caravan‑guard on the six‑month overland journey to the Silklands. But then, that had been almost six months ago, he realized, and in any case, Cijntien was obviously back, and equally obviously looking for work. Midsummer was the hiring season for the longdistance traders, and the sea captains, for that matter; there was rarely any shortage of work for experienced soldiers.

Cijntien collected his refilled pitcher, reaching over the heads of the people at the nearest table, and then threaded his way through the crowd to Eslingen’s table. The room had filled up since he’d arrived, Eslingen saw, and glanced at the wall stick. It was blind, the light no longer falling to cast its shadows, but from the look of the sky outside the windows, it was getting close to the first sundown.

“It’s good to see you again,” Cijntien said, and settled himself on the stool opposite the other man.

“And you,” Eslingen answered, and meant it. “You’re looking well.”

“Thanks.” Cijntien took a long swallow of his beer, and Eslingen smiled, watching him. They had served together years before–more accurately, he had served under Cijntien, had been a corporal and then a company sergeant under Cijntien, and had stepped into Cijntien’s office of major sergeant when the older man had left soldiering for the less dangerous life of a trader’s man. Or at worst differently dangerous, Eslingen amended. From the looks of Cijntien’s hands, flecked with the dark specks of a recent powder burn, longdistance trading had its own hazards.

“I thought you were with Coindarel these days,” Cijntien went on.

“We were paid off,” Eslingen answered. “This morning, in fact.”

“Hard luck. Or maybe not so hard, depending.” Cijntien leaned forward, planting both elbows on the table. He was wearing a light jerkin over a plain shirt, and the grey brown leather matched the faded brown of his hair. “Have you another place lined up yet?”

Eslingen shook his head. “Not this season.” He hesitated, but Cijntien was an old friend, and was probably one of the few who’d appreciate his promotion. “I had my commission this spring, you see. I’m not inclined to go back to mere sergeant so quickly.”

Cijntien nodded in sympathy. “The stars have been against you, my Philip. Have you tried a good astrologer?”

Eslingen laughed. “Have you ever met an astrologer who could alter the stars once they’re risen? Give over, Dausset.”

“They can mitigate the worst effects,” Cijntien answered, and Eslingen shook his head. Cijntien was old‑fashioned–he had been born in Guisen, the most conservative of the northern cities, back when it was part of the League–and undereducated; no one had ever been able to convince him that even the greatest magists could work only with what the stars gave them.

“I’m planning to consult someone,” Eslingen said. “Tomorrow or the next day. But, no, I don’t have a place, and I wasn’t planning to look until the winter season.”

“As it happens,” Cijntien said, and smiled. “As it happens, my Philip, I’ve a place for you, if you want it.”

“Oh?” In spite of himself, in spite of knowing what it must be, Eslingen felt his heart quicken a little. He was a fish out of water in Astreiant, and that was frightening as well as a challenge; it wouldn’t be bad to have familiar work, or to be serving with Cijntien again… Then common sense reasserted itself. He had no desire to serve six months to a year in a trading company–of course a shipboard post would probably be shorter, assuming Cijntien had moved from the caravans to the more prestigious trading craft, though he himself had never sailed on anything larger than a river barge, much less fought from one.

“My principal’s still hiring for this winter’s caravan,” Cijntien said. “It’s a good trip, I’ve done it five times now, up the Queen’s‑road to Anver, cross the Marr at Breissa and then over the land bridge into the Silklands.”

“I thought that was all desert,” Eslingen said, but couldn’t suppress a surge of curiosity. He had always liked travel–men were generally wanderers by their stars, and he was no exception.

“It is, mostly. But the rivers fill in winter, and the nomads–they’re Haissa, there, mostly, and a lot of Qaidin–come to the city‑sites to trade.” Cijntien looked past him, not seeing the tavern crowd. “It’s a sight to see, Philip. The sites, they’re nothing, just the walls for houses, but then the people come in, pitch their tents, and make a city. They’ve a traders’ peace, too, at least in the cities, so the various clans can do their business. We were early once, saw the Haissa setting up at Saatara. It was like magists’ work, I’ve never seen anything like it. We came in at first sundown, pitched our camp, and there was nothing there, just mud brick walls and dirt. And then, just before second sundown, we heard the Haissa arrive–they’d been held up, their camp mother said, a storm or something–and the next thing we knew the city’d sprouted roofs and doors. All oil‑silk, mind you, and those heavy carpets everywhere. When the light hit them, at first sunup, gods, it was like you’d fallen into a jewelbox. And there was nothing there before, nothing at all.”

Eslingen shivered, caught by the picture the older man had conjured for him. He had met Silklanders before, of course, had served with any number of them, but they were mostly dark‑skinned Maivi, from the center of the empire. He’d never met a true Hasiri, from one of the tribes, though like all Leaguer children he’d been raised on stories of the wild nomads who roamed the roof of the world; it would be wonderful to see.

“After that,” Cijntien went on, “we take it by easy stages down the imperial roads to Tchalindor. My principal’s factor is there. And then we come back by sea.”

And that, Eslingen thought, was the rub. It would be a glorious journey, certainly, but it would take the rest of the year and well into the next spring to reach Tchalindor–the land bridge was only passable in the winter, when the rivers were full–and by the time he could get a ship back to Chenedolle or the League, the best captains would have filled their companies for the spring campaigns. Still, if the pay was good enough, he could afford to wait for the winter season… “What’s your principal offering?”

“Two pillars a lunar month, paid at Tchalindor, plus bonuses. And of course food, mounts, and shot and powder are his business–and weapons, too, if you don’t want to bring your own.”

Which wasn’t enough, not even if he skimped–and besides, Eslingen told himself firmly, he’d always been a soldier, not some caravan guard. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dausset. I can’t afford it.”

“Can you afford to have your head blown off, somewhere up in the Ile’nord? Or your throat slit some dark night, more likely?”

Eslingen laughed. “But I’m good, Dausset. Besides, if it’s in my stars, it’s in my stars. By all accounts, you can get your throat cut just as neatly on the caravan roads.”

Cijntien shook his head, the smile fading from his lips. “I wish you’d come with me, Philip. This is not a good time for Leaguers in Astreiant.”

“What do you mean?” Eslingen reached for the pitcher, found it empty, and lifted a hand to signal the nearest waiter. The room had definitely filled while they’d been talking, a mix of Leaguers, marked by their lighter skin and hair and the wide hats they wore even in the tavern, and soldiers and former soldiers, equally marked by their boots and the various scars. But there was a small knot of people whom he couldn’t identify immediately sitting close together at the tables by the door, and another larger group–this one with the leather aprons and pewter Toncarle badges of the Butcher’s Guild–at the big table closest to the bar. Locals, all of them, and they didn’t look particularly happy. The waiter–not Loret, this time–brought a second pitcher, and Eslingen paid, waving away Cijntien’s perfunctory and insincere offer of coin. “So what do you mean, this is a bad time for Leaguers?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“I got into the city two days ago,” Eslingen answered. “Not even Astreiant proper, the camps out along the Horse Road. And I wasn’t paid off until this morning. So whatever it is, no, I haven’t heard.”

Cijntien leaned forward again, lowering his voice. “There’s something very wrong in this city, Philip, let me tell you that. And the Astreianters are being very quick to blame everybody else before they’ll look in their own stars.”

Eslingen made a noncommittal noise.

“Their children are disappearing,” Cijntien said, leaning forward even further. “Lots of them, just vanishing, no one knows where or why. They say–” He jerked his head toward the doorway, the city beyond it. “–they say it’s Leaguers, or maybe the caravaners and Silklanders, needing hands for the road. But I say it’s a judgment on herself, for being childless.”

Eslingen caught his breath at that, barely kept himself from looking over his shoulder. “Have a care, Dausset.”

“Well, she should have an heiress by now,” Cijntien said, stubbornly. Neither man needed to say who he meant: the Queen of Chenedolle’s childless state had been the subject of speculation for years. “Or have named one. The Starsmith is moving, it’ll enter the Charioteer within the year–”

“Or next year, or the year after,” Eslingen interrupted, his voice equally firm. Anyone in Chenedolle–in the known world–knew what that meant: the Starsmith was the brightest of the moving stars, the ruler of death, monarchs, and magists, and its passage from one sign to the next signaled upheavals at the highest levels. The current queen’s grandmother had died during such a transit, and the transit before that had been marked by civil war; it was not unreasonable to fear this passage, when the current queen was no longer young, and childless. But the tertiary zodiac, the one in which the Starsmith moved, as opposed to the zodiacs of the sun and winter‑sun, was still poorly defined, its boundaries the subject of debate even within Astreiant’s university. The Starsmith might well pass from the Shell to the Charioteer this year, or not for another four or five years; it all depended on who you asked.

“At least you don’t say never,” Cijntien muttered. “Like some godless Chadroni.”

“Whatever else you may say about me, you can’t call me that.”

“Godless?”

“Chadroni.”

Cijntien laughed. “I have missed you, Philip, and I don’t deny it’d be good to have you along this trip if only for the company. But I mean it, this is not a good time to be Leaguer here.”

“Because of missing children,” Eslingen said. “Missing, you said, not dead?”

“No one’s found bodies, at any rate,” Cijntien answered.

“So how many of them have just decided to take to the roads?” Eslingen asked. “It’s Midsummer, or nearly, fair season–hiring season. When did you leave home, Dausset, or did you start out a soldier?”

“As it happened, yes, and I left home at the spring balance,” Cijntien said. “But that’s not what’s happening, or so they say. It’s the wrong children, not the southriver rats and rabble, but the merchants’ brats from north of the river. Those children don’t run away, Philip. They’ve got too much to stay for.”