Текст книги "Point of Hopes"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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Fourie inclined his head in austere acceptance of the apology, but said nothing. Rathe watched him warily, not quite daring to ask the question in his mind, and Fourie leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “What’s your theory on it all, Rathe?”

“I haven’t got one,” Rathe answered. As you well know. None of us have any theories, or at least nothing solid, from the newest runner to the dozen chief points. “With respect, sir, why are you taking this case out of Point of Hearts? I’m not unwilling, but they’re not going to like it, and I can’t say I blame them.”

Fourie ignored the question. “What about politics?”

“Politics?” Rathe repeated, and shook his head. “I don’t see it. I mean, I know this is a tricky time, with the starchange and all, but– what do these children have to do with that? They’re not well enough born for blackmail–they don’t have anything in common, as far as I can see.”

“I know,” Fourie said. “I’m not–fully–sure myself. Maybe nothing. But there are factions seeking to influence Her Majesty’s choice of a successor. Too many things are happening at once for it all to be a coincidence, Rathe.” He leaned forward, as though he had reached a decision. “I want you to check out Caiazzo’s involvement.”

“Caiazzo?” Rathe leaned back in his chair. Hanselin Caiazzo was–officially, at least–a longdistance trader, an up‑and‑coming merchant‑venturer who had almost escaped the taint of his southriver origins. He was also, and less officially, the paymaster for or master of a good dozen illegal businesses both south and north of the Sier, with interest that ranged from the Court of the Thirty‑Two Knives to Point of Graves to the Exemption Docks. No one had yet proved a point on him, and not for want of effort. Customs Point was doing very well from his fees, or so the rumor had it. “I don’t see it… ”

“Caiazzo has a good many business interests in the north,” Fourie said. “Especially in the Ile’nord.”

“That’s not illegal.”

“Not in and of themselves, no,” Fourie agreed. “But when one of the likeliest choices for the succession is Palatine Marselion, for whom Caiazzo has acted on more than one occasion…” He let his voice trail off, suggestively, and Rathe shook his head.

“I don’t see a connection with the missing children, sir.”

“Caiazzo’s been known to bankroll unlicensed printers,” Fourie said. “Well known for it, in fact, even if we’ve never proved the point. And astrologers. If Marselion is up to something, what better way to distract the city, and by distracting the city, the queen’s government? If that’s the plan, you have to admit, it’s working. What have all the broadsheets been talking of for the past week? The nobility? The succession? Politics or ordinary predictions at all? No–it’s these missing children.”

It’s very thin. Rathe bit back the instinctive response, said, more carefully, “Look, politics just isn’t a game Caiazzo’s interested in playing, he never has been. Frankly, sir, the return just isn’t good enough.”

“Backing the next Queen of Chenedolle is bound to have a sizeable return, Rathe, whether it be in immediate wealth or favor and influence.”

“Sir, is this really about the children, or is this just a chance to get Caiazzo?”

The surintendant gave another thin smile. “ ‘Just’ a chance to get Caiazzo, Rathe? The man’s behind at least half the illegal activities in Astreiant. We–you personally–have been after him for, what, three, five years now? If we can get him on treason and trafficking in children, he won’t get free of it.”

It made a kind of sense, Rathe knew, but couldn’t pretend he was happy with it. He hesitated, searching for a diplomatic way to say what had to be said, then shook his head. “I won’t find evidence that isn’t there, sir.”

Fourie nodded. “I know. That’s why I picked you for the job.” It was, Rathe supposed, meant as a compliment, however backhanded. “But I want you to look into this–Foucquet’s more important than her rank would suggest, she has a great deal of influence with the judiciary, and so far she hadn’t said who she supports. This apprentice of hers could have been taken to force her hand. Look into it, Rathe, with particular attention to Caiazzo.”

Rathe stared at him with some frustration. This wasn’t Caiazzo’s style, he’d fenced with the man long enough to know that; Caiazzo stayed away from politics and political business as only a commoner would. And Caiazzo was southriver born and bred, he of all people would know better than to risk stirring up the smouldering angers there. Unless he was a Leveller? Rathe added silently, but dismissed the thought as soon as it was formed. Caiazzo was no Leveller: society suited him very well in its present form, and he’d be the first to say as much. But there was no ignoring the surintendant’s direct order. “Very well, sir,” he said, and made no effort to keep the skepticism from his voice.

Fourie ignored it, nodded in dismissal. “And keep me informed.”

Rathe walked back from the Tour to Point of Hopes, grumbling that he had better things to spend his money on. He was tempted to avoid the station entirely, tell Monteia about this new case and the surintendant’s new interpretation of the old one in the morning, but his mother had always said that unpleasant duties were best dealt with as quickly as possible. He sighed, and went on through the courtyard into the station.

Jans Ranazy was on duty again, and Rathe made a face, quickly concealed. He wasn’t fond of the other man, and knew the feeling was mutual; Monteia had done her best to keep them working apart, but the station staff was too small to make her efforts completely effective. Ranazy’s dinner sat on a tray on top of the daybook, and Rathe grimaced again, recognizing the Cazaril Grey’s horsehead stamped into the cheap pottery. Only Ranazy, of all the points, including Monteia herself, managed to afford to have his dinner brought over from the inn. All the others, fee’d or not, brought cold dinners when they had the night shift, or cooked over the stove. But that didn’t suit Ranazy’s opinion of himself.

Ranazy looked up then, and smiled, not pleasantly. “Still on duty, Nico?”

“It’s been a busy afternoon,” Rathe answered. “Is the chief in the office?”

“She’s out back, in the yard.” Ranazy would clearly have loved to ask more, but Rathe ignored his curiosity, and pushed open the back door of the station.

The space behind the points stations was, more properly, open ground intended as defensible space, but forty years of civil peace had turned it into a back garden, lightly fenced, and sporting a few haphazardly tended garden plots. Monteia was sitting on a bench under a straggling fruit tree in the reddened light of the first sunset, the winter‑sun’s shadows pale on the ground around her. She held a lit pipe negligently between her first two fingers, and the air was redolent of the mixed herbs. She looked up as the back door closed.

“Dare I ask what the sur wanted?”

“You won’t like it. It seems Judge‑Advocate Foucquet has lost one of her clerk’s apprentices. It’s the same as the others. No sign that the boy ran. He just–disappeared, yesterday afternoon. His mother is assize clerk in Point of Hearts.” He took a breath. “And the judge‑advocate and the surintendant both want me to take the case on my book.”

“Oh, that’s just marvelous, Rathe. As if you haven’t enough to do…” Monteia broke off. “And how am I supposed to justify your poaching to Hearts?”

“It was the sur’s direct order,” Rathe answered. “And aside from that, I do feel as though I owe this to maseigne.” He had kept his tone as respectful as possible, but from the look she gave him, Monteia was not appeased.

“For a southriver rat, you certainly have a lot of friends in high places.” She picked up a sheaf of papers that had been lying at her feet, weighted with a slate against the nonexistent breeze. “Well, then, since you’re taking on extra work, you can look into these. The whole city’s getting a rash of these unlicensed sheets, and they’re not helping things. About half of them are blatantly political–hells, they’ve backed every possible candidate for the succession, including a couple I’ve never heard of–and the rest of them are passing hints about the children, but they’re none of them operating under a bond license. You can add these to your daybook.”

Rathe took the papers mechanically. If Monteia’s assessment was correct–and it would be, he had no doubt of that–then Caiazzo could well be connected at least to the printing. He would take these home with him, and tomorrow he would begin the delicate job of tracking down their source. After, he added mentally, after I’ve spoken to Maseigne de Foucquet and found out exactly why she doesn’t want to go to Point of Hearts.

Along with the papers, he took a batch of nativities Salineis had collected for him out through the station onto the front steps, unwilling to intrude on Monteia’s quiet work in the yard, even more unwilling to remain in the still, hot air of the station–made hotter, if not stiller, he thought, by the presence of Ranazy. He sat down on the broad front step of the station, stretching his legs out with a sigh of relief, and started leafing through the nativities, settling the broadsheets under his hip. A knot of the station’s runners were also playing in front of the building, despite the sun that still beat down hard in the later afternoon. Laci looked up at him from his game of jacks, a smile like the sun glinting off a bright knife blade. Jacme, a rough‑boned twelve‑year‑old who had been thrown out of his home in the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, was sitting in the lower boughs of one of the few trees that survived in the street; Ranazy would scold him out of it, but Rathe just turned a blind eye. He’d seen few enough fruit trees ruined for being a good climbing tree as well. Fasquelle de Galhac was lazily tossing a ball back and forth with Lennar, their constant rivalry temporarily forgotten. Asheri, Rathe’s favorite, sat in her usual place on the edge of the dry trough, her hands for once not busy with any needlework. He smiled at her as he sat down, and she returned the smile, lighting up her thin face. She had, he reflected, a stillness none of the others had, or rather, a capacity for stillness; Rathe had seen her fully as rambunctious as any of the others. A quiet, aloof child would have found no favor with the rest of the runners, and she had learned that quickly, despite her own personality. She was a daredevil by necessity, and a sound one, taking risks that were quickly and carefully calculated. That calculation wasn’t, some of the other points thought, natural in a child of twelve. It was, Rathe thought, an attribute of a sound pointswoman.

He read through the nativities, poring over them for any similarities, anything at all that he might have missed the times he had read through his and the other points’ notes, knowing it was fruitless, knowing he didn’t make that kind of mistake and even if he did, it was unlikely that every other pointswoman and man in the city would overlook anything that was there. He looked at two he held in his hands– in his left, the nativity of an eight‑year‑old, in his right, that of a twelve‑year‑old.

He realized, with a sick knot in his stomach, that the station’s runners were all in the age range of the children who had gone missing, from Laci, the youngest, to Jacme, the oldest. It was surely just luck that they hadn’t lost any of them yet. He carefully stacked the papers, weighting them with a rock, and cleared his throat. Instantly, their attention was focused on him, on the possibility of a job to be run, of earning a few extra coins. Well, he hated to disappoint them, but…

“Sorry, no job at the moment, I just want to talk to you. Come on over here,” he invited, and the runners, some eagerly, some warily, joined him by the table, dropping to sit on the ground beneath the tree. Jacme was still in the tree, above his head, and Rathe looked up. “Sorry, Jacme, but I’d like you down here for this, all right?”

“Right, Nico,” the boy said, cheerfully enough, and dropped to the ground with a solid thud. He sat down next to Asheri. “What’s up?”

These were streetwise children, for the most part, probably a lot wiser in the ways of the streets than many adults, certainly more so than most of the children who had been stolen. But like most children, they had a sense of invulnerability, despite the fact that their lives had been a great deal harder than that of most of the missing children. “All right,” he said. “You lot know what’s been going on, these disappearances. We’re doing everything we can to find out what’s happened to these kids, and, just as important, find those children who have already disappeared.” He looked at them, their faces grave, but not frightened, not even worried. They were street urchins, southriver rats who faced this kind of threat most days of their lives. “And you’ve probably all heard all the rumors going about, maybe even some we haven’t yet.”

“Like the ones who say the points are doing it, Nico?” Laci chimed in, and Rathe gave him a sour look that fooled neither one of them.

“I had heard that one already, yes, thank you, Laci.” He paused, not quite certain how to proceed, wanting to find the words that would reach them, and not simply send them squirming into paroxysms of impatience. “The thing is, the thing you may not have realized, is that all the missing children are between the ages of eight and twelve.” He stopped, and looked at each of them in turn. They understood, he could see that, but still, he had to say it, make it explicit. “So you lot are in the exact age range of the children who have disappeared.” He shrugged. “All I’m saying is, be careful. You know the city better than a lot of people, you see things other people would miss, or would dismiss as unimportant. If you see anything, no matter what you think I might think of it, let me know, or anyone else here.”

“ ’Cept Ranazy,” Jacme muttered.

“Yes, well, just do it, all right?”

There were mumbles of assent, and looks were exchanged that made Rathe frown. “And if you’ve already noticed anything, now might be a good time to tell me.”

Fasquelle was drawing lines in the dirt; Jacme was shredding some grass that had been struggling to exist. Rathe saw Asheri look at each of them, and then she stood up.

“I don’t know if anyone else has mentioned it, Nico…” she began, and then frowned, closing her teeth on her lower lip in thought.

“Mentioned what, Ash?” Rathe asked, quietly, encouragingly, glancing at each of the other runners. They seemed content to let Asheri speak for them.

“I was waiting for Houssaye the other afternoon at Wicked’s–he wanted me to run some of those nativities back to the station, since he was on his way home–and there were some students there. And they were complaining about these new astrologers working the fair this year.”

“New astrologers?” Rathe asked, and Asheri nodded.

“The students were complaining that they’re taking business away from them because they’re doing readings for people for less than the students charge–a half‑demming, they say. Which would be ridiculously low,” Asheri added, “since you can barely buy a loaf of bread for that.”

“They’re not with the university, then.” It was a privilege of the fair for university students to augment their stipends by working the various temple booths, casting horoscopes and doing star readings. They charged what the market would bear–not usually exorbitant, but certainly more than half a demming. “Who are they aligned to?” he asked.

Lennar burst in eagerly. “No one, Nico–they wear long robes, like a magist, but the robes are black, and they don’t carry any badge or insignia, and they don’t belong to any temple. They say they can offer people charms to protect their children from the child‑thieves.”

And at that, Rathe felt a cold anger within him. Bad enough that parents and guildmasters were worried sick about their children and apprentices, bad enough that the broadsheets were having a field day with it all, blaming any group with less influence than another, but for these hedge‑astrologers to prey on these fears for the sake of coin… a half‑demming wasn’t much, admittedly, but when you multiplied it by the number of fearful adults–and adolescents–they could be making a very tidy sum. And he had seen one of them, too, he realized, at the Rivermarket. The description was too precise, a magist’s robe with no insignia, and he wished he had known enough to stop the man. That was probably why he had vanished so quickly. He wondered, briefly, if this might not be Caiazzo’s style, Caiazzo’s hand at work, but then he dismissed the thought. Too petty, surely, for a man with the vision and ambitions of Hanselin Caiazzo. Caiazzo thought to rival the old trading house Talhafers within the next several years; it would be a fool’s game to antagonize the temples.

“What else have you heard about these astrologers?” he asked, and knew that some of his anger came through in his voice, because the runners seemed to draw back. He took a breath. “No, look, I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m angry with, truly. I’m glad you told me about this–if nothing else, they’re probably violating bond laws, and we should look into it. But has anyone heard anything else about them? Seen them? Spoken with any of them?”

“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.