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,
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,
Similar Books
