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 door frame, promising goods brought to
Astreiant by the long-distance 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.
Tapers blazed in half a dozen hanging candelabra,
and stood in rows in sconces along the walls. More candles, smaller
votive lights the length of a man’s finger, flickered at the foot
of the central statue of Areton, the god of war and courage,
throwing odd shadows across the statue’s archaic leg armor and
making the base of his long spear seem to waver. This was not
Eslingen’s favorite incarnation of the god—he preferred the younger
shape, dancing, before he turned to war—but he
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 door frame, promising goods brought to
Astreiant by the long-distance 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.
Tapers blazed in half a dozen hanging candelabra,
and stood in rows in sconces along the walls. More candles, smaller
votive lights the length of a man’s finger, flickered at the foot
of the central statue of Areton, the god of war and courage,
throwing odd shadows across the statue’s archaic leg armor and
making the base of his long spear seem to waver. This was not
Eslingen’s favorite incarnation of the god—he preferred the younger
shape, dancing, before he turned to war—but he
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