Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

  At the corner of the next street, a crowd had gathered—largely children just at apprentice-age and younger, but there were some adults with them, too, and Eslingen paused, curious, to look over the bobbing heads into the manufactory yard. It was a glassblowers’, he realized at once, and the pit furnace was lit in the center of the open yard, waves of heat rolling off it toward the open gates. A young woman, her hair tucked under a leather cap, skirts and bodice protected by a thick leather apron that reached almost to her ankles, leather gauntlets to her elbows, spun a length of pipe in the flames, coaxing the blob of glass into an egg and then a sphere before she began to shape it with her breath. He had seen glassblowers at work before, but stared anyway, fascinated, as the sphere began to swell into a bubble, and the woman spun it deftly against a shaping block, turning it into a pale green bowl like the top of a wineglass. One had to be born under fire signs to work that easily among the flames; he himself had been born under air and water, and knew better than to try. He became aware then that another woman, an older woman, also in the leather apron but with her gauntlets tucked through the doubled ties at her waist, was watching him from the side of the yard. Her face was without expression, but the young man in the doorway of the shed was scowling openly. There were still plenty of people in Astreiant who thought of the League as the enemy, for all that that war had ended twenty-five years earlier; Eslingen touched his hat, not quite respectfully, and moved on.

  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.