Point of Hopes (43 page)

The caravan-masters, by a commonsense tradition, had
the two rows of stalls on the eastern edge of the fairground, by
the corrals where they and their people lived for the duration of
the fair. Someone had set up an altar to Bonfortune at the southern
end of the makeshift street, and the smiling statue was draped with
flower wreaths and printed offering-slips. The ground at its feet
was dark, sticky with spilled wine and shreds of rice and noodles:
the caravaners were impartial in their allegiances, and in their
methods of worship.

Caiazzo’s booth—another small shop, really, with a
bright blue canvas roof over half-height wooden walls—lay closer to
the western end of the street, marked by the pennants with his
house-sign hanging from the tent poles. Eslingen waited until the
factor had finished with her customer, a stocky woman in plain
brown who clutched a letter, credit or introduction, in one painted
hand, before he stepped up to the counter. It was padded with
leather to protect the bolts of silk brocade and silk velvet from
the rough wood. There was silk gauze as well, a length embroidered
and re-embroidered with gold and pearls; he reached out to touch
it, in spite of knowing better, and winced as his fingers caught on
the delicate fabric. A bolt of this was worth a common man’s salary
for years, and the nobles who bought it paid in gold; he was not
surprised to see a solid-looking man watching him from the shadows
inside the stall.

“
Can I help you, sir?” the factor
said, and blinked. “You’re Hanse’s new knife, aren’t you?
Trouble?”

Eslingen shook his head. “No trouble, and yes, I’m
Eslingen. I have a message for Rouvalles, if he’s here.”

“
He’s back at the corrals,” the
factor answered. “Do you know the way?”

“
No, but I can probably find it,”
Eslingen answered.

The factor grinned. “You can’t miss his camp, it’s
got the house pennants all over it. We use the fourth corral—it’s
almost directly behind where we are now—and Rouvalles has the
stable beyond that.”

“
It sounds simple enough,” Eslingen
said, dubious, and the factor’s smile widened.

“
Look for the house pennants,” she
advised, and turned to greet a tall woman in a beautifully cut
bodice and skirt.

Eslingen sighed, but knew better than to come
between her and a potential customer, especially one as well
dressed as this woman. He found a path between two of the stalls
that seemed to be in general use, and emerged into the confusion of
the corrals. There were five of the wood and stone enclosures, each
one filled with horses; the low buildings beyond, clearly built as
stables, seemed to be being shared impartially by people and
animals. The air was hazed with dust, and a thicker plume of it
rose over the furthest pen, where a trio stripped to shirts and
breeches were attempting to cut a single animal out of the herd.
The horses, each one marked by a ribbon braided into its mane,
snorted and swirled, unwilling to be caught; Eslingen snorted
himself—he would never have let his troopers handle their mounts
that badly—and made his way toward Caiazzo’s pennant hanging above
a stable door.

The stalls in that section seemed to be occupied
exclusively by horses, and Eslingen nodded his approval even as he
glanced around for someone who could direct him. Rouvalles was wise
to keep his horses out of the common herd; you never knew how well
anyone else kept their animals, and the last thing you needed was
to have your best mounts down sick when you were ready to move out.
A skinny man was mucking out the furthest stall, and Eslingen moved
toward him, inhaling the familiar scent of hay and dung.

“
I’m looking for Rouvalles,” he
said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the noise
outside.

The skinny man straightened, showing a wall eye that
made him look rather like the horse he was tending, and jerked his
thumb over his shoulder. “Above.”

Looking more closely, Eslingen could see the stones
of a steep stairway set into the wall at the end of the building.
“Thanks,” he said, and climbed to the floor above. The space had
obviously once been intended for hay storage, and indeed the broad
boards were still scattered with bits of straw, but at the moment
it had been turned into an indoor campsite. Bedding was piled in
neat rows along each wall, beneath windows propped open to the
fitful breeze, and carpets hung from a web of ropes at the far end
of the space, creating a makeshift room. A group of four or five
men, mostly Chenedolliste, by their looks, were sitting around an
unlit brazier, tossing dice on its flat cover. The nearest stood
easily, seeing Eslingen, and stepped into his path.

“
Can I help you?” he asked, around
a stick of the sugarcandy the Astreianters sold ten-for-a-demming,
and Eslingen lifted the badge he wore on a ribbon around his
neck.

“
I’m here to see Rouvalles,”
Eslingen said, patiently. “From Caiazzo.”

The man scowled around his candy, and Eslingen
wondered just how much bad feeling the delay had engendered. “I’ll
see if he’s free,” he said and ducked under the carpets without
waiting for an answer. He reappeared a moment later, scowling even
more deeply, and Rouvalles himself held aside the carpet that
served as a door.

“
Come on in—Eslingen, isn’t
it?”

Eslingen nodded and ducked under the heavy fabric.
It smelled of horses and smoke and sweat and leather, all the
scents of a campaign, and he took a deep breath, savoring even the
heat of the enclosed space. Rouvalles gave him a wry smile.

“
Regretting your change of
employment already?”

The smile, Eslingen saw, didn’t touch his eyes. “Not
so far,” he answered. “But this does bring back memories.”

Rouvalles gave a short laugh, easing some of the
tension and anger in his face, and gestured to one of the stools.
“I bet it does. So, tell me, what does Hanse want?”

Eslingen seated himself, taking his time with the
skirts of his coat. All the furniture around him was portable, he
saw, from the stools to the narrow table and the narrow bedstead;
all would break down into easily-carried pieces. The entire room,
carpets, bedding, furniture, even the strongbox that lay
half-hidden under a worn square of blanket, would fit easily on a
single pack animal.

“
Cijntien told me he’d made you an
offer,” Rouvalles said and shrugged. “I suppose it still holds,
though Hanse wouldn’t thank you—and I’m not sure how much I care
about that, just now.”

Eslingen brought himself back to the matter at hand.
“No, so far I’m quite comfortable with my employment, thanks.
Caiazzo sent me to tell you that the money will be ready tomorrow.
You can send a couple of men to collect it any time after second
sunrise.”

Rouvalles paused in the act of pouring two glasses
of wine: anger at the delay notwithstanding, customs of
hospitality, bred on the caravan routes, died hard. He turned to
Eslingen, one eyebrow lifted, then Eslingen thought he saw the
other man’s shoulders relax slightly.

“
Well, that’s good news at least,”
the Chadroni said, after a moment. He made a face, as though he had
forgotten he was holding the cups, and handed one to Eslingen. “I
rather thought you’d come to put me off again.”

Eslingen took a careful swallow of what proved to be
a heavy, aromatic wine. He said, “Not this time. And I can’t say I
blame you for wanting to leave the city as soon as possible.”

Rouvalles frowned slightly, as though puzzled, then
his face cleared. “Oh, the children. I thought you meant the
clock-night. No, neither one’s made my life any easier, let me tell
you.”

“
Nor anyone’s,” Eslingen said, and
remembered what Jasanten had said—had it only been a week ago?
Children born under Seidos might well find employment with the
caravans, though why a caravan-master would steal children was
beyond him—unless, he thought suddenly, there was someone foreign,
someone in the Silklands, say, who wanted them? It didn’t seem
likely, but he owed Rathe at least that much of an effort. “Have
the broadsheets been blaming you lot, then?”

Rouvalles scowled, the pale eyes narrowing. “Along
with everybody else, yes, they’ve mentioned the caravans, and we’ve
had a few worried mothers wandering through, peering in comers when
they think we’re not looking.” He shook his head as though amazed
at the thought, then looked sharply at Eslingen. “And you can tell
Hanse I don’t hire kids, and never have done, he should know
that.”

So much for being subtle, Eslingen thought. At least
he assumed I was asking on Caiazzo’s behalf. He said, “I’ll pass
that on. But—and this is me asking, not Caiazzo, I’m just
curious—does that mean you don’t take apprentices?”

“
Did you see any apprentices in the
hall?” he asked, but his tone was milder than his words. “Oh, we
take apprentices, all right, or I do, but what we get…it’s always
the ones who’ve already failed at something else. Nobody in
Astreiant—nobody anywhere—sets out to become a
caravaner.”

“
Did you?” Eslingen asked. “I mean,
if you’re going to be good at something, it doesn’t seem as though
you’d go into it by default. And from what Caiazzo says, you’re
probably the best.”

Rouvalles tilted his head, stared into space for a
few moments, then said, “I didn’t set out to become a caravaner,
no. Never thought it was—open—to me. But once I did, I discovered I
liked it, and had a knack for it. Rather like you and soldiering, I
would imagine?” he asked, making it not quite a question, and the
blue eyes were pale, cool.

“
A lot like soldiering,” Eslingen
agreed. He finished the rest of his wine, stood up. “Thanks for the
drink, it’s a thirsty day.”

“
Are you sure you won’t come
along?” Rouvalles asked. “This is no time to be a Leaguer, either,
in Astreiant.”

“
I’m trusting Caiazzo can protect
me,” Eslingen answered, with more confidence than he entirely felt.
“If you’ll send to him tomorrow, after second sunrise, he’ll have
the money for you.”

“
We’ll be there,” Rouvalles said,
and Eslingen thought there was the hint of a threat in his tone. He
lifted an eyebrow in question, and the Chadroni spread his hands.
“No ill meant, Eslingen, but I’m a week later than I should be, and
I still have supplies and goods to buy, so it’ll be another two
weeks before I’m on the road. Hanse—but Caiazzo knows all
this.”

Eslingen nodded in restrained sympathy. “I’ll tell
him, but, as you say, he knows.”

“
If he knows,” Rouvalles said, and
the good-humored face was suddenly grim, “if he knows, why in all
the hells hasn’t he sent the money I need?”

Eslingen shrugged, regretting his casual remark.
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“
Don’t think I haven’t,” Rouvalles
answered.

Eslingen didn’t answer, but ducked through the
improvised door into the hall. The group was still gathered around
the brazier, he saw without surprise, making a very bad pretense of
interest in the dice game. The carpets would absorb some sound, but
not all of it; it was no wonder they had listened. He smiled
cheerfully at them, and went down the staircase to the stables.

He was early at the landing, and sat in the sun
nibbling half a dozen ripe strawberries purchased on the edge of
the market while he watched Caiazzo’s boatmen bring the barge
expertly across the current and alongside the landing. The
long-distance trader sprang out almost before the ropes were
snugged home, Denizard following more decorously, and stalked up
the gentle slope toward the street. “Come on, then,” he said, as he
drew level with the soldier, “we don’t want to keep madame
waiting.

Eslingen fell into step half a pace behind him,
wondering why not, but the look of mischief in Caiazzo’s eyes was
enough to keep him from asking aloud. He risked a glance at
Denizard, but the magist looked, if anything, a little bored.
Eslingen sighed, and resigned himself to whatever would happen.
Caiazzo led them through the Manufactory district, skirting half a
dozen brick-walled compounds that smelled of wood and glue and
other, less-identifiable substances, and up the Queen’s-road into a
neighborhood where sober-looking shops alternating with small,
well-built houses. He turned into the courtyard of one of the
larger of the latter, and the door opened before he could knock. A
servant in sober livery bowed them into a reception hall, murmuring
something Eslingen couldn’t quite hear, and vanished through a
narrow door.

As the door closed behind him, Eslingen glanced
surreptitiously around the hall, impressed in spite of himself by
the carved panels and the interlaced tiles that faced the hearth.
There was real silver on the sideboard—put out for show as well as
use, surely—and the livery had been of good linen, generously cut.
The candles—unlit, at this hour, when the sun poured through the
unshuttered windows, filling the room with light—were wax pillars
as thick as a man’s wrist. Surprisingly good taste from a woman who
was partner to a southriver rat, he thought, but his heart wasn’t
in the sneer, not confronted by this restrained wealth, the dark
wood that showed highlights as cool as the polished silver, the
quiet service. Oh, the house itself might be on the wrong side—the
Manufactory side—of the Queen’s-road, but the interior was as rich
as any petty-noble’s palace, or richer.

Caiazzo saw him looking then, and smiled. It was an
expression Eslingen had already learned to distrust; he glanced
sideways at Denizard, and saw her grave and unsmiling as ever, her
painted hands folded into the sleeves of her master’s robe. That
was reassuring—if there were real trouble, Denizard would be tensed
for it—and Eslingen sighed as unobtrusively as possible. So it
really was just one of Caiazzo’s jokes, something he thought would
startle or shock his new knife, and Eslingen braced himself to meet
the surprise as calmly as possible.