Monteia nodded. “I’ve got a nasty feeling about this one, Nico,” she said, her voice almost too soft to be heard.
“So do I,” Rathe answered, and stepped back into the main room to collect the station’s daybooks and begin the list of missing children.
2
the last muster was nearly over. Philip Eslingen eyed the lines at the rickety tables set up by the regimental paymasters, making sure his own troopers got their proper measure, and mentally tallied his own wages. His pay, a single royal crown, rested in his moneybag beneath his shirt, a soft weight against his heart; he was carrying letters on the temples of Areton that totaled nearly four pillars, his share of the one raiding party: enough for a common man to live for a year, if he were frugal. It should certainly last him until spring, when the new campaigns began–unless, of course, someone reputable was hiring. Whatever he did, it would mean taking a lower place than the one he’d had.
His eyes strayed to the temporary platform, empty now, but bright with banners and heavy patterned carpets, where the Queen of Chenedolle had stood to receive the salute of Coindarel’s Dragons and to release them from her service. Even from his place at the front with the rest of the regiment’s officers, Eslingen had been able to see little more of her than her elegant suit of clothes, bright and stiff as the little dolls that stood before the royal judges in the outlying provinces, visible symbols of the royal authority. The dolls were faceless, for safety’s sake; for all Eslingen had been able to see, the queen herself might have been as faceless, her features completely hidden by the brim of a hat banded with the royal circlet. He had watched her when he could, fascinated–he had never seen the Queen of Chenedolle–but she had barely seemed real. Only once, as he brought his half of the company to a perfect halt, had he seen her move, and then she had leaned sideways to talk to the Mareschale de Mourel who was her leman and acknowledged favorite, a gloved hand lifted to her shadowed face, as though to hide–a smile? A frown? It was impossible even to guess.
“Eslingen.”
He turned, recognizing the voice, hand going to his hat in automatic salute. “Captain.”
Connat Bathias nodded in response and looked past his lieutenant to the last half‑dozen troopers lined up at the paymasters’ table. A royal intendant stood with them to supervise the payout, conspicuous in her black‑banded judicial robe, and there were three well‑armed men– back‑and‑breast, short‑barreled calivers, swords, and daggers–at her back, guarding access to the iron‑bound chest that held the money. “How goes it?”
“Almost done,” Eslingen answered. “No complaints so far.” Nor were there likely to be: Bathias’s company was made up mostly of experienced troopers, who knew what their pay should be, and the royal paymasters were generally honest, at least under the queen’s eye.
“And the horses and the weapons?”
Eslingen looked away again. “As agreed. The Horsemaster took the mounts in hand, and we let the people who wanted to buy back their weapons. Those who didn’t already own them, of course.” Which was well over half the troop, and those that didn’t had mostly paid the captain’s inflated price to keep their calivers: most of them would want to hire out again as soon as possible, and this late in the season most captains would want people with their own equipment. There was still plenty of fighting to be done, along the Chadroni Gap and north past the Meis River, and Dragons were always in demand, particularly for the nasty northern wars, but there was no time to outfit a man.
Bathias nodded. The horses were part of his perquisites, to sell or keep as he chose, and Eslingen suspected he would sell most of them: with the troop disbanding, there was no point in keeping half a hundred animals, and there were other captains who would be willing to buy. Coindarel had persuaded Aimeri de Martreuil to add an extra company to his Auxiliary Horse, and to take most of the gentleman‑officers, the commissioned officers; he would probably buy the horses, as well. “I’m willing to let you purchase your mounts, Eslingen. There’s no point in seeing you unhorsed.”
Eslingen hesitated, tempted and rather flattered by the offer, but shook his head. He couldn’t afford to pay for stabling in the city for more than a month or two, and he had no way of knowing how long it would be before he found work he liked. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll have to pass.”
Bathias nodded again, and looked uneasily toward the empty platform. He was a young man, the fourth child, Eslingen understood, of an impoverished Ile’nord noble, with two older sisters and a brother between him and whatever income the family estates provided: a commission and an introduction to the Prince‑marshal de Coindarel would be the best his mother could do for him. Not that an introduction to Coindarel was the worst she could have done, Eslingen added, with an inward smile. Bathias was young, and very handsome in the golden Ile’nord fashion; his hair, long and naturally curling, glowed in the double light of sun and winter‑sun like polished amber, and his skin had taken only delicate color from the spring campaign. Coindarel notoriously had an eye for a pretty young man, and was inclined to indulge himself in his officers. He picked his juniors, the sergeants and lieutenants who did the real work, with more care, but, all else being equal, a handsome man could go far in Coindarel’s service. Eslingen had earned his sergeancy the hard way, but his promotion to lieutenant, and the royal commission that came with it, had come by way of Coindarel’s roving eye.
“Will you be going with Martreuil, Eslingen?” Bathias asked, and the older man shook himself back to the present.
“No, sir. There are plenty of other companies still hiring, even this late in the season.” It was a sore point–Eslingen had lost any claim to gentility when he lost his commission, and Martreuil, it had been made very clear, was taking only Coindarel’s gentleman‑officers–and he was relieved when Bathias merely grunted, his mind already clearly elsewhere. Probably on the palace, Eslingen thought. Bathias was of noble birth and could claim board and lodging from the queen on the strength of it, and he could do worse than to be seen at court, too.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Bathias said. “You’re a good officer, and could do well in the royal service.”
“Thank you, sir.” Eslingen kept his face still with an effort, waiting for the dismissal. The line at the paymaster’s table had dwindled to a single trooper, a skinny, huge‑handed former stable boy whom Eslingen had signed on at an inn outside Labadol because he’d needed someone who could handle the major‑sergeant’s bad‑tempered gelding. Then he, too, had accepted his pay and made his mark on the muster list, and turned away to join his fellows waiting at the edge of the Drill Ground. The taverns and inns where most of the recruiting officers did their work lay only a few steps away, along the Horse‑Gate Road.
“You’ve served me well,” Bathias said, and held out his hand. Eslingen took it, startled at this presumption of equality, and then Bathias had released him, and was reaching into his own wide sash. “And, Eslingen. I know you’re not a sergeant anymore, but I also know we didn’t serve out the season. Will you take this from me, as a token of my appreciation?” He held out a bag the size of a man’s hand. It was embroidered–not expensively, Eslingen thought, probably by one of the farm‑girls we took on at Darnais–with Bathias’s arms and the regimental monogram.
Eslingen took it, stiffly, and felt, through the linen and the coarse threads of the monogram, the square shape and weight of at least a pillar. That was more than he could afford to refuse, and he tucked the purse into his own sash. “Thank you, sir,” he said again, stiff‑lipped, saluted, and turned away.