“I’m glad you’re back, Philip,” Caiazzo said, and the big man lifted heavy eyebrows. There was something familiar about the gesture, gone so quickly that Eslingen couldn’t place it.

“This is the man you meant?”

“It is.” There was a warning in Caiazzo’s voice, and the big man lifted both hands in surrender, the lace flashing. “Lieutenant Philip Eslingen, currently of my household, formerly of Coindarel’s Dragons.”

“And the man who helped rescue the children,” the big man said. “No one will have forgotten that, Hanse.”

“Which hardly seems a problem, surely.” Caiazzo waved. vaguely in the direction of the sideboard. “Pour me a drink, please, Philip, and yourself one, too.”

Eslingen moved to obey, swallowing unworthy annoyance–it was one thing to introduce him as a lieutenant, a gentleman in name at least, and another to treat him like a servant–and turned toward the stranger. “And for Master–?”

“Master Duca’s been served,” Caiazzo said.

There was a glass on the end of the worktable, barely touched. Eslingen gave an inward shrug, and poured two glasses of the sweet, light wine. He handed one to Caiazzo, who took it smiling, and himself retreated, his eyes on both men.

“Prettily done,” Duca said, and sounded as though he grudged the admission.

“Done like a gentleman,” Caiazzo corrected. “Down to offering some to you.”

Duca scowled, and for a moment it was as though he were looking into a distorting mirror, the expression so perfectly mimicked Caiazzo’s own. Then the moment was gone, and the big man turned away, shaking his head. “He’s a soldier. I don’t need a soldier.”

“Forgive me, Gerrat,” Caiazzo said, “but I’d’ve thought that was exactly what you did need.”

Eslingen’s eyebrows rose in spite of himself. Whoever this Duca was, whatever he was, he, Eslingen, didn’t appreciate being talked about as though he were cattle in the marketplace. If this was the place Caiazzo had found for him, he’d have none of it.

Caiazzo’s eyes flicked his way, and too late, Eslingen smoothed his expression. The merchant‑venturer grinned, and set his own glass carefully on the edge of the long counter. “Forgive me, Philip, you must be wondering what’s going on.”

Eslingen considered several responses, contented himself finally with a short bow. “Yes.”

“We’ve had word today,” Caiazzo said, “as principal financier, that The Alphabet of Desirehas been chosen as the midwinter masque. The official announcement will be made tomorrow or the next day, but in the meantime, it seems to me that this may offer a–resolution–of our current dilemma. This is Gerrat Duca, senior master of the Guild of the Masters of Defense, who will be responsible for all the chorus displays–”

“For the fight displays,” Duca said.

Caiazzo sighed. “For the chorus’s fight displays. That’s the drills, the procession set pieces, and any duels, though those will probably be handled by actors.”

What does this have to do with me? Eslingen thought, and bowed again. “Congratulations.”

This time, both Duca and Caiazzo lifted an eyebrow at him, and he wondered if Duca was copying the younger man’s gesture. Duca was the first to look away.

“All right, that was good. But can he act?”

“Who knows?” Caiazzo answered. “Does it matter?”

Enough of this, Eslingen thought. “Excuse me, Master Caiazzo, but what–exactly–do you want me to do?”

To his annoyance, it was Duca who answered. “I need someone who knows how to run a drill, who can teach complete novices to handle weapons without hurting themselves or anyone else. It would help if that someone also knew the rudiments of military technique, more than what he’s learned out of a book.”

“I would have thought that the Masters of Defense had plenty of members with those qualifications,” Eslingen said. Even he had heard of the Masters of Defense, had even seen a couple of their fencing exhibitions–the only time he’d been to the Tyrseia before he saw The Drowned Island, in fact. They taught swordplay, and general use of weapons, and some of the masters had even published chapbooks on the subject. He’d read a few of them himself, when he was with Coindarel, hoping to learn enough to pass for a gentleman.

“They’re not, generally speaking, soldiers,” Caiazzo said. “And that’s not the only problem.”

“The chorus is noble,” Duca said. “Landames and vidames and even a castellan or palatine or two, for all I know, but all well born and used to having their own way. They’ll take orders better from one of their own kind than they would from any of us.”

Eslingen blinked, absurdly flattered–to be mistaken for gentry by an Astreianter of Duca’s rank and experience was novelty indeed– and Caiazzo sighed again.

“As you’ve pointed out before now, Philip, your rank makes you a gentleman. And you know how to run a drill.”

That I do. Eslingen blinked again, considering his options. He could do the job, that much he was certain of–it wasn’t that different from what he’d done as one of Coindarel’s sergeants, never mind as a lieutenant, taking new recruits and teaching them to handle arms and leading them through the basics of maneuvers. But whether he’d want to… Not that he was likely to have much say in the matter; he had known he was being kept on through sufferance since he had taken up with Rathe. Publicly, Caiazzo shrugged off the insinuations of his colleagues, maintained that the household of an honest businessman could consort where and with whom they wished. Privately, though…

“I can’t keep you,” Caiazzo said, suddenly silken‑voiced. “You’re becoming a liability.”

“The pay is decent,” Duca said. “We’ll each take home a share–no less than a couple of pillars, maybe as much as a petty‑crown if all goes well. Are you interested, Lieutenant?”

And to be fair, Caiazzo was under no obligation to have done this much, but it still rankled. “It seems like an–intriguing–position,” Eslingen said.

“Good,” Duca said. “We can arrange the trials.”

“ ‘Trials’?” Eslingen repeated, knowing he’d made a mistake, and Duca smiled, the expression a mirror of Caiazzo’s.

“Even under these circumstances, the formalities have to be observed. We can’t just let anybody in.”

“Just a moment,” Caiazzo said, and Duca spread his hands.

“It can’t be done, Hanse. I can make it as easy as possible, but that’s all.”

“What,” Eslingen asked, “are these trials?” He had a feeling he already knew, that he’d seen a stage fight that was supposed to prove the fitness of one of the contenders either to join the Masters, or to move up in rank, and he schooled himself to show no surprise when Duca answered.

“Everyone who’s admitted as a master has to prove her worth– his worth, in your case. Usually, it’s in a public subscription match, three bouts against three proving masters with three different sets of weapons, their choice, not yours, with at least one win and no killing touches in a lost bout. As I said, I can set it up, but I can’t eliminate the trial entirely.”

Wonderful, Eslingen thought. And is it worth it, to become drillmaster to a pack of half‑disciplined nobles? But of course that wasn’t the real question: the real question was whether Caiazzo would allow him any alternative.

“Mind you,” Duca went on, as though he’d sensed the other man’s unease, “you’ve got the manners for it, and the looks, too. In fact–have you ever considered changing your name?”

“What?”

“Lieutenant d’Esling, no, vaan Esling, since you’re a Leaguer.” Duca smiled. “It would look better on the broadsheets.”

Eslingen bit back a sudden peal of laughter. Folly, Meening had predicted, and here was a grand folly just waiting for him. Lieutenant vaan Esling, indeed, and him a whore’s son from Esling. The other men were looking at him expectantly, knowing what his answer had to be, and this time Eslingen did laugh. “Very well, masters, it sounds like–interesting–work, and I’ve no desire to make Master Caiazzo’s position difficult any longer. But what if I don’t pass these trials?”