Eslingen sighed. One did not bargain with the ram’s‑head bankers the way one bargained with other merchants; if one tried, the clerk was as likely to push the coins back to you and send you searching for another broker. The only question now was whether he would take the cash–and its attendant worries, theft and loss–or take a letter of credit on the Astreiant temple and hope that the exchange between the written amount, the monies of account, and actual coin shifted in his favor. And when one thought about it, it was no choice at all.

“How’s the exchange been so far?” he asked, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when the clerk shrugged.

“Up and down, sergeant, up and down.”

“Give me two pillars in coin,” Eslingen said, “and a letter for the rest.”

The clerk nodded, put two fingers–the undamaged hand–into his mouth and whistled shrilly. A junior clerk came running, carrying a case of seals. Eslingen waited while the letter was drafted, signed, and sealed, then put his own name to it and folded it carefully into the purse around his neck. He tucked it back under his shirt, and watched as the clerk counted out two pillars for him. The coins rang softly against the wood, the heavy disks of heirats, bright with Heira’s snake, the lighter disks of seillings, marked with Seidos’s horsehead, and a handful of copper small‑coin, spiders and demmings mixed. He had been born under the signs of the Horse and the Horsemaster; he tucked a selling with the coppers in his pocket for luck, and knotted the rest securely in his purse.

Turning away from the table, he waved to the waiting boys–they came quickly enough, a little intimidated, he thought, by the bustling soldiers and longdistance traders–and led them over to the locked door of the armory. He gave the keeper his name and the details of his weapons–Astreiant limited the length of blade a person could carry in the streets, and utterly prohibited locks except to their pointsmen– and waited while the old woman laboriously inscribed them in the book. Then he handed them through the narrow portal, first the caliver and then the swords and finally the locked case of pistols. That left him with a long knife, just at the limit, and, tucked into the bottom of his saddlebag, a third pistol with its stock of powder and lead. The keeper gave him the sealed receipt, which he slipped into the purse beneath his shirt, and he turned away, working his shoulders. He felt oddly light without the familiar weight of caliver and swords–freer, too, with money in his purse, and for an instant he considered looking for lodgings north of the river. Then common sense reasserted itself: the northriver districts were too expensive, even with four crowns in the bank. He would take himself south of the river–the Old Brown Dog lay in Point of Hopes, Reymers had said, which meant doubling back west along the Fairs Road and across that bridge–and be sensible.

He looked back at the boys, reached into his pocket for the promised demmings. “Does either of you know a tavern in Point of Hopes called the Old Brown Dog?”

The younger boy shook his head at once; the older hesitated, obviously weighing his chances of another coin or two, then, reluctantly, shook his head, too. “No, sir, I don’t know southriver very well.”

Eslingen nodded–he hadn’t really expected another answer– and handed over the coins, the doubled moon, the old in the curve of the new, glinting in the candlelight. The older boy handed back his saddlebags, and he and his friend scurried for the door. Eslingen followed more slowly, looking around for fellow Leaguers. If anyone would know how to get to the Old Brown Dog, it would be League soldiers–provided, of course, that Reymers was right about the quality of the beer. There were plenty of Leaguers in Chenedolle, for all that League and Kingdom had fought a five‑year war twenty‑five years before; he should be able to find someone… Even as he thought that, he saw a familiar flash of white plumes, and Follet Baeker came into the light of the candelabra, showing teeth nearly as white as the feathers in his broad‑brimmed hat. As usual, he had a knife with him, a sullen looking, leather‑jerkined man who looked uncomfortable inside the Aretoneia–as well he might, Eslingen thought. Baeker was almost the only broker based in the city who took weapons and armor in pawn; despite Baeker’s generally decent reputation, his knife might well worry about protecting him from dissatisfied clients. After all, it would only take one of them and a moment’s carelessness to end Baeker’s career permanently.

“Sergeant!”

“Lieutenant,” Eslingen corrected, without much hope, and Baeker continued as though he hadn’t heard.

“Back so soon? I heard Coindarel was disbanded.”

Eslingen nodded. “Paid off this noon.”

Baeker’s expression brightened, though he didn’t quite smile openly. “Pity that. Should you find yourself in need of funds, of course–”

“Not at the moment,” Eslingen answered. “Tell me, do you know a tavern in Point of Hopes, called the Old Brown Dog?”

Baeker nodded. “I do. Aagte Devynck’s house, that is, and I heard she needs a knife, this close to Midsummer and the fairs.”

“I was looking for lodging,” Eslingen said, a little stiffly–knife to a tavernkeeper, bodyguard, and bouncer all in one, was hardly a job to which he aspired. “A friend recommended it.”

“Well, she rents rooms,” Baeker said, with a shrug. “Do you need the direction?”

“All I know is it’s in Point of Hopes.”

“Which it is, but that won’t get you there,” Baeker said. “Take the Hopes‑point Bridge, and when the road forks at its foot, take the left‑hand road. Then it’s no distance at all to the Knives’ Road–that’s the Butchers’ quarter, you’ll know it by the signs–”

“And the smell,” Eslingen said.

Baeker grinned. “It’s mostly vegetables this time of year. Autumn, now… But the first road to the right off that, take it to the end, and the Old Brown Dog’s the last house. You’ll see the sign.”

Eslingen nodded. “Thanks.”

“Give my regards to Aagte,” Baeker answered. “And keep me in mind, sergeant. Should you need coin…” He let his voice trail off, and Eslingen sighed.

“I’ll keep you in mind.”

He turned toward the door, drew back as it swung open almost in his face. A thin, sharp‑faced woman in a drab green suit of skirt and bodice–better material than it looked at first glance, Eslingen thought, but cut for use, not show–stepped past with a nod of apology. The candlelight glinted from the gargoyle‑and‑snake pinned to her neat cap, and Eslingen glanced curiously after her. The vagabond professions were traditionally men’s, and the Merchants‑Venturer were more vagabond than most–but then, enough women had masculine stars and followed mannish professions, just as there were any number of men who claimed feminine stars and worked at the fixed professions. He watched her as she made her way to the door of the central counting room–the longdistance traders generally changed their money and letters through the temple networks; letters on the temples of Areton were good throughout the world–and then went on out into the sunlight of the Temple Fair.

Baeker’s directions were better than he’d expected, after all. He crossed the River Sier by the Hopes‑point Bridge, dodging the two‑wheeled barrows that seemed to carry most of Astreiant’s goods, and followed the left‑forking road toward the Butchers’ quarter. Southriver was busier than the northriver districts, the streets crowded not with neatly dressed apprentices and their seniors, guild badges bright against their blue coats, but shopwives and carpenters and boatmen and sailors and members of a dozen other unguessable trades, all in aprons or working smocks over ordinary clothes. It was louder southriver, too, voices raised over the rumble of carts and the shriek of unoiled wheels from the docks, the shrill southriver accent sharpening their words. The smell of kitchens and shop fires warred with the stink of garbage. If anything, it reminded him of the back streets of Esling where he’d been born, and he found himself walking a little faster, unsure if he liked the memories.