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.

The main room was only moderately crowded, and he guessed that Devynck made most of her profit from her beer. He found an empty table beside one of the streetside windows, and lifted a hand to signal the nearest waiter. The man nodded back, but took his patron’s orders before coming over to Eslingen’s table.

“You’re the new lodger–Eslingen, isn’t it? I’m Loret.”

“That’s right.” Eslingen eyed him curiously, recognizing a wrestler’s or blacksmith’s breadth of shoulder beneath the loose smock, and wondered if Devynck often had trouble here.

“Then you get the ordinary. Do you want beer with that? It’s a demming extra for a pitcher.”

“That’s fine.”

Loret nodded, and Eslingen watched him walk away, dodging tables on his way to the kitchen hatch. Loret had the look of country boys who enlisted out of ignorance and deserted after their first battle, good boys with all the wrong stars, more often than not–which was hardly fair, he told himself, considering that Loret was probably born and bred in Astreiant. And big men weren’t all gentle; he’d learned that the hard way, years ago.

It wasn’t long before Loret returned with the tray of food and the sweating pitcher of beer. He set them neatly down, and waited until Eslingen had paid for the beer before answering the next customer’s shout. Eslingen made a face at the caution, but had to admit it was probably justified. Devynck’s clientele would be no better than the average. The food was good–a thick stew, Leaguer style, with a decent serving of beef to supplement the starchy roots that made up the bulk of the dish, and half a loaf of good wheat bread with a dish of soft cheese on the side–and the beer was better. It had been a while since he had eaten Leaguer food–Coindarel’s quartermasters had been mostly Chenedolliste, like their men–and he took his time, savoring the rich meat broth.

“Philip! Philip Eslingen!”

The voice was unexpectedly familiar, and Eslingen looked up, startled, to see Dausset Cijntien waving at him from the center of the room. Eslingen waved back, wondering what the other was doing in Astreiant–the last he had heard, Cijntien had signed on with a longdistance trader, leading a caravan‑guard on the six‑month overland journey to the Silklands. But then, that had been almost six months ago, he realized, and in any case, Cijntien was obviously back, and equally obviously looking for work. Midsummer was the hiring season for the longdistance traders, and the sea captains, for that matter; there was rarely any shortage of work for experienced soldiers.

Cijntien collected his refilled pitcher, reaching over the heads of the people at the nearest table, and then threaded his way through the crowd to Eslingen’s table. The room had filled up since he’d arrived, Eslingen saw, and glanced at the wall stick. It was blind, the light no longer falling to cast its shadows, but from the look of the sky outside the windows, it was getting close to the first sundown.

“It’s good to see you again,” Cijntien said, and settled himself on the stool opposite the other man.

“And you,” Eslingen answered, and meant it. “You’re looking well.”

“Thanks.” Cijntien took a long swallow of his beer, and Eslingen smiled, watching him. They had served together years before–more accurately, he had served under Cijntien, had been a corporal and then a company sergeant under Cijntien, and had stepped into Cijntien’s office of major sergeant when the older man had left soldiering for the less dangerous life of a trader’s man. Or at worst differently dangerous, Eslingen amended. From the looks of Cijntien’s hands, flecked with the dark specks of a recent powder burn, longdistance trading had its own hazards.

“I thought you were with Coindarel these days,” Cijntien went on.

“We were paid off,” Eslingen answered. “This morning, in fact.”

“Hard luck. Or maybe not so hard, depending.” Cijntien leaned forward, planting both elbows on the table. He was wearing a light jerkin over a plain shirt, and the grey brown leather matched the faded brown of his hair. “Have you another place lined up yet?”

Eslingen shook his head. “Not this season.” He hesitated, but Cijntien was an old friend, and was probably one of the few who’d appreciate his promotion. “I had my commission this spring, you see. I’m not inclined to go back to mere sergeant so quickly.”

Cijntien nodded in sympathy. “The stars have been against you, my Philip. Have you tried a good astrologer?”

Eslingen laughed. “Have you ever met an astrologer who could alter the stars once they’re risen? Give over, Dausset.”

“They can mitigate the worst effects,” Cijntien answered, and Eslingen shook his head. Cijntien was old‑fashioned–he had been born in Guisen, the most conservative of the northern cities, back when it was part of the League–and undereducated; no one had ever been able to convince him that even the greatest magists could work only with what the stars gave them.

“I’m planning to consult someone,” Eslingen said. “Tomorrow or the next day. But, no, I don’t have a place, and I wasn’t planning to look until the winter season.”

“As it happens,” Cijntien said, and smiled. “As it happens, my Philip, I’ve a place for you, if you want it.”

“Oh?” In spite of himself, in spite of knowing what it must be, Eslingen felt his heart quicken a little. He was a fish out of water in Astreiant, and that was frightening as well as a challenge; it wouldn’t be bad to have familiar work, or to be serving with Cijntien again… Then common sense reasserted itself. He had no desire to serve six months to a year in a trading company–of course a shipboard post would probably be shorter, assuming Cijntien had moved from the caravans to the more prestigious trading craft, though he himself had never sailed on anything larger than a river barge, much less fought from one.

“My principal’s still hiring for this winter’s caravan,” Cijntien said. “It’s a good trip, I’ve done it five times now, up the Queen’s‑road to Anver, cross the Marr at Breissa and then over the land bridge into the Silklands.”

“I thought that was all desert,” Eslingen said, but couldn’t suppress a surge of curiosity. He had always liked travel–men were generally wanderers by their stars, and he was no exception.

“It is, mostly. But the rivers fill in winter, and the nomads–they’re Haissa, there, mostly, and a lot of Qaidin–come to the city‑sites to trade.” Cijntien looked past him, not seeing the tavern crowd. “It’s a sight to see, Philip. The sites, they’re nothing, just the walls for houses, but then the people come in, pitch their tents, and make a city. They’ve a traders’ peace, too, at least in the cities, so the various clans can do their business. We were early once, saw the Haissa setting up at Saatara. It was like magists’ work, I’ve never seen anything like it. We came in at first sundown, pitched our camp, and there was nothing there, just mud brick walls and dirt. And then, just before second sundown, we heard the Haissa arrive–they’d been held up, their camp mother said, a storm or something–and the next thing we knew the city’d sprouted roofs and doors. All oil‑silk, mind you, and those heavy carpets everywhere. When the light hit them, at first sunup, gods, it was like you’d fallen into a jewelbox. And there was nothing there before, nothing at all.”

Eslingen shivered, caught by the picture the older man had conjured for him. He had met Silklanders before, of course, had served with any number of them, but they were mostly dark‑skinned Maivi, from the center of the empire. He’d never met a true Hasiri, from one of the tribes, though like all Leaguer children he’d been raised on stories of the wild nomads who roamed the roof of the world; it would be wonderful to see.