“Who is he?” Eslingen asked. He was well dressed, for one thing, that jerkin was good linen, and the embroidery at his collar and cuffs– black and red, to hide the dirt–had cost a few seillings even second hand. Some mother had paid well for her son’s keep, and would not take kindly to his hanging about here listening to soldiers’ tales, or worse.

“He said his name’s Arry LaNoy,” Jasanten answered, “but I doubt it. He wanted to sign on–hells, he wanted to sign on with me last season, and I told him then he needed to grow. So he’s back this year, and he’s not much bigger.”

“I doubt he took kindly to that.”

“No more did he.” Jasanten made a noise that was almost a chuckle. “And I’m not unaware of what’s going on in Astreiant, either.”

“You’d have to be deaf and blind not to be,” Eslingen muttered.

“Just so. So I told him he’d need his mother’s permission to sign on, Filipon wasn’t taking drummers or runners without it, and he swore me blind he was an orphan.”

“Not in that shirt, he’s not.”

“I’m not blind,” Jasanten answered. “And I told him so, so he stalked off in a sulk.” He nodded to the table of soldiers. “My guess is, he’s trying to talk them into taking him on, and he won’t be particular about what he offers them.”

Eslingen sighed. “That’s all we need.”

“That’s rather what I thought,” Jasanten said, and leaned back to summon a passing waiter. “And seeing as you’re Aagte’s knife–”

“It’s my business to deal with it,” Eslingen finished for him. “Thanks, Flor, I won’t forget it.”

Jasenten smiled, and the younger man pushed himself to his feet, one eye still on the table where the soldiers and the boy were talking. By the look of them, it would be a while before the boy could get around to making his request; he could tell from the way the three exchanged looks that they were just showing off, enjoying an audience that wasn’t all that much younger than the youngest of them. And they might have the sense not to listen–the woman, certainly, had a commonsense grace to her–but at the moment Devynck couldn’t afford to take the chance.

Eslingen reached across the bar to catch Loret’s shirt as the big man worked the tap of the biggest barrel. “Is Adriana in the kitchen?”

“Yes.” Loret barely paused in his work. “You want her?”

“Yes. Or Aagte.”

“I’ll tell them,” the other waiter, Hulet, said, from behind him, and disappeared through the kitchen door. Eslingen leaned his weight against the heavy wooden counter, resisting the desire to look back at the boy–LaNoy, or whatever his name really was–to be sure he was still sitting with the soldiers. At last the door opened, and Adriana came out, wiping her hands on her apron.

“What is it? Mother’s busy.”

“Trouble in potential,” Eslingen answered. “You see the table there, the three from de Razis’ Auxiliaries? Do you know the boy with them?”

Adriana sighed, the air hissing through her teeth. “Oh, I know him, all right. Felis Lucenan, his name is, his mother’s an apothecary down by the river. Mother told him he wasn’t welcome here anymore.”

“Shall I throw him out?” Eslingen asked. “Or, better yet, take him home myself.”

The kitchen door opened again before she could answer, and Devynck herself came out. “Trouble, Philip?”

“Felis Lucenan’s back,” Adriana said.

“Areton’s–” Devynck broke off, shaking her head. “The little bastard’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“I’ll take him home,” Eslingen offered, and Devynck shook her head again.

“You will not. I don’t want you accused of child‑theft. No, I’ll send a runner to his mother, tell her to come and retrieve him. You just keep him here.” She smiled then, bitterly. “And maybe I’ll post a complaint at Point of Hopes, make her keep her spawn at home.”

“Good luck,” Adriana muttered, and Devynck glared at her.

“You go, then, tell Anfelis he’s here and I don’t want him. Get on with it, it’ll take you a quarter‑hour to get to the shop, and then you’ll have to wake the woman.”

“Yes, mother.” Adriana stripped off her apron, bundling it under the bar.

“And as for you–” Devynck turned her gaze on Eslingen. “See that he doesn’t get away–and doesn’t sign on to anything we’ll regret later.”

“Right, sergeant,” Eslingen answered, automatically. Devynck nodded, turned back to the kitchen. Eslingen rested his elbows on the bar, let his gaze wander over the crowd again, though he kept half an eye on the boy, still sitting at the table, leaning forward eagerly to hear the soldiers’ stories. A quarter of an hour to his mother’s shop, Devynck had said, and the same back again, plus whatever time it took to wake the apothecary–say three‑quarters of an hour, if not an hour, he thought, and heard the tower clock strike half past ten. The winter‑sun would be setting soon, and he hoped Adriana walked carefully. Astreiant’s streets were as safe as any, better than many as long as the winter‑sun shone, and besides, he told himself, Devynck’s daughter would know how to use the knife she carried at her belt. Still, he wished it had been him, or one of the waiters, to go, though that would probably have warned the boy that something was up.

He sighed, shifted his elbows to a more comfortable position on the scarred counter. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to go lay a hand on the brat, make sure he couldn’t get away before his mother arrived to claim him, but the thought of the boy’s probable reaction was enough to keep him where he was. All he would need was for the brat to accuse of him of being the child‑thief, and even the other soldiers would be inclined to believe it, if only to defend themselves from similar accusations. Better to wait, he told himself, do nothing unless the boy tries to leave, at least not until his mother’s here.

Luckily, the boy seemed engrossed in the trio’s stories. Eslingen made himself relax, stay still, counting the minutes until the clock struck again. Not long now, he thought, and in the same moment, heard the clatter of hooves and the rattle of a low‑flyer drawing up outside the door. The boy heard it, too, and looked up, the color draining from his face. No one took a carriage to the Old Brown Dog, and he guessed instantly what it must be. He started up from the table, the soldiers staring after him, heading for the back door, but Eslingen stepped smoothly into his way, caught him by the shoulder.

“Hold on, son, what’s your hurry?”

Behind them, the inn’s main door opened, and Eslingen felt the boy slump under his hand.

“Philip?” Adriana called, from the doorway, and Eslingen turned in time to see a stocky woman sweep past her.

“Felis! How many times have I told you, I won’t have you coming down here like this.”

The boy rolled his eyes, and allowed himself to be transferred to her hold. Eslingen felt a sudden, sneaking sympathy for him, and suppressed it, ruthlessly. The stocky woman–Lucenan, her name was, he remembered–looked him up and down, and gave him a stern nod.

“I’m grateful for your intervention, sir.”

The “sir,” Eslingen knew, was more a response to the cut of his coat than to his service. He said easily, “I doubt you had anything to be concerned with, madame, no one’s hiring boys this late in the season.”

“It wasn’t the hiring I was worried about,” Lucenan said, grimly.

Eslingen nodded. “A word in your ear, madame,” he said, and eased her toward the door. She went willingly, though her hand on her son’s shoulder showed white knuckles, and the boy winced at her grip. “If the boy’s this determined–there’ll be places after the fall balance, for the winter campaigns, good places for a boy to start. Let him sign on then, til the spring. He may not like the taste of it.”

“No son of mine,” Lucenan began, and then visibly remembered to whom, or what, she was speaking. “Thanks for your concern, sir, but Felis–what he does when he comes of age, well, I can’t stop him, but until then, I won’t help him get himself killed.”