Eslingen sighed, recognizing a familiar attitude, and held the door for her. As he’d expected, the low‑flyer was waiting, the driver keenly interested in the proceedings. He handed them into the coach–the woman seemed surprised and pleased by the gesture, though the boy rolled his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking, and earned a slap for his presumption–and stepped back to watch it roll away.

Adriana was waiting by the bar, a glass, not the usual tankard, in her hand. As he approached, she slid it toward him, and he took it with a nod of thanks. There was a dram or so of a clear, sweet‑smelling liquor in the bottom of it, and he drained it with a smile. The fiery liquor, distilled grain spirit with a strong flavor of mint, burned its way down his throat, and he set the glass down with a sigh.

“The next,” Adriana said, “you pay for.”

“That’s all right, then,” Eslingen answered. Menthe was imported from Altheim, and wasn’t cheap there. He shook his head. “I hope it’s done some good.”

“Can’t hurt,” Adriana answered. “Tell me something, Philip, what do your stars say about your death?”

Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a personal question, surely–or were you planning something I should know of?”

“Neither killing nor bedding you, so get your mind off it,” Adriana said, but he could see the color rise in her dark cheeks. “No, I’m sorry, I know it came out wrong, but Felis–” She stopped, took a breath, looked suddenly younger than her years. “Anfelis told Mother why she won’t let Felis go, aside from he’s her only kid. His stars are bad for war, he’s likely to die by iron.”

Eslingen sighed, the menthe still hot on his tongue. “Then he’d be a fool to sign on, surely. You’d be surprised how many of us have those stars, though.” It was an ill‑omened thought. He smiled, and said brightly, “I, however, am like to live to a ripe age, comforting women and men to my last days.”

“Comfort seems unlikely,” Adriana retorted, and swung back behind the bar. Eslingen watched the kitchen door close behind her, his smile fading. Returning the Lucenan boy to his mother could only improve the Old Brown Dog’s reputation–he hoped. There were a handful of butchers, the journeyman Paas chief among them, who seemed to go out of their way to find something bad to say about anything Devynck did. Eslingen sighed again, suddenly aware that it was nearing midnight, and turned to survey the thinning crowd in the taproom. Everything seemed quiet enough, the three soldiers leaning close over an improvised dice board, Jasanten limping in from the garden, his crutch loud on the wooden floor, the woman musician who worked in one of the theaters in Point of Dreams nodding over her pint and a plate of bread and cheese, and Eslingen hoped that things would stay that way, at least until tonight’s closing.

Eslingen woke to the sound of someone knocking on his door. He rolled over, untangling himself from the sheets, and winced at the sunlight that seeped in through the cracks in the shutters. He could tell from the quality of the light that it was well before the second sunrise, and as if to confirm the bad news, the tower clock sounded. He counted the strokes–eight–before he sat up, swearing under his breath.

“Eslingen? You awake?”

Eslingen bit back a profane response, said, as moderately as he was able, “I am now.”

“There’s a pointsman to see you.”

“Seidos’s Horse!” Eslingen swallowed the rest of the curse. “What in the name of all the gods does he want with me?”

“Didn’t say.” The voice was definitely Loret’s. “Aagte says, will you please come down?”

Eslingen sighed. He doubted that Devynck had been that polite– unless of course she was trying to impress the pointsman–and he swung himself out of bed. “Tell her I’ll be down as soon as I put some clothes on.”

“All right,” Loret said, and there was a little silence. “It’s Rathe,” he added, and Eslingen heard the sound of his footsteps retreating toward the stairs.

And what in all the hells do I care which pointsman it is? Eslingen swallowed the comment as pointless, and crossed to his chest to find clean clothes. His best shirt was sorely in need of washing, and his second best needed new cuffs and collar, and the third and fourth best were little better than rags. He made a face, but shrugged on the second best, hoping the pointsman wouldn’t notice the frayed fabric and the darned spot below the collar. He finished dressing, winding his cravat carefully, and thought that the fall of its ends would hide the worst of it. There was no time to shave, but he tugged his hair into a loose queue, and then made his way down the stairs to the tap.

Rathe was standing in the middle of the wide room, the light of the true sun pouring in through the unshuttered windows and washing over him, turning his untidy curls to bronze as he bent his head to note something in his tablets. Devynck stood opposite him, arms folded across her chest, and the two waiters were loitering behind the bar, trying to pretend they were doing something useful. Jasanten, the only one of the lodgers who had his breakfast at the tavern, as a concession either to past friendship or to his missing leg, was watching more openly from his table in the corner.

“–complaint,” Devynck was saying, and Eslingen hid a grin. So she was going to go through with her threat of the night before.

“Oh, come on, Aagte,” Rathe said, but kept his tablet out. “Complaint of what? You keep a public tavern, you can hardly accuse the boy of trespass for coming here.”

“Felis Lucenan’s been told more than once that he’s not welcome here,” Devynck answered. “He comes around, makes a nuisance of himself–lies to the recruiters when they’re here, tries to get someone to take him on as a runner. I told him a moon‑month ago not to come back, and last night, well.” She fixed Rathe with a sudden stare. “I want it on the books, the times being what they are, that I don’t invite him.”

Rathe grinned, showing slightly crooked teeth. “I can’t say I blame you, at that. All right, I’ll note it down, see it’s posted on the station books. And I’ll send someone round to Lucenan’s shop to make sure she knows you want her to keep the boy at home.”

Devynck made a face, but nodded. “I suppose you have to do that, not that it’ll win me friends.”

“Fair’s fair, Aagte. Maybe it’ll make the boy a little warier, if he knows we’re taking an interest.” Rathe looked toward the doorway then. “Good morning, Eslingen.”

“Morning.” The pointsman had the look of someone who relished early rising, and Eslingen sighed. “Though I don’t usually get up til the next sunrise.”

“I’m sorry,” Rathe said, without much sincerity.

“That was all I wanted with you, Nico,” Devynck said. “People around here are starting to look sideways at me, and it’s not my doing.”

“I know,” Rathe answered. “So does Monteia. We’re doing what we can.”

Devynck made a face, as though she would say something else, but visibly thought better of it. “I hope it gets results,” she said instead, and went back to the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

“So what can I do for you, pointsman?” Eslingen said, after a moment.

Rathe gave another quick grin. “I heard you had another bit of difficulty last night.”

“That’s right.” Eslingen took a breath, preparing himself to launch into the story, and Rathe lifted a hand, at the same moment folding his tablets.

“You don’t need to go through it again unless you want to, I got the bones of it from Adriana. And Felis is–known to us, as they say in the judiciary. We’ve had this trouble with him before.”

“Then what–” Eslingen swallowed his words, went on more moderately, “What do you need me for, pointsman?”

“Why’d I get you out of bed at this hour?” Rathe asked, disconcertingly, and Eslingen nodded.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.”