Eslingen felt himself flush, and was grateful for the candlelight. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten Astreiant’s laws. “Well–”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Devynck said, sourly. “Well, my lad, you can come with me to Point of Hopes, then, and I’ll see if I can’t get Monteia to grant you a writ for it. After tonight, I think she’ll be willing enough.”

“How bad is the damage?” Eslingen asked.

“All our front windows smashed,” Devynck answered, “and a nice profit the glaziers’ll make off of me for it. I haven’t taken the shutters down to see how many panes were actually broken–time enough for that in the morning.” She looked around the dimly lit room. “Hulet, you and Loret stay up, keep an eye on things. If they come back, give me a shout, and you, Loret, run to Point of Hopes. But I don’t think they will.”

Eslingen shivered, suddenly aware of how cool the air was on his bare chest and back. Adriana gave him a sympathetic glance, hugging herself, the half‑pike still tucked in the crook of her arm.

“Right,” Devynck said, briskly. “Back to bed, all of you. Philip, I’ll leave for Point of Hopes at eight, and I want you with me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eslingen answered, and took himself out the garden door. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he thought, hearing the tower clock strike the half hour. At least he could get another few hours sleep before he had to face the pointsmen.

Jasanten was still waiting at the top of the stairs, the knife–longer than the city regulations, Eslingen was willing to swear–still poised in his hand. He relaxed slightly, seeing the younger man, and said, “So the alarm’s past?”

“For tonight, or so Devynck says.” Eslingen sighed, and eased the pistol from his waistband. “Some of the local youth, she thinks, broke in the front windows.”

“Not good times,” Jasanten said, and stood out of the doorway, balancing himself awkwardly on his crutch. “Not good times at all.”

And likely to get worse before they get better, Eslingen thought, remembering the diviner. “Get some sleep, Flor,” he said, and went back into his own room, locking the door behind him. He hesitated for an instant, looking at the unloaded pistol, but in the end decided not to load it. Devynck knew her neighbors, or so he would trust; still, he set it on the table in easy reach before he undressed and climbed back into bed.

He woke to the noise of someone knocking on the door, and groped blearily for the pistol before he realized that the sun was well up. He swore under his breath–he was already late, if the sun was that bright–and Adriana’s voice came from beyond the door.

“Philip? Mother says you should hurry. I brought shaving water and something for breakfast.”

“All the gods bless you,” Eslingen said, scrambling into shirt and breeches, and unlocked the door. Adriana looked remarkably awake and cheerful, considering the night, and he couldn’t repress a grimace.

She grinned, and set a bowl and plate down on the table, lifting the plate away to reveal the hot water. Eslingen took it gratefully, washed face and hands and carried it across to the circle of polished brass that he used as a mirror. In full light, and with care, he could shave, and it was cheaper than the barber’s–not to mention, he added silently, running the razor over the stone, safer, given current sentiment. “Do you think there’s any chance of my getting a dispensation, or have I lost a good pistol?” he said, and began cautiously to shave.

In the mirror, he saw Adriana shrug. “Mother’s had one for years, for the same reason she’ll give for you, to protect her property against people who don’t like Leaguers. Monteia–no, it wasn’t Monteia, it was Wetterli, he was chief point before Monteia–he gave it to her when she first came here. It wasn’t long after the League wars, people weren’t always friendly.”

“Whatever possessed her to settle here, and not in University Point?” Eslingen wiped his face, studying the sketchy job, and decided not to press his luck.

“You mean over by the Horsegate? Too much competition there.” Adriana grinned again. “As you may have noticed, Mother doesn’t like to share.”

Eslingen lifted an eyebrow at her, but decided not to pursue the comment. He reached instead into his clothes chest and pulled out his best shirt. He had managed to get it laundered, but that had done the already thinning fabric little good; he could see seams starting to give way at shoulder and cuff. There was nothing he could do about it now, however, and he was not about to make an appearance at the points station with an illegal lock in his second‑best. He stripped off the shirt he’d pulled on before, pulled on the better one more carefully, wincing as he heard stitches give somewhere. He decided to ignore it, and reached for the thick slice of bread that Adriana had brought him. It smelled of sugar and spices, the sort of heavy cakebread that was common in the League. He finished it in three bites, grateful for the sharp, sweet flavor of it, and shrugged himself into his best coat. It, too, was looking more than a little the worse for wear–not surprising, after a winter campaign and then most of a summer–but he managed to make himself look more or less presentable. Adriana nodded her approval, and collected the bowl and plate.

“Better hurry, Mother’s waiting.”

Eslingen made a face, but rewrapped the pistol in the rag that had protected it, and tucked the unwieldy package under his arm. “Let’s go.”

Devynck was waiting in the inn’s main room, the caliver slung over her shoulder. The lock was conspicuously empty of match, the barrel was sheathed in a canvas sleeve, and a badge with the royal seal swung from it, but even so Eslingen blinked, trying to imagine the locals’ response to seeing Devynck stalking the streets with that in hand.

She saw his look and scowled. “Well, I’m not going to risk drawing the ball, am I? I’ll get Monteia to let me fire it off instead.”

If she’ll let you, Eslingen added, but thought better of saying it. It was safer, of course, and he couldn’t blame Devynck for not wanting to fire it in her own back garden. He could only begin to imagine the neighbors’ response to shots, or even a single shot, coming from the Old Brown Dog.

“Are you ready?” the innkeeper demanded, and Eslingen shook himself back to reality.

“Ready enough.” He held up the wrapped pistol. “I suppose I bring this with me?”

“Of course.” Devynck’s glare softened for an instant. “You won’t lose it, Philip–and if you do, I’ll stand the cost of its replacement.”

“I appreciate that,” Eslingen answered. It would be a poor second best, and they both knew it: pistols were idiosyncratic; even the ones made by the best gunsmiths had their peculiar habits, and it was never easy to replace a lock that worked well. Still, under the circumstances and given the cost of a pistol, it was a generous offer.

Devynck nodded. “Right then. Let’s go.” She shoved open the main door, letting in the morning light and the faint scent of hay and the butchers’ halls. The doorstep and the ground beyond it glittered faintly, scattered with glass from the broken windows. There were shards of lead as well, and Eslingen grimaced, thinking of the cost. He followed Devynck out the door, and looked back to see the half‑emptied frames, the leads twisted out of true, the glass strewn across the dirt of the yard. With the shutters still barred behind them, they looked vaguely like eyes, and he was reminded, suddenly and vividly, of a dead man he’d stumbled over at the siege of Hirn. He had looked like a shopkeeper, the spectacles shattered over his closed eyes. He shook the thought away, and Loret appeared in the doorway with a broom, heading out to sweep up the debris.

To his relief, the streets were relatively quiet, and the few people who were out gave them a wide berth. They reached the Point of Hopes station without remark, and Devynck marched through the open gate without a backward glance. Eslingen followed more slowly, unable to resist the chance to look around him. He had never been inside a points station before–and had hoped never to be, he added silently–but had to admit that it wasn’t quite what he’d expected. The courtyard walls were as high and solid as any city fort’s, the gatehouse and portcullis sturdy and defensible, but the guard’s niches were drifted with dust and a few stray wisps of straw. The stable looked as though it had been unused for years; a thin girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, sat on the edge of the dry trough outside it, putting neat stitches in a cap. She looked up at their approach, alert and curious, but didn’t move. An apprentice? Eslingen wondered. Or a runner? She looked too calm to be there on any business of her own.