“Yes, ma’am.” Loret nodded, and headed out the garden door.

“You, Philip,” Devynck went on, “can tell young Yvor that we won’t open until second sunrise today, thanks to the damage. If he and his friends want to drink then, well, their coin is good to me. But I won’t tolerate any trouble, any more than I usually do.”

Eslingen nodded, and stepped back out into the dusty street. The young man Yvor was still sitting on the bench, but he looked up warily as the door opened.

“What’s the matter, aren’t we good enough to drink here?”

“Mistress Devynck says we won’t be open until the second sunrise,” Eslingen repeated, deliberately. “It’s the damage to the windows, you understand.”

The young man had the grace to look fleetingly abashed at that, but his wide mouth firmed almost at once into a stern pout. “And then?”

Eslingen eyed him without favor. “Then your money’s as good as any, I suppose. I take it this is your half‑day, then?”

Yvor’s hand started toward the badge in his cap, but he stopped himself almost instantly. “And if it is?”

“I was wondering how you had the leisure to drink so early,” Eslingen answered.

“That’s hardly your business, Leaguer.”

“Nothing about you is my business,” Eslingen agreed. “Until you make it so.” He went back into the inn without waiting for the younger man to answer.

Devynck opened her taps a little after noon, as she had promised, and, equally as promised, the butchers’ journeymen appeared. The first group–Yvor and a pair of younger friends–bought a pitcher of beer and drank it as slowly as they could; when they left, another trio appeared, and then a third. A pointswoman arrived as well, dusty in her leather jerkin. She bought a drink herself, watching them, but admitted there was nothing she could do as long as they didn’t make trouble.

“They’re watching me, damn them,” Devynck said, fiercely, and gestured for Eslingen to close the door of her counting room behind him. “They’re watching me, and I know it, and there’s damn all I can do about it.”

“Kick them out,” Eslingen said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Devynck snapped. “They’re just waiting for me to try it. No, I can’t be rid of them unless I close completely, not without provoking the trouble I want to prevent.”

“So maybe you should close,” Eslingen said. He held up his hand to forestall Devynck’s angry curse. “You haven’t been doing much business the last few nights, it might be safer–smarter–to close for a few days and see if it doesn’t blow over.”

Devynck shook her head. “I will see them in hell and me with them before I let them bully me.”

And that, Eslingen thought, is that. He lifted both hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said, and went back out into the main room. The journeymen–five of them, this time, and a different group– were still there, and he smiled brightly at them as he settled himself at his usual table. He reached for the stack of broadsheets, but couldn’t seem to concentrate on the printed letters. He could hear snatches of the young men’s conversations, animadversions against Leaguers and soldiers and child‑thieves, suspected he was meant to hear, and met their glares with the same blank smile. They finished their first pitcher, and, after a muttered consultation and much searching of pockets, the youngest of the group got up and went to the bar with the empty jug. Hulet refilled it, narrow‑eyed and sullen; the journeyman–he was little more than a boy, really–glared back, but had the sense to say nothing. As he returned to the table, a voice rose above the rest.

“–points searched the place, didn’t find them.”

Eslingen’s attention sharpened at that, though he didn’t move. Was someone going to make the commonsense argument at last? he wondered, and sighed almost inaudibly as a big man, fair as a Leaguer, shook his blond head.

“They were well fee’d not to find them, that’s all. They’re in it as deep as anyone–and that’s what comes of giving ordinary folk that kind of power.”

The oldest of the group leaned forward and said something, and the voices quieted again. Eslingen let himself relax, picked up another broadsheet at random, but it was no more successful than any of the others. He made himself read through it, however, all fifteen lines of obscure verse–the poet‑astrologer was obviously a Demean in her sentiments–but couldn’t tell whether the oblique intention was to blame foreigners or the city’s regents. Not that it mattered, anyway, he added silently, and set the sheet aside. What mattered was what the butchers on the Knives Road believed, and they’d made that all too clear already.

The main door opened then, letting in a wedge of the doubled afternoon sunlight, and Rathe made his way into the bar. He was barely recognizable as a pointsman, his jerkin scarred and worn, the truncheon almost out of sight under its skirts, and one of the journeyman started to smile at him before he recognized what he was. The smile vanished then, and he turned his back ostentatiously. Rathe’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing directly, and came across the room to lean on Eslingen’s table.

“I’ll want to talk with you after I’m done with Devynck,” he said, and Eslingen nodded, wondering what was going on. “There’s been a nasty bit of damage here, and to real property,” the pointsman went on, lifting his voice to carry to the young men at the other table. “That’ll be an expensive point, when we catch who did it.”

Eslingen hid a smile at that, but said nothing. The pointsman’s mouth twitched in an answering almost‑smile, and he turned away to disappear behind the bar. Eslingen leaned back in his chair again, watching the journeymen at their table, and wasn’t surprised to see them leaning heads together. Their hands were moving, too, suppressed, choppy gestures, and then the oldest‑looking stood up, shaking his head. He said something, but kept his voice low enough that Eslingen only caught two words, “hotheads” and then “Huviet.” Another young man stood with the other, and then a third; the oldest looked down at the others, his head tilted to one side in obvious inquiry. They looked away, and the first three turned and pushed their way out of the main door. A quarrel over tactics? Eslingen wondered. Damaging property seemed to be a cardinal evil in Astreiant.

The kitchen door opened again, and Rathe came out. His gaze swept over the now‑diminished table, and Eslingen almost would have sworn he smiled, but then the pointsman pointed toward the garden door. Eslingen sighed, and followed the other man out into the summer air. The garden was empty, the stools stacked on top of the tables, and he squinted toward the gate that led out into Point of Dreams, wondering if it was still locked and barred. He couldn’t see for certain, not at this distance, but would have been surprised to find it open: Devynck was not one to take unnecessary chances. Rathe leaned his hip against the nearest table, as easy and comfortable as if he were drinking in his own neighborhood, and Eslingen gave him a sour look.

Rathe met it blandly. “I take it you haven’t had any trouble with that lot in there?”

“Not yet,” Eslingen answered, and knew he sounded bitter.

Rathe nodded. “I told Aagte she should close for a day or two, let this blow over.”

“Do you really think this would go away in a day or two?” Eslingen demanded.

“No, not really. But they might find someone more likely to blame.”

“They might,” Eslingen said. “Anyway, when I suggested it, she said no.”

Rathe nodded again. “She told me no, too.” He sighed. “So how are they behaving themselves, these junior butchers?”

Eslingen made a face. “Well enough, at least today. Though I still think Aagte’s right, it was them who broke our windows. But today, they’re just sitting here. They pay for their beer politely enough, and they keep their voices down, haven’t given me an excuse to be rid of them–or the pointswoman who was here earlier.”