The boy led him up the front staircase, past a knot of clerks with ledgers and a neatly dressed matron who looked torn between anger and nervousness. The edges of her fingernails were rimmed in black; the remains of paint, he thought at first, and then realized it was ink. One of the printers Rathe had mentioned? he wondered, but knew better than even to think of asking. Caiazzo’s workroom was at the end of the gallery, overlooking the side alley and the next‑door garden, and as the boy tapped on the door and announced him, Eslingen took that chance to make a brief survey of the room. It was large, and well lit– only to be expected, for a man who made a sizeable part of his living on paper–and the clerk’s counter that ran the length of one wall was drifted with papers. There was a worktable as well, neater, and a thin woman in a shade of red that didn’t flatter her sallow complexion was flicking the last coins into the hollows of a tallyboard. A status of Bonfortune stood in a niche in the wall behind her, fresh flowers at its feet–propitiation, Eslingen wondered, or just common caution? The magist Denizard leaned against the opposite end of that table, her robe open over a sharply cut skirt and bodice, and Caiazzo himself stood by the tall windows, staring toward the masts that soared above the housetops. He turned at the boy’s appearance, and nodded to the woman in red.

“All right, Vianey, that’s all for now. Bring me the full accounting as soon as you have it.”

“Of course,” the woman answered, sounding vaguely affronted, but covered the board and swept out with it clutched to her breast.

“So, Lieutenant Eslingen,” Caiazzo said, and took his place in the carved chair behind the worktable. Eslingen, with a sudden rush of insight, guessed that the trader rarely used it for work, but often for interviews. “Devynck speaks well of you.”

Decent, under the circumstances, Eslingen thought, but said nothing, managed a half bow instead.

“But you didn’t tell me you know one of my people,” Caiazzo went on. “Dausset Cijntien works for one of my caravan‑masters.”

“Does he?” For a moment, Eslingen’s mind was as blank as his face. “I knew he worked for a caravan, but not whose.”

Caiazzo fixed black eyes on him for a moment longer, as though wondering what else he would say, but Eslingen met his stare squarely. He thought he saw the hint of a smile, of approval, flicker across the trader’s face, but then it was gone. “Aice says the other names you gave me speak well of you, too. I’m prepared, despite the otherwise questionable provenance–”Caiazzo lifted a hand, forestalling a comment Eslingen had not been about to make. “–a recommendation from the points, and especially Adjunct Point Rathe, isn’t always the best thing for a member of my household–to put you on my books.” He smiled again, this time more openly. “As I told you yesterday, I do need a knife, and one who looks like a gentleman can only be an improvement over one who thought he was.”

“Thank you,” Eslingen said, though he wasn’t at all sure it was a compliment.

Caiazzo’s smile widened slightly, as though he’d guessed the thought and rather enjoyed it. “Right, then–”

He broke off as the door opened, and a harrassed‑looking clerk came in. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir, but Rouvalles is here, and he insists on seeing you.”

Caiazzo gave the statue of Bonfortune a reproachful glance, but sighed. “Eslingen, you’ll stay. Show him in, Pradon.”

The clerk bowed, and hurried away, closing the door again behind her.

“I’m not armed,” Eslingen said hastily, “bar my knife–”

Caiazzo waved a dismissive hand. “It won’t come to that.” He looked at Denizard, who straightened, hauling herself off the end of the table. Eslingen hesitated, then took his place at Gaiazzo’s right. The longdistance trader didn’t say anything, but Eslingen saw the flicker of eyes that acknowledged his presence.

The door opened again, and the clerk stood aside to let a tall, neatly dressed man into the room. He was young, Eslingen realized with some surprise, or at least young to be running Caiazzo’s Silklands caravan, didn’t look any older than Eslingen himself. And he was handsome, too, in a genial, good‑fellow sort of way, an open face and an easy smile beneath a ragged mane of wavy hair that was just the color of bronze, but there was something in his pale eyes than belied the easy manner. He checked slightly, seeing Caiazzo in his chair, and Eslingen saw the blue eyes flick left and right, taking in first Denizard and then himself.

“Standing on ceremony, Hanse? You don’t need your knife against me.”

“I was in the process of hiring a new one,” Caiazzo answered, “and I figured he might as well start now.” He nodded toward the soldier. “This is Eslingen, served with Coindarel, and now of my household. I understand one of your own men speaks highly of him.”

The caravan‑master–Rouvalles, the clerk had called him, Eslingen remembered–blinked. “One of them may, for all I know. Who?”

“Dausset Cijntien,” Denizard said.

“Then you can ask him yourself, he’s below.”

Caiazzo nodded thoughtfully. “So what was it you wanted, Rouvalles?”

The caravan‑master took a deep breath. “Look, I wouldn’t have come myself, except it’s getting late. We need to leave within the week to make this season work, and I still have goods and supplies to buy. I need coin, Hanse, and soon.”

His voice had just the hint of a Chadroni accent, Eslingen realized. He glanced at Caiazzo, but the longdistance trader’s expression was little more than a mask.

“You’ll have to wait,” he said, without inflection.

Rouvalles’s eyes narrowed, and Eslingen caught a glimpse of the cold steel beneath the good humor. Not surprising, he thought, and I’d bet it serves him well both trading and on the road, but he’s not a man I’d like to cross.

“How long?” The caravan‑master matched Caiazzo’s tone.

“Two days.”

Eslingen thought he heard a hint of relief beneath the projected boredom, and glanced again at Caiazzo. Rathe had hinted that not all of the longdistance trader’s businesses were legitimate, but the caravan was public enough that it surely had to be–unless it was the source of the coin that was problematic? There had been talk in the kitchen the night before about a ship that had just come in… He shook himself away from that line of thought, and concentrated on the conversation at hand.

Rouvalles hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, showing his easy grin. “Right, we can wait that long, but we’re cutting it very close this year, Hanse.”

“I know it,” Caiazzo answered. “There’ve been some–unexpected events.”

“Like last night?”

“Not like that.”

“What I might call problems, then?” Rouvalles asked, almost cheerfully, but his eyes didn’t match his tone.

Caiazzo nodded once. “You probably would. But it’s nothing that’ll affect you.”

“No more than it already has,” Rouvalles answered.

“Not seriously,” Caiazzo corrected. It looked for a moment as though Rouvalles might protest, but Caiazzo fixed him with a stare, and the younger man spread his hands in silent acceptance.

“There’s one other thing,” Caiazzo went on. “Your troop‑master, Cijntien, you said he was here?”

Rouvalles nodded, looking wary.

“You said I could ask him myself,” Caiazzo said. “About Eslingen here. Well, I want to.”

“I’ll send him up,” Rouvalles answered, but Caiazzo shook his head.

“Aice can go.”

The magist showed no sign of annoyance at being asked to do a servant’s job, but slipped almost silently out the door. She returned a few minutes later, Cijntien in tow. The troop‑master looked uneasy at being brought upstairs, Eslingen thought, with some sympathy, but kept his own face expressionless.

Caiazzo leaned back in his chair. “I understand you know someone I’ve taken into my household.”