“No, but I can probably find it,” Eslingen answered.

The factor grinned. “You can’t miss his camp, it’s got the house pennants all over it. We use the fourth corral–it’s almost directly behind where we are now–and Rouvalles has the stable beyond that.”

“It sounds simple enough,” Eslingen said, dubious, and the factor’s smile widened.

“Look for the house pennants,” she advised, and turned to greet a tall woman in a beautifully cut bodice and skirt.

Eslingen sighed, but knew better than to come between her and a potential customer, especially one as well dressed as this woman. He found a path between two of the stalls that seemed to be in general use, and emerged into the confusion of the corrals. There were five of the wood and stone enclosures, each one filled with horses; the low buildings beyond, clearly built as stables, seemed to be being shared impartially by people and animals. The air was hazed with dust, and a thicker plume of it rose over the furthest pen, where a trio stripped to shirts and breeches were attempting to cut a single animal out of the herd. The horses, each one marked by a ribbon braided into its mane, snorted and swirled, unwilling to be caught; Eslingen snorted himself–he would never had let his troopers handle their mounts that badly–and made his way toward Caiazzo’s pennant hanging above a stable door.

The stalls in that section seemed to be occupied exclusively by horses, and Eslingen nodded his approval even as he glanced around for someone who could direct him. Rouvalles was wise to keep his horses out of the common herd; you never knew how well anyone else kept their animals, and the last thing you needed was to have your best mounts down sick when you were ready to move out. A skinny man was mucking out the furthest stall, and Eslingen moved toward him, inhaling the familiar scent of hay and dung.

“I’m looking for Rouvalles,” he said, raising his voice a little to be heard over the noise outside.

The skinny man straightened, showing a wall eye that made him look rather like the horse he was tending, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Above.”

Looking more closely, Eslingen could see the stones of a steep stairway set into the wall at the end of the building. “Thanks,” he said, and climbed to the floor above. The space had obviously once been intended for hay storage, and indeed the broad boards were still scattered with bits of straw, but at the moment it had been turned into an indoor campsite. Bedding was piled in neat rows along each wall, beneath windows propped open to the fitful breeze, and carpets hung from a web of ropes at the far end of the space, creating a makeshift room. A group of four or five men, mostly Chenedolliste, by their looks, were sitting around an unlit brazier, tossing dice on its flat cover. The nearest stood easily, seeing Eslingen, and stepped into his path.

“Can I help you?” he asked, around a stick of the sugar‑candy the Astreianters sold ten‑for‑a‑demming, and Eslingen lifted the badge he wore on a ribbon around his neck.

“I’m here to see Rouvalles,” Eslingen said, patiently. “From Caiazzo.”

The man scowled around his candy, and Eslingen wondered just how much bad feeling the delay had engendered. “I’ll see if he’s free,” he said, and ducked under the carpets without waiting for an answer. He reappeared a moment later, scowling even more deeply, and Rouvalles himself held aside the carpet that served as a door.

“Come on in–Eslingen, isn’t it?”

Eslingen nodded, and ducked under the heavy fabric. It smelled of horses and smoke and sweat and leather, all the scents of a campaign, and he took a deep breath, savoring even the heat of the enclosed space. Rouvalles gave him a wry smile.

“Regretting your change of employment already?”

The smile, Eslingen saw, didn’t touch his eyes. “Not so far,” he answered. “But this does bring back memories.

Rouvalles gave a short laugh, easing some of the tension and anger in his face, and gestured to one of the stools. “I bet it does. So, tell me, what does Hanse want?”

Eslingen seated himself, taking his time with the skirts of his coat. All the furniture around him was portable, he saw, from the stools to the narrow table and the narrow bedstead; all would break down into easily‑carried pieces. The entire room, carpets, bedding, furniture, even the strongbox that lay half‑hidden under a worn square of blanket, would fit easily on a single pack animal.

“Cijntien told me he’d made you an offer,” Rouvalles said, and shrugged. “I suppose it still holds, though Hanse wouldn’t thank you– and I’m not sure how much I care about that, just now.”

Eslingen brought himself back to the matter at hand. “No, so far I’m quite comfortable with my employment, thanks. Caiazzo sent me to tell you that the money will be ready tomorrow. You can send a couple of men to collect it any time after second sunrise.”

Rouvalles paused in the act of pouring two glasses of wine: anger at the delay notwithstanding, customs of hospitality, bred on the caravan routes, died hard. He turned to Eslingen, one eyebrow lifted, then Eslingen thought he saw the other man’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Well, that’s good news at least,” the Chadroni said, after a moment. He made a face, as though he had forgotten he was holding the cups, and handed one to Eslingen. “I rather thought you’d come to put me off again.”

Eslingen took a careful swallow of what proved to be a heavy, aromatic wine. He said, “Not this time. And I can’t say I blame you for wanting to leave the city as soon as possible.”

Rouvalles frowned slightly, as though puzzled, then his face cleared. “Oh, the children. I thought you meant the clock‑night. No, neither one’s made my life any easier, let me tell you.”

“Nor anyone’s,” Eslingen said, and remembered what Jasanten had said–had it only been a week ago? Children born under Seidos might well find employment with the caravans, though why a caravan‑master would steal children was beyond him–unless, he thought suddenly, there was someone foreign, someone in the Silklands, say, who wanted them? It didn’t seem likely, but he owed Rathe at least that much of an effort. “Have the broadsheets been blaming you lot, then?”

Rouvalles scowled, the pale eyes narrowing. “Along with everybody else, yes, they’ve mentioned the caravans, and we’ve had a few worried mothers wandering through, peering in corners when they think we’re not looking.” He shook his head as though amazed at the thought, then looked sharply at Eslingen. “And you can tell Hanse I don’t hire kids, and never have done, he should know that.”

So much for being subtle, Eslingen thought. At least he assumed I was asking on Caiazzo’s behalf. He said, “I’ll pass that on. But–and this is me asking, not Caiazzo, I’m just curious–does that mean you don’t take apprentices?”

“Did you see any apprentices in the hall?” he asked, but his tone was milder than his words. “Oh, we take apprentices, all right, or I do, but what we get… it’s always the ones who’ve already failed at something else. Nobody in Astreiant–nobody anywhere–sets out to become a caravaner.”

“Did you?” Eslingen asked. “I mean, if you’re going to be good at something, it doesn’t seem as though you’d go into it by default. And from what Caiazzo says, you’re probably the best.”

Rouvalles tilted his head, stared into space for a few moments, then said, “I didn’t set out to become a caravaner, no. Never thought it was–open–to me. But once I did, I discovered I liked it, and had a knack for it. Rather like you and soldiering, I would imagine?” he asked, making it not quite a question, and the blue eyes were pale, cool.

“A lot like soldiering,” Eslingen agreed. He finished the rest of his wine, stood up. “Thanks for the drink, it’s a thirsty day.”

“Are you sure you won’t come along?” Rouvalles asked. “This is no time to be a Leaguer, either, in Astreiant.”