Bathias nodded. The horses were part of his perquisites, to sell or keep as he chose, and Eslingen suspected he would sell most of them: with the troop disbanding, there was no point in keeping half a hundred animals, and there were other captains who would be willing to buy. Coindarel had persuaded Aimeri de Martreuil to add an extra company to his Auxiliary Horse, and to take most of the gentleman‑officers, the commissioned officers; he would probably buy the horses, as well. “I’m willing to let you purchase your mounts, Eslingen. There’s no point in seeing you unhorsed.”

Eslingen hesitated, tempted and rather flattered by the offer, but shook his head. He couldn’t afford to pay for stabling in the city for more than a month or two, and he had no way of knowing how long it would be before he found work he liked. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll have to pass.”

Bathias nodded again, and looked uneasily toward the empty platform. He was a young man, the fourth child, Eslingen understood, of an impoverished Ile’nord noble, with two older sisters and a brother between him and whatever income the family estates provided: a commission and an introduction to the Prince‑marshal de Coindarel would be the best his mother could do for him. Not that an introduction to Coindarel was the worst she could have done, Eslingen added, with an inward smile. Bathias was young, and very handsome in the golden Ile’nord fashion; his hair, long and naturally curling, glowed in the double light of sun and winter‑sun like polished amber, and his skin had taken only delicate color from the spring campaign. Coindarel notoriously had an eye for a pretty young man, and was inclined to indulge himself in his officers. He picked his juniors, the sergeants and lieutenants who did the real work, with more care, but, all else being equal, a handsome man could go far in Coindarel’s service. Eslingen had earned his sergeancy the hard way, but his promotion to lieutenant, and the royal commission that came with it, had come by way of Coindarel’s roving eye.

“Will you be going with Martreuil, Eslingen?” Bathias asked, and the older man shook himself back to the present.

“No, sir. There are plenty of other companies still hiring, even this late in the season.” It was a sore point–Eslingen had lost any claim to gentility when he lost his commission, and Martreuil, it had been made very clear, was taking only Coindarel’s gentleman‑officers–and he was relieved when Bathias merely grunted, his mind already clearly elsewhere. Probably on the palace, Eslingen thought. Bathias was of noble birth and could claim board and lodging from the queen on the strength of it, and he could do worse than to be seen at court, too.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Bathias said. “You’re a good officer, and could do well in the royal service.”

“Thank you, sir.” Eslingen kept his face still with an effort, waiting for the dismissal. The line at the paymaster’s table had dwindled to a single trooper, a skinny, huge‑handed former stable boy whom Eslingen had signed on at an inn outside Labadol because he’d needed someone who could handle the major‑sergeant’s bad‑tempered gelding. Then he, too, had accepted his pay and made his mark on the muster list, and turned away to join his fellows waiting at the edge of the Drill Ground. The taverns and inns where most of the recruiting officers did their work lay only a few steps away, along the Horse‑Gate Road.

“You’ve served me well,” Bathias said, and held out his hand. Eslingen took it, startled at this presumption of equality, and then Bathias had released him, and was reaching into his own wide sash. “And, Eslingen. I know you’re not a sergeant anymore, but I also know we didn’t serve out the season. Will you take this from me, as a token of my appreciation?” He held out a bag the size of a man’s hand. It was embroidered–not expensively, Eslingen thought, probably by one of the farm‑girls we took on at Darnais–with Bathias’s arms and the regimental monogram.

Eslingen took it, stiffly, and felt, through the linen and the coarse threads of the monogram, the square shape and weight of at least a pillar. That was more than he could afford to refuse, and he tucked the purse into his own sash. “Thank you, sir,” he said again, stiff‑lipped, saluted, and turned away.

The rest of the company’s sergeants were standing by the sundial that stood at the city end of the Drill Ground, and Anric Cossezen, the senior sergeant, lifted a hand to beckon him over. Eslingen came to join them, and Maggiele Reymers said, “You’ve come up in the world, Philip, if the captain deigned to give you his hand.”

“He gave me drink‑money, too,” Eslingen said, before any of the others could point it out, and Saman le Tamboer laughed.

“Betwixt and between, Philip, neither fish nor fowl.”

Eslingen shot the other man a look of dislike–le Tamboer had a sharp tongue on him, to match his sharp Silklands eyes–and Cossezen said, “Have you given a thought to Ganier’s offer? It’s decent money, and a good chance for plunder.”

“If,” le Tamboer added, honey‑sweet, “the lieutenant doesn’t mind serving with us peasants again.”

Eslingen ignored him, said to Cossezen, “I’ve thought about it, yes, and I’ve wondered why a man with Ganier’s reputation is still hiring, so late in the year.”

Reymers laughed. “That had crossed my mind, too.”

“Ganier always hires his dragons last,” Cossezen said.

Eslingen shook his head. “I’ve fought in the Payshault, Anric. I’ve no mind to do it again, not this year. I’ll see who else is hiring.”

“No one,” le Tamboer said.

“Then I’ll wait until someone is,” Eslingen answered.

“How nice to have the money,” le Tamboer muttered.

Eslingen ignored him, and Reymers said, “If you need lodging, Philip–”

“I don’t have any place in mind,” Eslingen said.

“There’s a tavern in Point of Hopes, south of the river. It’s called the Old Brown Dog, off the Knives’ Road.” Reymers cocked her head. “Do you know Astreiant at all?”

“I can find it,” Eslingen answered. Or if I can’t, I can ask at the Temples when I change my money. “So I can get lodging there?”

Reymers nodded. “A woman named Aagte Devynck runs it–she’s from Altheim, but she served Chenedolle as well as the League during the War. She’s always glad to house a fellow Leaguer, and the place is clean and cheap enough.”

Eslingen grinned. “How’s the beer?” Chenedolle, and Astreiant in particular, were known for their wines; the measure of a League tavern was its beer.

“Good enough,” Reymers answered. “She buys it from a Leaguer brewer–and he’s got enough custom that he hasn’t had to change his ways.”

“Thanks, Mag,” Eslingen said. “I’ll look her up.”

There was a little silence then, and Eslingen looked away. Parting was always awkward–you never knew who would die on campaign, or, worse, come home maimed or blinded–and there was always that moment of recognition, as quickly put aside. “Good luck with Ganier, then,” he said aloud, and turned away, lifting a hand to wave to the cluster of boys who had been hovering at the edges of the Drill Ground to see the soldiers mustered out. Half a dozen came running, and Eslingen pointed to the first two who looked big enough. “You, there, and you. A demming each if you’ll carry my gear to the Aretoneia.”

The older of the boys scraped a hasty bow, and answered, “Yes, sir, to the Aretoneia.”

The younger said, “May I carry your piece, please, sir?”

“You may not,” Eslingen answered, striding to the last cart– almost emptied now–where his baggage was waiting. He tossed the bigger boy his heavy saddlebags, and the smaller locked case that held his pistols. The boy slung the bags over his shoulder and stood waiting, but Eslingen judged he had about as much as he could carry. He handed the smaller boy his cased swords, also locked, and the pouch that held his own supply of powder and lead, and slung his caliver across his shoulder. It felt odd to be without the engraved gorget of his rank, or the royal monograms on the caliver’s sling, and he ran his thumb across the darker spot where the split‑silver disks had been removed. But there was no point in regrets, not yet; he lifted a hand to the other sergeants, still standing by the sundial, and started down the Horsegate Road, the two boys following at his heels.