“Always ones to hedge a bet, these folk. I like them.” He nodded to a square of yellow light spilling from an open door. “Good beer, good wine. It’s how you tell the border taverns. And last time I was here, it was clean, reasonably comfortable.”

“That’s how I remembered it,” b’Estorr agreed. Denizard edged her horse restlessly away, scanning the buildings. The town seemed quiet enough, no one unduly surprised by their presence, but still, Rathe thought, they were enough of an oddity that the inhabitants should have noticed any strangers.

“All right, look,” he said. “Eslingen, why don’t you and I get rooms and order dinner. There’s bound to be a temple of sorts here–I think it’d be better–smarter–if Istre and Aicelin handled any questions. My accent is a dead giveaway, and people don’t answer questions for strangers they’re wary of. But you two have the perfect standing to do so.”

“The temple–such as it is–is down that cross street,” Denizard said, rejoining them. She looked at b’Estorr. “Your altar or mine?”

Rathe looked where she had pointed. It was a small, round stone building, the design that usually signaled a pantheon or at least a shared temple, and he thought he understood the magist’s attitude.

b’Estorr exhaled heavily. “Either way. It’s a crossroads town, a trading town, so the primary deity may be Bonfortune.”

“But death is so universal, isn’t it?” Eslingen offered. But a smile took the sting from the words.

“And you’re Chadroni, Istre,” Denizard said. “Like Rathe, I’ve got the Astreiant accent, they may not trust me.”

“Whereas everyone looks down on Chadroni, so they’re more likely to talk with me,” b’Estorr said with a sigh. “Right. Mine, then. You’ll join me, though, I trust, Aice?”

She tilted her head. “Wouldn’t miss it. We’ll see you both at the tavern–Two Flags, right?” Eslingen pointed, and she peered at the sign, brightly painted in gaudy colors, gilt touching the edges of the banners and the carved ropes, and nodded. “Shouldn’t be hard to find again.”

The two moved off into the pewter twilight, and Rathe looked at Eslingen. “After you. You’re the one who knows the town.”

Eslingen grinned and dismounted, and Rathe trailed behind him into the inn yard, the two servants following with the horses. Chaix was a strange, narrow city, the buildings jammed close together, stables built directly against the walls of the neighboring houses. It was as though the whole city were modeled on the Court of the Thirty‑two Knives, with its narrow streets and its buildings brushing up against one another, cutting off the sunlight and the river breezes. He knew he was prejudiced, tried to see the city with eyes other than an Astreianter’s, but it was hard. The aromas were certainly different, heavier, richer, bordering on the exotic–at least, the less mundane ones, the ones that weren’t common to every city with a population living in close proximity to one another. Eslingen, he noticed, was looking about him with a faint, almost supercilious smile.

“Nothing like your home?” Rathe asked, and regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. He was tired, and worried, and at the same time very much a stranger, almost as though the Ile’nord were still some other kingdom. To his relief, however, the soldier shook his head without taking offense.

“Entirely too much like, actually. Esling is very like this. And gods, do you know, I haven’t missed it a bit?” He shook his head, his eyes momentarily distant.

“Is that why you joined the armies?” Rathe asked, maneuvering his way around a puddle of dubious origin. He caught the inn door as Eslingen flung it open.

“I imagine so. That, or remain in Esling with an uncertain future. And it’s always been my determination to have an uncertain future of my own making.” He grinned then, and moved forward to meet the landlady.

The Two Flags was as Eslingen had described it, neat, well appointed, but not fancy. Rathe let Eslingen handle the negotiations over the rate, uncomfortably aware of how out of his depth he was outside Astreiant’s walls. He’d never been in the Ile’nord, and he certainly had never had an occasion to stay at an inn before, was accustomed only to patronizing the ground floor taverns, or occasionally breaking up unlicensed prostitution above floors. He found a corner table well away from the group of regulars, stolid women in dark wool, and sat watching the animated discussion. Finally, Eslingen joined him, carrying a pitcher and two mugs.

“All set,” he said with a grin. “The others can get their own when they get here.” He swung a long leg over the bench and sat down opposite Rathe.

Rathe eyed the pitcher. “Beer or wine?” he asked.

“Well, I know I said they served a decent wine, but then, I thought, what do I know about wine, really? I’m not Chenedolliste, what I think is good you might think is horse piss. So, I thought I had better stick with what I know is quality.”

“Beer, then,” Rathe said, resignedly.

“And damn fine beer, too. You’ll enjoy it.”

And it was good, Rathe had to admit. It carried the musty aroma of the hops that grew wild along the back fence of his garden, and was, he had to admit, ideal after a long day’s riding. Eslingen drained his mug in a couple of long swallows and poured another; Rathe drank more carefully, too tired to risk a drunken night.

“How much further, do you think?” he asked.

Eslingen waved to a waiter, pointed to the board that displayed the evening’s meal. “We’re in the Ile’nord now. From what Caiazzo told us, my guess is that Mailhac is another day, day and a half away. Aicelin would know better than I.” He seemed to guess the real question, said, reassuringly, “We’ve made good time, Nico.”

“Good enough?” Rathe asked.

“If I knew that…” Eslingen shook his head.

A swirl of activity outside the open door of the Two Flags caught Rathe’s eye, a tumbling knot of small figures, and he recognized it as a group of children. They were playing tag or some other rough game, and he realized with a shock how long it had been since he had seen such a sight in Astreiant. Only a few weeks, to be sure, but they’d been long weeks without the sound of children’s laughter. One of the children, a boy, maybe four, maybe five, came running into the inn and buried his face in his mother’s skirt. Rathe felt his heart tighten, and then the child’s voice came clear.

“Janne hit me! You told her not to hit me, and she did.”

A girl, a year or so older than the boy, appeared in the doorway, face mutinous. The mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling, then gestured to the girl. “Janne, what did I tell you about hitting your brother?”

“Little boys are fragile, and can get hurt more easily, but I didn’t mean to! The little gargoyle ran into me.”

“Well, both of you, be more careful in the future. Go on, and try not to kill each other.”

The girl made a face, but darted away again. The boy sniffed a few minutes longer, was fed a slice of bread from his mother’s plate, and headed out the door again. Rathe forced himself to relax, took another swallow of the beer.

“Lovely sight,” Eslingen said, and Rathe looked at him, surprised. He had not figured Eslingen as someone with much tolerance for children, let alone affection.

“You don’t have any children, do you?” he asked, and Eslingen shook his head, looking slightly appalled.

“No. But when enough women have considered you, not as a suitable mate, but as a suitable father for their children, you develop a certain tolerance for them. You look at them, and think, well, yeah, I could do better than that.” The fine lines at the corners of Eslingen’s eyes tightened as he smiled in self‑mockery. “It’s probably just as well Devynck let me go. I think Adriana was planning some dynasty building. And the gods know, I’ve nothing to offer an heiress like herself in equal exchange for marriage, so it would be just for the fun of it, and the future generations of the Old Brown Dog.”