Point of Hopes by Melissa Scott

began methodically to unpack his
belongings.
    He had traveled light, of necessity. It didn’t take
long to arrange the borrowed furniture to his satisfaction, and to
fold his spare clothes neatly into the bottom of the chest. The
locked case that held his pistol went beneath his clean shirts: in
the morning, he thought, I’ll buy a lock for the big chest, too.
There would be other errands to run, as well—find the nearest
bathhouse and barber, buy candles of his own, and herbs for the
chest, to keep the moths out, and find a laundress, too, and a
decent astrologer, I’ll probably have to go back to the university
for that—but he put those plans firmly aside for the moment, and
reached into the bottom of the right-hand saddlebag for the carved
tablets that were his portable altar. Like most rented rooms from
the League to Cazaril in the south, this one had a niche set into
the wall beside the door, and he walked over to examine it. It was
typical, except for the lack of dust—Devynck was clearly a
ferocious housekeeper—just a space for an image or two and a
shallow depression to hold the hearth fire, but it was certainly
more than adequate for him. He unfolded the hinged diptych, Areton,
painted ochre since Eslingen couldn’t afford gilt, dancing on the
right-hand panel, Phoebe as guardian of health in solar splendor on
the left. He should probably honor Seidos, too, he thought, not for
the first time—he had been born under Seidos’s signs, the Horse and
the Horsemaster—but Seidos was patron of the nobility, not of
common soldiers. Maybe I’ll ask the magist when I have my stars
read, he thought, but he hadn’t done it yet. He tilted his head to
one side, studying the altar. He would need to buy a candle for the
Hearthmistress, along with the ones for his own use, but those
would be easily enough found at any chandler’s shop. He added that
to his mental list, and stretched out on the bed, settling himself
for a nap before dinner.
    The tower clock woke him at five, and again at half
past, and at six. He sighed then, swung himself off the bed, and
began to tidy himself for dinner. The sun was very low as he made
his way down the stairs into the garden, but he guessed it would be
another hour at least before it actually set. The air smelled of
the cooking food, rich with onions and garlic, and he realized
suddenly that he was hungry. Very hungry, he amended, and hoped
Devynck’s portions were generous.
    The main room was only moderately crowded, and he
guessed that Devynck made most of her profit from her beer. He
found an empty table beside one of the streetside windows, and
lifted a hand to signal the nearest waiter. The man nodded back,
but took his patron’s orders before coming over to Eslingen’s
table.
    “ You’re the new lodger—Eslingen,
isn’t it? I’m Loret.”
    “ That’s right.” Eslingen eyed him
curiously, recognizing a wrestler’s or blacksmith’s breadth of
shoulder beneath the loose smock, and wondered if Devynck often had
trouble here.
    “ Then you get the ordinary. Do you
want beer with that? It’s a demming extra for a
pitcher.”
    “ That’s fine.”
    Loret nodded, and Eslingen watched him walk away,
dodging tables on his way to the kitchen hatch. Loret had the look
of country boys who enlisted out of ignorance and deserted after
their first battle, good boys with all the wrong stars, more often
than not—which was hardly fair, he told himself, considering that
Loret was probably born and bred in Astreiant And big men weren’t
all gentle; he’d learned that the hard way, years ago.
    It wasn’t long before Loret returned with the tray
of food and the sweating pitcher of beer. He set them neatly down,
and waited until Eslingen had paid for the beer before answering
the next customer’s shout. Eslingen made a face at the caution, but
had to admit it was probably justified. Devynck’s clientele would
be no better than the average. The food was good—a thick stew,
Leaguer