Point of Hopes by Melissa Scott Page A

style, with a decent serving of beef to supplement the
starchy roots that made up the bulk of the dish, and half a loaf of
good wheat bread with a dish of soft cheese on the side—and the
beer was better. It had been a while since he had eaten Leaguer
food—Coindarel’s quartermasters had been mostly Chenedolliste, like
their men—and he took his time, savoring the rich meat broth.
    “ Philip! Philip
Eslingen!”
    The voice was unexpectedly familiar, and Eslingen
looked up, startled to see Dausset Cijntien waving at him from the
center of the room. Eslingen waved back, wondering what the other
was doing in Astreiant—the last he had heard Cijntien had signed on
with a long-distance trader, leading a caravan guard on the
six-month overland journey to the Silklands. But then, that had
been almost six months ago, he realized and in any case, Cijntien
was obviously back, and equally obviously looking for work.
Midsummer was the hiring season for the long-distance traders, and
the sea captains, for that matter; there was rarely any shortage of
work for experienced soldiers.
    Cijntien collected his refilled pitcher, reaching
over the heads of the people at the nearest table, and then
threaded his way through the crowd to Eslingen’s table. The room
had filled up since he’d arrived Eslingen saw, and glanced at the
wall stick. It was blind, the light no longer falling to cast its
shadows, but from the look of the sky outside the windows, it was
getting close to the first sundown.
    “ It’s good to see you again,”
Cijntien said and settled himself on the stool opposite the other
man.
    “ And you,” Eslingen answered, and
meant it. “You’re looking well.”
    “ Thanks.” Cijntien took a long
swallow of his beer, and Eslingen smiled, watching him. They had
served together years before—more accurately, he had served under
Cijntien, had been a corporal and then a company sergeant under
Cijntien, and had stepped into Cijntien’s office of major sergeant
when the older man had left soldiering for the less dangerous life
of a trader’s man. Or at worst differently dangerous, Eslingen
amended. From the looks of Cijntien’s hands, flecked with the dark
specks of a recent powder burn, long-distance trading had its own
hazards.
    “ I thought you were with Coindarel
these days,” Cijntien went on.
    “ We were paid off,” Eslingen
answered. “This morning, in fact.”
    “ Hard luck. Or maybe not so hard,
depending.” Cijntien leaned forward, planting both elbows on the
table. He was wearing a light jerkin over a plain shirt, and the
grey brown leather matched the faded brown of his hair. “Have you
another place lined up yet?”
    Eslingen shook his head. “Not this season.” He
hesitated, but Cijntien was an old friend, and was probably one of
the few who’d appreciate his promotion. “I had my commission this
spring, you see. I’m not inclined to go back to mere sergeant so
quickly.”
    Cijntien nodded in sympathy. “The stars have been
against you, my Philip. Have you tried a good astrologer?”
    Eslingen laughed. “Have you ever met an astrologer
who could alter the stars once they’re risen? Give over,
Dausset.”
    “ They can mitigate the worst
effects,” Cijntien answered, and Eslingen shook his head. Cijntien
was old-fashioned—he had been born in Guisen, the most conservative
of the northern cities, back when it was part of the League—and
undereducated; no one had ever been able to convince him that even
the greatest magists could work only with what the stars gave
them.
    “ I’m planning to consult someone,”
Eslingen said. “Tomorrow or the next day. But, no, I don’t have a
place, and I wasn’t planning to look until the winter
season.”
    “ As it happens,” Cijntien said, and
smiled. “As it happens, my Philip, I’ve a place for you, if you
want it.”
    “ Oh?” In spite of himself, in spite
of knowing what it must be, Eslingen felt his heart quicken a
little. He was a fish out