Point of Hopes by Melissa Scott Page B

of water in Astreiant, and that was
frightening as well as a challenge; it wouldn’t be bad to have
familiar work, or to be serving with Cijntien again…. Then common
sense reasserted itself. He had no desire to serve six months to a
year in a trading company—of course a shipboard post would probably
be shorter, assuming Cijntien had moved from the caravans to the
more prestigious trading craft, though he himself had never sailed
on anything larger than a river barge, much less fought from
one.
    “ My principal’s still hiring for
this winter’s caravan,” Cijntien said. “It’s a good trip, I’ve done
it five times now, up the Queen’s-road to Anver, cross the Marr at
Breissa and then over the land bridge into the
Silklands.”
    “ I thought that was all desert,”
Eslingen said, but couldn’t suppress a surge of curiosity. He had
always liked travel—men were generally wanderers by their stars,
and he was no exception.
    “ It is, mostly. But the rivers fill
in winter, and the nomads—they’re Haissa, there, mostly, and a lot
of Qaidin—come to the city-sites to trade.” Cijntien looked past
him, not seeing the tavern crowd. “It’s a sight to see, Philip. The
sites, they’re nothing, just the walls for houses, but then the
people come in, pitch their tents, and make a city. They’ve a
traders’ peace, too, at least in the cities, so the various clans
can do their business. We were early once, saw the Haissa setting
up at Saatara. It was like magists’ work, I’ve never seen anything
like it. We came in at first sundown, pitched our camp, and there
was nothing there, just mud brick walls and dirt. And then, just
before second sundown, we heard the Haissa arrive—they’d been held
up, their camp mother said, a storm or something—and the next thing
we knew the city’d sprouted roofs and doors. All oil-silk, mind
you, and those heavy carpets everywhere. When the light hit them,
at first sunup, gods, it was like you’d fallen into a jewelbox. And
there was nothing there before, nothing at all.”
    Eslingen shivered, caught by the picture the older
man had conjured for him. He had met Silklanders before, of course,
had served with any number of them, but they were mostly
dark-skinned Maivi, from the center of the empire. He’d never met a
true Hasiri, from one of the tribes, though like all Leaguer
children he’d been raised on stories of the wild nomads who roamed
the roof of the world; it would be wonderful to see.
    “ After that,” Cijntien went on, “we
take it by easy stages down the imperial roads to Tchalindor. My
principal’s factor is there. And then we come back by
sea.”
    And that, Eslingen thought, was the rub. It would be
a glorious journey, certainly, but it would take the rest of the
year and well into the next spring to reach Tchalindor—the land
bridge was only passable in the winter, when the rivers were
full—and by the time he could get a ship back to Chenedolle or the
League, the best captains would have filled their companies for the
spring campaigns. Still, if the pay was good enough, he could
afford to wait for the winter season…. “What’s your principal
offering?”
    “ Two pillars a lunar month, paid at
Tchalindor, plus bonuses. And of course food, mounts, and shot and
powder are his business—and weapons, too, if you don’t want to
bring your own.”
    Which wasn’t enough, not even if he skimped—and
besides, Eslingen told himself firmly, he’d always been a soldier,
not some caravan guard. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dausset. I
can’t afford it.”
    “ Can you afford to have your head
blown off, somewhere up in the Ile’nord? Or your throat slit some
dark night, more likely?”
    Eslingen laughed. “But I’m good, Dausset. Besides,
if it’s in my stars, it’s in my stars. By all accounts, you can get
your throat cut just as neatly on the caravan roads.”
    Cijntien shook his head the smile fading from his
lips. “I wish you’d come with