Free Point of Hopes by Melissa Scott Page A

trough; the pump handle was iron,
too, and looked nicely weighted. A well-worn path led between the
fences to an outhouse by the back wall.
    The stairs ran up the side of the tavern, and
Eslingen followed Devynck up past the first floor landing,
wondering if he would be offered a space under the eaves with the
servants. She stopped at the second floor, however, producing a
bunch of keys from her belt, unlocked the door and stood aside to
let him past. Eslingen glanced surreptitiously at the lock as he
went by, and was relieved to see a sturdy double bolt.
    “ First on the right,” Devynck said,
and Eslingen went on down the well-scrubbed hall.
    The door she had indicated stood ajar. Eslingen
pushed it open—it too had a solid-looking lock attached—and went on
into the room. It was surprisingly bright, the light of the twin
suns casting double shadows: the single window overlooked the
garden, and there was glass in the casement rather than the cheaper
oiled paper. The bed looked clean enough, the mattress lying bare
on its rope cradle, the plain curtains knotted up to keep away the
dust; as promised, there was a table big enough to seat two for
private dinners, and a single barrel chair. A ceramic stove was
tucked into the corner by the window, its pipe running out the wall
above the casement. It was small, Eslingen thought, but would at
least keep off the worst of the chill in winter, and let him make
his own tea and shaving water. It was all ordinary furniture,
clearly bought second or thirdhand, or relegated to the lodgers’
rooms when Devynck’s own family had no further use for them, but
still perfectly serviceable. He could, he thought, be reasonably
comfortable here.
    As if she had read his mind, Devynck said, “I offer
lodgers a break on the ordinary. Two seillings more a week, and you
can have two meals a day below, dinner and supper. You take what
we’re serving, but it’s generally good, though I say it
myself.”
    The smell that had come from the kitchen was
tempting enough, Eslingen admitted. He looked around the room
again, pretending to study the furniture, and added up the costs.
Five seillings a week wasn’t bad; that came to two pillars a lunar
month—twenty-one months, if he bought nothing else and earned
nothing else, neither of which was likely, and in practice he
should only have to stay in Astreiant until the spring, thirteen
months at most. He glanced at the whitewashed walls, the
well-scrubbed floorboards, and nodded slowly. “It sounds
reasonable, sergeant. I’ll take it.”
    Devynck nodded back. “Meals, too?”
    “ Please.”
    “ Wise man. You won’t find it
cheaper unless you cook for yourself.” Devynck smiled. “I’ll need
the first week in advance.”
    “ Agreed.” Eslingen reached into his
pocket, took out his purse, and searched through the coins until he
found a single heirat. The snake coiling across its face gleamed in
the sunlight as he handed it across. Devynck took it, turned it to
check the royal mint-mark, and slipped it deftly into her own
pocket.
    “ Make yourself at home, Eslingen.
I’ll send someone up with your linens and your key. We lock the
main door at midnight, mind, but one of the boys will let you in if
you come back later.”
    “ Thank you,” Eslingen answered, and
the woman turned away, skirts rustling. Eslingen shut the door
gently behind her, and stood for a moment contemplating the empty,
room. As always when he moved into a new place, either quartered on
some stranger or in lodgings of his own, he felt an odd thrill,
half apprehension, half anticipation; the room, the city, the air,
and the sunlight coming in through the open window, felt somehow
thick, heavy with potential. He set his saddlebags beside the
bed—he would need a clothes press, or at least a chest, he thought,
and wondered if he could borrow something suitable from Devynck—and
went to the window, leaned out into the scent of the fruit trees
and spilled beer, grateful for