Point of Hopes

The first bravo rushed him, sword raised for a chopping blow. Eslingen ducked under the attack, and drove his dagger into the man’s stomach. There was leather under the linen coat, and the blade slid sideways but caught on a lacing and tore into the man’s side. In the same moment, Eslingen brought his sword across, hilt first, and slammed it into the bravo’s face. The man dropped without a word, and Eslingen spun to face the second man, parrying awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Denizard and the third man exchanging thrusts, but his own opponent feinted deftly left and struck right, and the tip of his blade ripped Eslingen’s sleeve before the soldier could dodge away. Eslingen parried the next attack with his sword, and, as the man lunged again, trying to catch that blade, aimed his dagger for the bravo’s throat. It was an awkward blow, but the bravo’s own momentum drove him forward onto the blade, and Eslingen twisted away, freeing himself and his blade, the bravo’s blood hot on his hand. He turned toward Denizard, and saw her step into the second man’s attack, lifting her knee into his groin. He staggered back, blade swinging wildly, and Caiazzo shouted, “Ferran, to me!”

That was enough for Denizard’s attacker, who dropped his blade and ran. Eslingen crouched beside the dead man, wiping his hand on the skirt of the dead man’s coat, and then searched quickly through his pockets. He found a purse, and pocketed it, but there was nothing else. He shook his head–he had been hoping to find tablets, a slate, a paper, something–and turned to the other man, but Denizard was there before him.

“This one’s dead, too,” she said, and Caiazzo smiled, not pleasantly.

“Good. Anything on him?”

Denizard shook her head. “Just his purse, and from the weight of it, he wasn’t paid in advance.”

“Or this one was the banker,” Eslingen said, and held out the purse he’d taken. “There’s coin here.”

“Interesting,” Caiazzo said. “Bring it, let’s see what we were worth.” The boatmen appeared then, breathing hard, and Caiazzo swung to face them. “Ferran, help me with Malivai.”

Eslingen wiped sword and dagger on the dead man’s coat, and resheathed it, his fingers still sticky with the other’s blood. Caiazzo, still supporting Malivai, turned toward the boat, and Denizard fell into step behind him.

“How bad is it?” she asked, and the trader shook his head.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said, and the steersman came to help him, taking part of Malivai’s weight. The oarsmen followed, stolid, not looking at the dead bodies still littering the cobbles, and Eslingen trailed behind them back to the boat, wondering just what he’d gotten himself into this time. Two men dead, and another hurt–even Caiazzo would have a hard time buying his way out of this one. And I, Eslingen thought, don’t have his kind of influence to buy off my second dead man in as many weeks. He glanced at Caiazzo, but the trader’s face was closed and angry, and he decided to keep his questions for later. Together, Caiazzo and Ferran helped Malivai down into the boat, settling him against the cushions, and Caiazzo bent again over the injured man. Denizard stepped down into the boat as the oarsmen prepared to cast off, and Eslingen hesitated on the bank. For an instant, he was tempted to run, to step back into the shadows and turn and run as far and as fast as he could, until he was well out of sight and on the road north again. Then the magist looked up at him, her face curious, and Eslingen shook the thought away. It wouldn’t work, for one thing, he thought; and, for another, I’ve given my word here. And, most of all, I want to know what’s going on. He climbed into the boat and seated himself beside Denizard, letting his hand trail in the cool water, washing the blood away.

The landing by Caiazzo’s house was mercifully empty, and the boatmen vanished with the second sunset. Even so, Caiazzo and Ferran kept Malivai more or less upright on the short walk to the house– hiding an injured man from any prying neighbors’ eyes, Eslingen knew–and the trader only seemed to relax again when the doors closed behind him.

“Help Malivai upstairs,” he said to Ferran, and the steersman hesitated. “Aice will show you the way.”

Denizard nodded and started up the stairs. Ferran followed, almost carrying the messenger, who sagged visibly in his grip, and the senior steward appeared in shirt and breeches to help them. Caiazzo looked back at Eslingen. “Get yourself cleaned up, and join us. I’ll want you there.”

Eslingen nodded, for the first time really seeing the rip in his sleeve. The shirt was ripped as well: both would be difficult to mend, and expensive to replace. He sighed, and headed down the hall to the servants’ stair.

Candle and stand were waiting just inside his door, and he lit the taper from the lamp that burned constantly at the end of the hall before going back into his room. He shrugged out of his coat, swearing at the length of the tear–it ran from the edge of the cuff halfway up the shoulder on the outside of the arm, impossible to disguise–and swore again when he saw his shirt. It, too, was badly torn, and probably beyond saving. He crumpled it into a ball, and only then realized that the bravo’s sword had touched him as well. A long scratch ran along his forearm, showing a few drops of blood already drying. He scowled at that, and fumbled in his clothes chest for a clean rag. He had no desire to ruin a second shirt with bloodstains.

There was a knock at the door then, and he lifted his head. “Come in.”

One of the maidservants–Thouvenin, her name was, Anjevi Thouvenin, Eslingen remembered, and mustered a tired grin–stood in the half‑open doorway, a steaming basin in her hand. “The steward said you’d want to wash.”

She’d brought a length of bandage, too, Eslingen saw, and he took that gratefully, used it to clean the blood from the scratch. With her help, he laid a strip of cloth over the bit that was still bleeding and tied it in place, then eased himself into a clean shirt. He used the rest of the water to wash his face and hands–the right still felt sticky–and then shrugged himself into his second‑best coat. “Do you know where Caiazzo is?” he asked, and the woman gri

“The other end of the hall. Don’t worry, you’ll see the lights.”

She was as good as her word. At the far end of the house, a door stood open, spilling a wedge of candlelight across the floor. As Eslingen approached, he could hear voices, and then the steward came out, wiping his hands on an apron.

“Oh, Eslingen, good. He wants you.”

“I dare say,” Eslingen muttered, and stepped through the door. The room smelled of boiling herbs, a scent he recognized from the army physicians’ tents, and he wasn’t surprised to see a small pot simmering on the lit stove. Malivai lay in the great bed, propped up on pillows, a wide length of bandage wrapping his ribs. Above it, the skin was bruised and sore‑looking, and Eslingen winced in sympathy. Caiazzo, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up at the soldier’s approach, but went on talking.

“–not as bad as we thought. Damn it, Mal, you’ve no right scaring us like that. Eslingen here just joined my household, what’s he going to think of me?”

The man in the bed managed a smile, but he looked exhausted. Caiazzo glanced back at Eslingen. “Nothing’s punctured, just a long cut along the bone, and it looks clean enough. Of course, if they were Ajanine, we don’t really need to worry about poison, that’s a Chadroni trick.”

“If they were Ajanine,” Eslingen said, “they wouldn’t have run.” He sounded more sour than he’d meant, and Caiazzo fixed him with a stare.

“And I dare say you would know.”

“The wine’s hot, Hanse,” Denizard said, from the stove, and Caiazzo looked away.

“Bring a cup, then, please.” He waited while the magist ladled a cup full of the steaming liquid–it smelled of wine and sugar and herbs and something vaguely bitter, probably one of the esoterics– and then helped Malivai take a cautious sip. “Better?”