Point of Dreams

The stairway opened onto a massive open space, a room that ran the full length of the building under the ceiling’s arched beams. Light streamed in through another wall that was almost entirely windows, not good glass, green and bubbled, but glass all the same, and Eslingen was reminded instantly of a billet he’d once had south of Ivre. The town–it was a newly freed mercantile center–had offered them the use of the former landame’s hall, and they’d discovered too late that the townspeople had already removed everything that was portable, including the wooden partition walls. The company had spent most of the summer sleeping in the single long room without even shutters to close the emptied window frames. It had been surprisingly comfortable–the weather had been ideal, the ventilation superb even in Ivre’s heat–but the lack of privacy had become tiresome in the end.

This hall wasn’t as big, but it was almost as empty, except for the rank of weapons that filled the far wall. There was a wild mix of blades, heavy cavalry swords and daggers long and short and lighter dueling weapons, as well as spontoons and a set of halberds and a handful of oddities like old‑fashioned bucklers and mailed gloves, all seemingly in perfect condition, and Eslingen wondered just how much it had cost the Masters in fees to keep them all here, and not locked away at the Aretoneia. Outside the window, sunlight glittered on the river, the water cold and grey as steel, and the roofs of Point of Hearts on the far bank glowed red and blue in its light, but from the look of the sky, already filling with clouds, the light wouldn’t last much longer. The air smelled of a cold stove and the river, tar and damp, and Eslingen flexed his shoulders under his coat. It was almost too cool now, but not once the fights began.

The admitting masters were already there, talking quietly at the far end of the hall, and there was a drummer, too, tuning her paniers in the farthest corner. The soft, dull notes filled the damp air like a live creature calling. Duca saw them coming, and moved to meet them, the other masters hanging back a little. There were three men and a woman, each one dressed as though for a different play, and Eslingen wondered again what he was letting himself in for. There was still time to refuse, to apologize politely and say that a mistake had been made, that he wasn’t the man they were looking for. He could stand the embarrassment–except that Caiazzo would lose face, and that, Eslingen thought, was a responsibility he could not afford.

“Lieutenant,” Duca said, and Eslingen sketched a bow, knowing he was committed. Caiazzo fell back a step, leaving him to his fate, and Eslingen glanced back to see him smiling faintly, as though the situation amused him.

“Master Duca.”

“Welcome to our hall.” Duca gestured widely, bringing the other masters forward. “My colleagues, proving master Sergeant Peyo Rieux, challenging masters Ja

The woman–Rieux–blinked once at that, but there was no other response. She and Duca would be the arbiters of the match, and Eslingen eyed the three men, wishing he knew more about the guild’s rules and regulations. Soumet was short, but built like a young ox, with an ox’s flat, expressionless face and liquid eyes, hair tied back under a sailor’s kerchief that went oddly with his good linen. Of all of them, he was dressed for a match, coatless and barefoot; the other two were slim and elegant in well‑cut coats and careful paint, but there the resemblance ended. One–de Vicheau?–was two fingers’ breadth the taller, lean and severe, pale hair pulled back with a black ribbon that matched his breeches and the trim on his dark grey coat. He looked like a young landseur, and Eslingen wondered fleetingly if he was one of the Vidame of Vicheau’s numerous progeny. She had at least half a dozen sons by as many fathers, all dropped as lightly as a dog whelps; she took ferocious care of her only daughter, and reportedly had settled a farm on the man who had sired her. But that was probably what he wanted people to think, Eslingen added silently. More likely he came from the town of Vicheau, and added the article to match his looks– or Duca added it for him, the way he did for me. The third man was dressed like a fop, his long hands painted with tiny golden suns to match the embroidered ones scattered across the wide skirts of his coat, but there were corded muscles beneath the paint, and Eslingen was not deceived. None of them were going to be easy opponents; about the best he could hope for was that they would choose styles that he could handle.

“Any objections?” Duca’s tone made it clear the question was mere formality. “Then let’s begin. Lieutenant, you understand the rules?”

Eslingen schooled his face to neutrality. “I’ve had them explained to me.”

Duca smiled slightly, and Eslingen blinked. The trick of gesture really was very like Caiazzo himself. “Then you’ll excuse me if I explain again.” He gestured to the woman at his side. “Sergeant Rieux and I will be the judges of the match. It’s our business to call the points, but we’re also assessing style and performance. You’ll fight each of the challengers–they’re all full masters of the guild, in good standing–with their choice of weapon. If they choose a weapon you don’t know, you may refuse, and another will be chosen, but two refusals will disqualify you. Do you understand?”

Eslingen nodded, newly aware of the stillness in the hall. Even the drummer had brought her pans to absolute silence, both palms flat against the drumheads. Duca might have agreed to Caiazzo’s plan, but not all the masters were happy with it.

“Normally this is more of an event,” Rieux said. “A public event. But, under the circumstances…”

“There are precedents,” Siredy said easily, and the ox‑faced man scowled.

“Performance is the test.”

“Which is something that we, us here today, are more than capable of judging,” Rieux said. It sounded like an old argument, and Soumet dipped his head.

“I’m not denying that, Sergeant. What I’m saying is we’re not testing how the man will fight with a crowd looking on–no offense to anyone, Sergeant, to the lieutenant or to Master Duca, but we all know how different it is onstage.”

De Vicheau sighed. “May we remember the reason for this test? He may never go onstage.”

“But he’d be one of us,” Soumet said.

“The point is that Gaifier’s dead,” Rieux said.

“He was hardly well last year,” Siredy murmured. “And look how that went.”

“But he’d won his place fairly in public battle,” Soumet said. “Not like this.”

“I can’t do it alone,” Rieux said. “And you, Urvan, are hardly the man to help me.”

“I know my skills,” Soumet said. “No one’s ever complained of me.”

He looked more than ever like an ox, and Duca lifted his hand.

“Enough.”

Instantly, Soumet fell silent, but Duca gave him a long look before he finally spoke. “The match continues. Have you decided your order?”

“Siredy won the toss,” de Vicheau said.

“Very well. What weapon?”

“Dueling sword and dagger.”

That was a relief, Eslingen thought–those were weapons he knew, even if he was hardly a duelist–and he risked a glance at Caiazzo. The merchant‑venturer stood with his arms folded, visibly withdrawn from the occasion. I brought you this far, the stance seemed to say. Now make the most of it.

“Is that acceptable to you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes.” Eslingen nodded.

“Then choose your weapons.” Duca waved a hand at the racks against the wall, and Siredy moved smoothly toward them, already sca