Point of Hopes by Melissa Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

been able to see, the queen herself might have
been as faceless, her features completely hidden by the brim of a
hat banded with the royal circlet. He had watched her when he
could, fascinated—he had never seen the Queen of Chenedolle—but she
had barely seemed real. Only once, as he brought his half of the
company to a perfect halt, had he seen her move, and then she had
leaned sideways to talk to the Mareschale de Mourel who was her
leman and acknowledged favorite, a gloved hand lifted to her
shadowed face, as though to hide—a smile? A frown? It was
impossible even to guess.
    “ Eslingen.”
    He turned, recognizing the voice, hand going to his
hat in automatic salute. “Captain.”
    Connat Bathias nodded in response and looked past
his lieutenant to the last half-dozen troopers lined up at the
paymasters’ table. A royal intendant stood with them to supervise
the payout, conspicuous in her black-banded judicial robe, and
there were three well-armed men—back-and-breast, short-barreled
calivers, swords, and daggers—at her back, guarding access to the
iron-bound chest that held the money. “How goes it?”
    “ Almost done,” Eslingen answered.
“No complaints so far.” Nor were there likely to be: Bathias’s
company was made up mostly of experienced troopers, who knew what
their pay should be, and the royal paymasters were generally
honest, at least under the queen’s eye.
    “ And the horses and the
weapons?”
    Eslingen looked away again. “As agreed. The
Horsemaster took the mounts in hand, and we let the people who
wanted to buy back their weapons. Those who didn’t already own
them, of course.” Which was well over half the troop, and those
that didn’t had mostly paid the captain’s inflated price to keep
their calivers: most of them would want to hire out again as soon
as possible, and this late in the season most captains would want
people with their own equipment. There was still plenty of fighting
to be done, along the Chadroni Gap and north past the Meis River,
and Dragons were always in demand, particularly for the nasty
northern wars, but there was no time to outfit a man.
    Bathias nodded. The horses were part of his
perquisites, to sell or keep as he chose, and Eslingen suspected he
would sell most of them: with the troop disbanding, there was no
point in keeping half a hundred animals, and there were other
captains who would be willing to buy. Coindarel had persuaded
Aimeri de Martreuil to add an extra company to his Auxiliary Horse,
and to take most of the gentleman-officers, the commissioned
officers; he would probably buy the horses, as well. “I’m willing
to let you purchase your mounts, Eslingen. There’s no point in
seeing you unhorsed.”
    Eslingen hesitated, tempted and rather flattered by
the offer, but shook his head. He couldn’t afford to pay for
stabling in the city for more than a month or two, and he had no
way of knowing how long it would be before he found work he liked.
“Thank you, sir, but I’ll have to pass.”
    Bathias nodded again, and looked uneasily toward the
empty platform. He was a young man, the fourth child, Eslingen
understood, of an impoverished Ile’nord noble, with two older
sisters and a brother between him and whatever income the family
estates provided: a commission and an introduction to the
Prince-marshal de Coindarel would be the best his mother could do
for him. Not that an introduction to Coindarel was the worst she
could have done, Eslingen added, with an inward smile. Bathias was
young, and very handsome in the golden Ile’nord fashion; his hair,
long and naturally curling, glowed in the double light of sun and
winter-sun like polished amber, and his skin had taken only
delicate color from the spring campaign. Coindarel notoriously had
an eye for a pretty young man, and was inclined to indulge himself
in his officers. He picked his juniors, the sergeants and
lieutenants who did the real work, with more care, but, all else
being equal, a