Bonfire Night - A Seasonal Treat from Astreiant
It has been pointed out to me that Point of Knives doesn't actually cover the moment that Nicolas Rathe and Philip Eslingen get together for the first time, which I couldn't help but take as a friendly challenge. Unfortunately, there's just not room enough to wrap this in a proper mystery, so I offer it to you as a seasonal treat instead.
It was approaching eleven o’clock on Bonfire Night, and Nicolas Rathe was not working. Chief Point Monteia had sent him away two hours before as a distraction - too many people wanted to congratulate or embrace or buy a drink for or otherwise celebrate the summer fire night with the hero who had rescued the city’s stolen children at Midsummer, and it was interfering with the abilities of the rest of the station’s staff to go about their job. Rathe couldn’t say he was entirely sorry. Since his apprentice years, he’d rarely seen a holiday when he wasn’t on duty, and the fire nights, Bonfire Night at the height of summer, Balefire Night at the depth of winter, were generally rowdy enough that all hands were needed to keep Astreiant from going up in flames.
He had shed his jerkin when he left Monteia and the others, and borrowed a floppy-brimmed hat from Dahlbie at Point of Sighs, so for the moment no one seemed to recognize him. If he kept to the shadows that shouldn’t change, but he pulled the hat a little lower as he reached a cobbled square and the crowd of shopkeepers gathered around the fire at its center. They were a respectable lot, and relatively sober; if a handful of apprentices had linked arms to sing caravan ballads, the winter-sun sending long shadows across the cobbles, none of their masters seemed troubled by it. Rathe skirted singers and the half-dozen sober elders who had dragged chairs from their houses to sit in comfort while they waited for the midnight chimes, and made his way down Satin Street where it ran between the Bridge Road and the Serry. At the corner, he could see the flames leaping as high as the roof of the converted stables, and hear the sound of fiddles and banty-drums, and thanked all the gods that he was not on duty. The Serry was Point of Sighs’ problem, anyway, not Point of Hopes’.
If he had any sense at all, he’d head back to his own lodgings on the border of Point of Dreams, toss a handful of rosemary on the small fire that would be burning in the courtyard there, and go to bed before he heard midnight strike. Even at his current rank, senior adjunct point at Point of Hopes, second in command, a solid night’s rest was not something to be turned away lightly.
Except that he wasn’t entirely in the mood for that. He’d been keyed up for work, ready to break heads or at least break up fights, and now that he was released his blood was still up. What he really wanted - He stopped abruptly, and made himself finish the thought. If he could have anything he wanted, he wanted a glass or three with Philip Eslingen, the soldier with whom he’d rescued the children, a glass of wine and a late supper and a game of dice and the flirtation that had been growing between them ever since they got back to the city.
And that was a foolish business, given that Eslingen remained in the service of Hanselin Caiazzo, who had a finger in a good half of the illegal trades carried on southriver, from Customs Point to Point of Dreams. It was made worse by the fact that Rathe himself had found that job for him, and worst of all by Eslingen’s seeming content with the business - except for the heat Rathe had seen in his eyes every time they’d met these last weeks. The only sensible thing to do was to avoid him, avoid it, the tension and the problem both, but Rathe wasn’t feeling sensible. He was free on Bonfire Night, and surely that granted him some dispensation.
He was at the corner where the Old Brown Dog stood open for business - no bonfire here, it was a Leaguer tavern, just the sound of conversation and the trill of a flute, but it was where Eslingen had lived and worked when he’d first come to Astreiant. If the man was free, and on Bonfire Night, that seemed unlikely, it was possible he’d come here to celebrate among friends.
Rathe made a face even as he stepped over the threshold. More probably, Eslingen was at Caiazzo’s back, precisely where a bodyguard should be, sweating out one more party in some merchant’s compound in Customs Point. This was a waste of time, and foolish beyond permission.
But no, there he was, unmistakable even in the dim light, propped in a corner with his back braced against the wall and his feet on the table, his hat discarded beside his tankard. Rathe threaded his way through the tables, smiling in spite of himself, and couldn’t help feeling his heart leap as Eslingen looked up and a weary frown changed to a grin.
“Why, Adjunct Point.”
Rathe winced, but Eslingen had calculated his tone to carry no further than the neighboring tables.
“I was sure you’d be working tonight.”
“I was,” Rathe answered, and seated himself on the stool opposite. “Monteia sent me away as a distraction.”
Eslingen swung his feet off the table, and lifted his hand to signal the potboy. “Another summer ale for me, and a pint of wine for my friend.”
“Chadroni?” Rathe asked, without much hope, but to his surprise the boy nodded.
“And another cheese tart,” Eslingen continued. He looked back at Rathe. “Caiazzo said he found me a bit too conspicuous tonight himself.”
“Bonfire Night’s always busy,” Rathe said.
“I don’t know, everyone seems in remarkably good humor.” Eslingen drained the last of his tankard and leaned back as the boy returned with its replacement and a jug and glass for Rathe.
Rathe poured himself a glassful - still cool from the cellars, smelling faintly of pears - and took a careful swallow. “Good humor now, but once the winter-sun’s set….” He shrugged, thinking of part years. “Everyone’s drunk, and what seemed like a good idea at ten o’clock looks a deal less pleasing after midnight’s struck.” And this flirtation might easily go the same way, he thought - probably would, given their differences.
“That can happen any day of the year,” Eslingen said. “We don’t have the bonfires in the League - not in Esling, anyway, and not any of the other cities that I know of. I’m amazed the city doesn’t burn to the ground.”
Rathe tapped his glass to ward off ill luck. “All the gods forbid! All the bonfires are supposed to be built inside a magist’s ring, and, believe me, we’ve spent the last two weeks banging that bit of information into people’s heads. Just like we do twice a year every year.”
The boy reappeared with the tart, and Eslingen helped himself to a slice, cursing as a piece of onion slithered free. Rathe took one himself, went on indistinctly, “Mind you, most people aren’t fool enough to build a fire without a ring, it’s more making sure the magist who sets it knows what she’s doing.”
“I’d think the magists would be fairly well chastened at the moment,” Eslingen said. “After the business with the children.”
“You’d be surprised,” Rathe said darkly. And that was another depressing line of thought. He shoved it aside and smiled at Eslingen. “So if you don’t have bonfires, what do you do in Esling? And what do you call it, anyway? It can’t be Bonfire Night.”
“Fire Night,” Eslingen answered. For a moment, Rathe thought there was hint of color on the milk-pale cheeks. “And - it’s mostly kissing games, in Esling.”
Rathe’s breath caught in his throat. If ever there was an opportunity, this was it, no matter how ill-advised it might be in the long run. He shoved that tangle aside - no harm in going just a little further - and swallowed hard. “Intriguing.”
“I could show you one or two,” Eslingen said. He was grinning, but there was a nervousness in his eyes. “Expand your horizons.”
“It’s always important to make foreigners feel at home.” Rathe rose from his stool before he could think better of it, moved to the seat beside Eslingen. This close, he could smell the man’s perfume, musk and amber, and the headier scent of his sweat.
Eslingen licked his lips. “Let’s see…. When the clock strikes, all fellows kiss -“
“Sadly, I don’t hear a clock,” Rathe said.
“Then there’s dice.” Eslingen’s breath was coming faster now. “The simplest one’s to see who rolls sevens first, and he claims a kiss from the company, or you can lay kisses as coins, except you have to keep count -“
“I have dice.” Rathe reached into his purse, tossed the bone cubes onto the table. They clattered to a stop, three pips and four, and Eslingen grinned.
“Claim your kiss, Adjunct Point.”
“You would seem to be the company,” Rathe answered, and leaned in to kiss him. Eslingen’s lips parted beneath his, and then he pulled away. “Your turn, Philip.”
Eslingen hefted the dice and let them fall. They spun across the table, stopped again at three and four. One eyebrow quirked upward. “I like your dice, Nico, but I don’t think they’re honest.”
“And here Maritsa Lemuer swore up and down they were entirely ordinary.” Rathe couldn’t hide his own grin as Eslingen leaned over him, kissing him thoroughly.
“Not that I’m complaining, mind,” Eslingen said, after a moment. He was gratifyingly breathless, and he clutched Rathe’s thigh for balance. “You smell of the fires. Go ahead, your turn.”
Rathe threw the dice again - another seven - and turned to kiss Eslingen again, longer and deeper still.
“All right, my lads, find a room or bank the fire.”
They broke apart, and Rathe felt his face heat as he turned to face the Brown Dog’s owner, Aagte Devynck. She shook her head at both of them, though she seemed hard-pressed to hide a smirk.
“And both of you should should know better - Philip, you know I keep a quiet house. Best be off with you before midnight strikes.”
“Sorry, Aagte.” Eslingen fumbled for his purse, but Devynck waved it away.
“On the house - call it your lost wages, since I know your friend there won’t take fees.”
Rathe opened his mouth to protest - he didn’t take fees, especially not from his friends - and Eslingen’s hand closed tight around his wrist.
“Thank you, Aagte,” Eslingen said, meekly, and pulled Rathe to his feet. “And a good night to you.”
Rathe let himself be dragged to the door, grateful that no one seemed to be paying them much attention, but in the cool of the street he stopped. “And where are we going?”
“You heard Aagte,” Eslingen answered. “Let’s find a room.”
“There won’t be any,” Rathe said.
“Fine.” Eslingen looked around, still holding Rathe’s arm, and tugged him toward the nearest alley. “It’s dark enough -“
“I am not going to -“ Rathe stopped, his face flaming, not sure how to finish the sentence. I’m not going to fuck you in the public street? Not going to let you fuck me in the street? He was well aware he hadn’t yet been invited to do either.
“I lodge with Caiazzo,” Eslingen said. “I can’t bring you there.”
Nor can I be seen to go there. Rathe stood frozen for an instant. He had rooms of his own, private enough, safe enough; the only question was how much he’d regret it when this folly inevitably came to an end…. No, he thought, no, this is what I want, and I will just this once not borrow trouble - “My rooms are just by Point of Dreams,” he said. “If we hurry, we can make it before midnight.”
It was approaching eleven o’clock on Bonfire Night, and Nicolas Rathe was not working. Chief Point Monteia had sent him away two hours before as a distraction - too many people wanted to congratulate or embrace or buy a drink for or otherwise celebrate the summer fire night with the hero who had rescued the city’s stolen children at Midsummer, and it was interfering with the abilities of the rest of the station’s staff to go about their job. Rathe couldn’t say he was entirely sorry. Since his apprentice years, he’d rarely seen a holiday when he wasn’t on duty, and the fire nights, Bonfire Night at the height of summer, Balefire Night at the depth of winter, were generally rowdy enough that all hands were needed to keep Astreiant from going up in flames.
He had shed his jerkin when he left Monteia and the others, and borrowed a floppy-brimmed hat from Dahlbie at Point of Sighs, so for the moment no one seemed to recognize him. If he kept to the shadows that shouldn’t change, but he pulled the hat a little lower as he reached a cobbled square and the crowd of shopkeepers gathered around the fire at its center. They were a respectable lot, and relatively sober; if a handful of apprentices had linked arms to sing caravan ballads, the winter-sun sending long shadows across the cobbles, none of their masters seemed troubled by it. Rathe skirted singers and the half-dozen sober elders who had dragged chairs from their houses to sit in comfort while they waited for the midnight chimes, and made his way down Satin Street where it ran between the Bridge Road and the Serry. At the corner, he could see the flames leaping as high as the roof of the converted stables, and hear the sound of fiddles and banty-drums, and thanked all the gods that he was not on duty. The Serry was Point of Sighs’ problem, anyway, not Point of Hopes’.
If he had any sense at all, he’d head back to his own lodgings on the border of Point of Dreams, toss a handful of rosemary on the small fire that would be burning in the courtyard there, and go to bed before he heard midnight strike. Even at his current rank, senior adjunct point at Point of Hopes, second in command, a solid night’s rest was not something to be turned away lightly.
Except that he wasn’t entirely in the mood for that. He’d been keyed up for work, ready to break heads or at least break up fights, and now that he was released his blood was still up. What he really wanted - He stopped abruptly, and made himself finish the thought. If he could have anything he wanted, he wanted a glass or three with Philip Eslingen, the soldier with whom he’d rescued the children, a glass of wine and a late supper and a game of dice and the flirtation that had been growing between them ever since they got back to the city.
And that was a foolish business, given that Eslingen remained in the service of Hanselin Caiazzo, who had a finger in a good half of the illegal trades carried on southriver, from Customs Point to Point of Dreams. It was made worse by the fact that Rathe himself had found that job for him, and worst of all by Eslingen’s seeming content with the business - except for the heat Rathe had seen in his eyes every time they’d met these last weeks. The only sensible thing to do was to avoid him, avoid it, the tension and the problem both, but Rathe wasn’t feeling sensible. He was free on Bonfire Night, and surely that granted him some dispensation.
He was at the corner where the Old Brown Dog stood open for business - no bonfire here, it was a Leaguer tavern, just the sound of conversation and the trill of a flute, but it was where Eslingen had lived and worked when he’d first come to Astreiant. If the man was free, and on Bonfire Night, that seemed unlikely, it was possible he’d come here to celebrate among friends.
Rathe made a face even as he stepped over the threshold. More probably, Eslingen was at Caiazzo’s back, precisely where a bodyguard should be, sweating out one more party in some merchant’s compound in Customs Point. This was a waste of time, and foolish beyond permission.
But no, there he was, unmistakable even in the dim light, propped in a corner with his back braced against the wall and his feet on the table, his hat discarded beside his tankard. Rathe threaded his way through the tables, smiling in spite of himself, and couldn’t help feeling his heart leap as Eslingen looked up and a weary frown changed to a grin.
“Why, Adjunct Point.”
Rathe winced, but Eslingen had calculated his tone to carry no further than the neighboring tables.
“I was sure you’d be working tonight.”
“I was,” Rathe answered, and seated himself on the stool opposite. “Monteia sent me away as a distraction.”
Eslingen swung his feet off the table, and lifted his hand to signal the potboy. “Another summer ale for me, and a pint of wine for my friend.”
“Chadroni?” Rathe asked, without much hope, but to his surprise the boy nodded.
“And another cheese tart,” Eslingen continued. He looked back at Rathe. “Caiazzo said he found me a bit too conspicuous tonight himself.”
“Bonfire Night’s always busy,” Rathe said.
“I don’t know, everyone seems in remarkably good humor.” Eslingen drained the last of his tankard and leaned back as the boy returned with its replacement and a jug and glass for Rathe.
Rathe poured himself a glassful - still cool from the cellars, smelling faintly of pears - and took a careful swallow. “Good humor now, but once the winter-sun’s set….” He shrugged, thinking of part years. “Everyone’s drunk, and what seemed like a good idea at ten o’clock looks a deal less pleasing after midnight’s struck.” And this flirtation might easily go the same way, he thought - probably would, given their differences.
“That can happen any day of the year,” Eslingen said. “We don’t have the bonfires in the League - not in Esling, anyway, and not any of the other cities that I know of. I’m amazed the city doesn’t burn to the ground.”
Rathe tapped his glass to ward off ill luck. “All the gods forbid! All the bonfires are supposed to be built inside a magist’s ring, and, believe me, we’ve spent the last two weeks banging that bit of information into people’s heads. Just like we do twice a year every year.”
The boy reappeared with the tart, and Eslingen helped himself to a slice, cursing as a piece of onion slithered free. Rathe took one himself, went on indistinctly, “Mind you, most people aren’t fool enough to build a fire without a ring, it’s more making sure the magist who sets it knows what she’s doing.”
“I’d think the magists would be fairly well chastened at the moment,” Eslingen said. “After the business with the children.”
“You’d be surprised,” Rathe said darkly. And that was another depressing line of thought. He shoved it aside and smiled at Eslingen. “So if you don’t have bonfires, what do you do in Esling? And what do you call it, anyway? It can’t be Bonfire Night.”
“Fire Night,” Eslingen answered. For a moment, Rathe thought there was hint of color on the milk-pale cheeks. “And - it’s mostly kissing games, in Esling.”
Rathe’s breath caught in his throat. If ever there was an opportunity, this was it, no matter how ill-advised it might be in the long run. He shoved that tangle aside - no harm in going just a little further - and swallowed hard. “Intriguing.”
“I could show you one or two,” Eslingen said. He was grinning, but there was a nervousness in his eyes. “Expand your horizons.”
“It’s always important to make foreigners feel at home.” Rathe rose from his stool before he could think better of it, moved to the seat beside Eslingen. This close, he could smell the man’s perfume, musk and amber, and the headier scent of his sweat.
Eslingen licked his lips. “Let’s see…. When the clock strikes, all fellows kiss -“
“Sadly, I don’t hear a clock,” Rathe said.
“Then there’s dice.” Eslingen’s breath was coming faster now. “The simplest one’s to see who rolls sevens first, and he claims a kiss from the company, or you can lay kisses as coins, except you have to keep count -“
“I have dice.” Rathe reached into his purse, tossed the bone cubes onto the table. They clattered to a stop, three pips and four, and Eslingen grinned.
“Claim your kiss, Adjunct Point.”
“You would seem to be the company,” Rathe answered, and leaned in to kiss him. Eslingen’s lips parted beneath his, and then he pulled away. “Your turn, Philip.”
Eslingen hefted the dice and let them fall. They spun across the table, stopped again at three and four. One eyebrow quirked upward. “I like your dice, Nico, but I don’t think they’re honest.”
“And here Maritsa Lemuer swore up and down they were entirely ordinary.” Rathe couldn’t hide his own grin as Eslingen leaned over him, kissing him thoroughly.
“Not that I’m complaining, mind,” Eslingen said, after a moment. He was gratifyingly breathless, and he clutched Rathe’s thigh for balance. “You smell of the fires. Go ahead, your turn.”
Rathe threw the dice again - another seven - and turned to kiss Eslingen again, longer and deeper still.
“All right, my lads, find a room or bank the fire.”
They broke apart, and Rathe felt his face heat as he turned to face the Brown Dog’s owner, Aagte Devynck. She shook her head at both of them, though she seemed hard-pressed to hide a smirk.
“And both of you should should know better - Philip, you know I keep a quiet house. Best be off with you before midnight strikes.”
“Sorry, Aagte.” Eslingen fumbled for his purse, but Devynck waved it away.
“On the house - call it your lost wages, since I know your friend there won’t take fees.”
Rathe opened his mouth to protest - he didn’t take fees, especially not from his friends - and Eslingen’s hand closed tight around his wrist.
“Thank you, Aagte,” Eslingen said, meekly, and pulled Rathe to his feet. “And a good night to you.”
Rathe let himself be dragged to the door, grateful that no one seemed to be paying them much attention, but in the cool of the street he stopped. “And where are we going?”
“You heard Aagte,” Eslingen answered. “Let’s find a room.”
“There won’t be any,” Rathe said.
“Fine.” Eslingen looked around, still holding Rathe’s arm, and tugged him toward the nearest alley. “It’s dark enough -“
“I am not going to -“ Rathe stopped, his face flaming, not sure how to finish the sentence. I’m not going to fuck you in the public street? Not going to let you fuck me in the street? He was well aware he hadn’t yet been invited to do either.
“I lodge with Caiazzo,” Eslingen said. “I can’t bring you there.”
Nor can I be seen to go there. Rathe stood frozen for an instant. He had rooms of his own, private enough, safe enough; the only question was how much he’d regret it when this folly inevitably came to an end…. No, he thought, no, this is what I want, and I will just this once not borrow trouble - “My rooms are just by Point of Dreams,” he said. “If we hurry, we can make it before midnight.”