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credit? For what?”
    “Fencing lessons.” Eslingen was sitting very straight, a sure sign that he was abashed and trying to brazen it out. “And it wasn’t me who started it, Gerrat Duca gave him credit first, and that’s five years ago.”
    “But you let him go on?” Rathe couldn’t keep the disapproval from his tone, and Eslingen shrugged.
    “I could hardly stop, seeing as how the senior master a lready approved. And, frankly, I thought he’d pay.”
    What in the world would give you that idea ? Rathe managed to swallow the words. “At least he can’t owe you that much.”
    Eslingen looked away. “Actually, I bought his vowals from Soumet.”
    “You didn’t.”
    Eslingen shrugged. “Soumet needed the cash, and I had it, after the masque. The idea was that it might be easier for a gentleman to get the money out of him, and Soumet’s no ge ntleman. It seemed like a reasonable investment.”
    “How much does he owe you?” Rathe asked, after a m oment.
    “Just under a petty-crown.”
    “Astree’s—” Rathe stopped himself again. “That’s a lot of fencing lessons.”
    “Five years’ worth, plus extras.” Eslingen took a deep breath. “I’m summoned to the court.”
    “Oh, Philip.”
    Eslingen shrugged. “He always dressed well. Maybe I’ll get a shirt or two out of it. Or a coat…his coats are very nice.”
    Rathe was silent for a long moment. Who in their right mind would give that much credit to a fencing student, no matter how exalted his birth, especially one who was dependent on his sister for his maintenance? And, yes, he knew perfectly well that one aristocratic student, especially one as notorious as de Calior, could bring in a dozen others, but that didn’t begin to cover what de Calior owed. “How in Tyrseis’s name did he get away with it?”
    “He’s charming,” Eslingen said. “Good-looking, cheerful, well-dressed, always willing to join whatever’s going. I’m not sure he has a thought in his head—”
    “Certainly not where money’s concerned.”
    Eslingen nodded ruefully. “But he’s truly charming.”
    There were any number of things he wanted to say, but Rathe wasn’t sure he had the right to say them, or that they wouldn’t hit harder than he meant. “Let’s hope you get something you can use,” he said, and Eslingen grinned in answer.
     
     

Chapter Two
     
     
    The court was not what he had expected. Eslingen put his handkerchief to his mouth, less to block the smells—though they were ripe enough—than to hide his laughter. Somehow he had thought that the debtors’ court would be more dignified, somber merchants presiding over the demise of their mortally chastened fellows, a sort of court-martial of commerce. But instead the vast hall with its arcade along one side open to the courtyard was jammed with goods and creditors in full cry, merchants-resident and their advocates clustered around the assessment books or scurrying along the ranks of goods piled high against the walls, while the lesser creditors, shopkeepers, taverners, a master-tailor still with pins stuck in ranks through the breast of her handsome bodice, huddled and gestured, trying to guess which unlikely object they would be offered in payment of their debts. Dandin de Calior was nowhere in sight—which was just as well, Eslingen thought. The stout, red-faced woman with the Lacemakers’ badge pinned to her cap looked ready to tear him limb from limb, and he could hardly blame her. De Calior was far too personable for anyone’s good, including his own.
    Of course, in his own case, it wasn’t entirely de Calior’s fault. But Soumet had needed cash in hand, with a sister cal ling in family obligations for her second son’s apprentice-fees, and Eslingen himself had been making enough money that he thought he could carry the debt a little longer. He had been much in demand among the Masters of Defense since Aubine’s conspiracy at midwinter, and he’d thought de Calior willing to