“She said it wouldn’t be hard to get behind you,” Rathe said.
Alemendes bridled. “It certainly wouldn’t be easy! But—not impossible, I’ll grant you that. Still, I say we should have seen him.”
“Could he have gotten in after you left?” Sohier asked.
“Not unless he’s clever as a climbing thief,” Alemendes answered. “There’s magelocks on all the doors, and I defy you to break them without leaving signs.”
“We’ll look for that,” Rathe said, and Sohier nodded. He heard footsteps outside then, and the woman Mielle pushed open the door.
“The alchemists are here,” she announced, and stood back to let them enter.
Rathe nodded in recognition, but the strapping young woman who was the leader of the team had eyes only for the body. The other journeymen hovered outside the box, not willing to push past two pointsmen to get in.
“Dis Aidones, not another one.” She stooped over the body, long-fingered hands busy at neck and chest, then reached for the bottle only to put it aside with a grimace.
“Another one?” Rathe asked.
The journeyman nodded, folding back her sleeves to reveal a stylized version of the Starsmith’s badge tattooed on her forearm. “We’ve had two suicides already this month. Fanier blames Malfiliatre.”
Rathe grimaced. The Matter of Malfiliatre had been grinding through Astreiant’s courts for close to a decade, after the last soueraine died childless. The de Caliors and the t’Anthiames—both some sort of cousin—had claimed the title, and finally the Royal Armiger had ruled for de Calior. Far too many merchants, and not just merchants-venturer but merchants-resident, had advanced credit to both sides; it was no real surprise that some of them had overreached themselves. “Surely this one’s not a creditor.”
The journeyman shrugged. “It’s never-wake, all right, though I expect you didn’t have much doubt. Been dead since midnight or a little past—it looks to me as though he sat himself down here and drank off a few glasses, then drifted off to death. Smells like he used a decent vintage to mix with it, too.”
“Why not?” Rathe said. “What about papers? I’d like to put a name to him before you take him off.”
The journeyman flourished a pocketbook that she’d removed from the dead man’s coat. “Here you are, Adjunct Point.”
Rathe loosened the string that held it closed and unfolded the worn leather. It held a small brass key and a single sheet of paper, not worn, and he unfolded that as well, already knowing what he would find.
I, Jero Corsten, trainer and veterinary, presently of the Yellow Dog by the New Fair, commend my body to the points and my debts to my creditors. My papers are in my lodging in the box that matches this key.
He had signed his name in a firm hand, and then added beneath it,See that the dogs are fed.
Rathe swore under his breath. Why would a dog trainer kill himself before the year’s great races? After, yes, if his losses were big enough, but before? It made no sense. “Sohier, stay here and talk to the rest of the doorkeepers. I’d like to be very sure this is what it looks like.” Sohier nodded, and he turned to the journeyman. “And if you’d tell Fanier the same, I’d be grateful. The man was a dog trainer, I’d have thought he had everything to live for just now.”
The journeyman lifted her eyebrows. “You would, wouldn’t you? I’ll tell Fanier.”
Rathe folded the note and slipped in into his own purse. “I’m to Fairs’ Point, to see what his friends can tell me.”
Rathe was tempted to go straight to the Yellow Dog to take possession of whatever was in Corsten’s strongbox, but the man had lived in Fairs’ Point and the station there had a claim on the case. Though whether they’d want it or not was another matter entirely. Still, Guillen Claes, the chief at Fairs, was less than fond of him for being the reason that Claes had been saddled with a new and less than competent adjunct at midwinter, so it behooved him to keep on the right side of the station. With any luck, though, he could make it a matter of closing his own books, and be in and out before either Claes or Voillemin was the wiser.
That hope died as he reached the station’s dooryard. Half the station’s runners were gathered on the stoop, peering in, and he could hear voices raised in anger from across the yard. The runners scattered like gargoyles as he stepped through the open door, and he blinked in spite of himself. Six or seven people, men and women in about equal number, were clustered in front of the duty point’s table, robust, leather-jerkined and -aproned souls in sturdy boots and battered working clothes. Most of them carried a trainer’s short stick—Rathe had never seen one used on a dog, but in his apprentice days he’d seen them used with devastating effect to start or finish fights—and the young woman who had the daywatch was looking distinctly wary. Voillemin, however, seemed entirely unaware of the potential threat, and was shaking his head at the group’s leader.
“Dame, there is no reason to think anything is wrong.”
The woman in the lead opened her mouth, and Voillemin held up his hand.
“Anything more than carelessness, then. For the man to have forgotten to feed his dogs is hardly a matter for the points.”
“Jero wouldn’t forget to feed them,” the leader said, through clenched teeth. “Any more than he’d forget to bank his fire or to take a piss. These are his livelihood, man! You don’t just abandon them.”
“But he hasn’t abandoned them,” Voillemin said. “He’s been gone, what, three hours? If he’s gone at all.”
Rathe swore again. He didn’t need to make any more of any enemy of Voillemin, but it seemed to be unavoidable. “Excuse me, Adjunct Point. A word, if I might?”
Voillemin had the look of a man trying to pretend he didn’t smell something unpleasant. “As you can see, Adjunct Point, I’m busy.”
“It’s relevant.”
Voillemin spread his hands. “If you must.”
Rathe managed not to shake his head. Sometimes it seemed as though Voillemin made an effort to lay himself open to charges of incompetence. “As I said, I think it’s relevant. We’ve a dead man in Point of Dreams, and I have reason to believe he’s a dog trainer. A man called Jero Corsten.”
From the gasps and curses, that was clearly the missing man, and Voillemin’s face went pink. “Nonsense!”
“Hare and Hounds, what more does it take?” The group’s leader had her hand on her stick. “We told you something was wrong—”
“What in Astree’s name is going on here?” And that was Guillen Claes, arriving punctually as the clock in the square stuck nine. “Dames, I’ll thank you not to brawl in my station house—”
“A man is dead,” the leader said, and Claes’s attention sharpened.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Voillemin began, and Rathe took a step forward.
“Actually, I’m afraid we do, or at least we have good cause to think it. A man was found dead in the Bells, by his own hand, it looks like, and I’ve a note found on him that says he’s your missing man.”
“Rathe.” Claes held out his hand, and Rathe reluctantly handed him the note. Claes scanned it and gave it back, shaking his head. “That seems indicative.”
“I’d like to get a proper identification, though,” Rathe said. “If one of his fellows would be willing. He’s been sent to the deadhouse until he can be claimed.”
“We’ll claim him,” the leader said. “There’s no kin.” She jerked her head at a round little man. “Floreis, you go.” She looked at Rathe. “My name’s Maewes DeVoss. I’m a trainer here and a friend of Jero’s and by way of standing patronne to him in matters of business. I’d take it kindly if you’d let me accompany you.”
“There’s no proof of that but her bare word,” Voillemin pointed out.
Claes looked at him. “I’ll vouch for DeVoss,” he said, with a certain air of restraint. After all, Rathe thought, she was only the best known of the city’s trainers, with an unusual reputation for honesty. Even Voillemin should have known that muc
h. “And I suppose you’ll want to clear your books, Rathe.”
“I would.” Rathe spread his hands. “It’s a bit odd he should kill himself this time of year, so we’d like to be sure before we close.”
Claes nodded. “Right, then—” He held up his hand to forestall Voillemin’s protest. “And you can go with him if you want, but it’s his right.”
“I certainly shall,” Voillemin said.
DeVoss made a sound that was ominously doglike, but got herself under control. “I’d take it as a kindness, Adjunct Point,” she said, with deliberate ambiguity.
“I have a key to a strongbox,” Rathe said. “Left with the note. I’m guessing it’s in his rooms. And also—he wanted to be sure the dogs were fed. I think he meant for any coin in the box to cover that.”
DeVoss winced. “We’ve done that,” she said, her voice more gentle than before. “And no need to take his money. We take care of our own.”
The Yellow Dog lay in the maze of lanes between the New Fair and the Exemption Docks, but DeVoss led them there unerringly. Its primary business showed clearly in its sign, a yellow basket terrier bounding over a hurdle, and in the cacophony of barks and yips coming form the side yards. A skinny boy not much past apprentice-age emerged from one of the yards, a quartet of basket terriers on a quadruple leash, and hurried away, dipping his head to DeVoss as he passed. Rathe looked at the trainer. “I thought you said you’d fed the dogs.”
She gave a rather grim smile. “We did. This is ordinary.”
“How many dogs does he have?” There was a strong smell coming off the kennels, a scent of damp dog mixed with a whiff of the midden: unavoidable, Rathe guessed, but not entirely pleasant.
“Only five, all in training for someone else. The rest belong to Pol Tieshelt, he lodges here, too.” DeVoss led them up the side stairs, pushed open a badly painted door into a hall. There were two more doors there, front and back, and she pointed to the door of the front room. It would be the cheaper of the two lodgings, Rathe knew, and his attention sharpened.
“None of his own?”
DeVoss shook her head. “He’d had a bad year of it—he was sick for the fall meets himself, and then this winter the cough hit his kennel. He had to sell off most of his own animals to keep the others fed. And of course he was fool enough to give credit to the young de Calior, and now that his sister’s refused to honor his debts…” She shrugged.
“That’s definite, then?” Rathe asked. The last he’d heard, the new soueraine had only threatened not to pay, apparently in an attempt to get the creditors to compromise.
“Oh, yes.”
“A bad business,” Rathe said.
“For too many people,” DeVoss said. “And I’m afraid Jero was one of them.” She pushed the door open, and behind them Voillemin cleared his throat.
“Was that door unlocked before?”
DeVoss looked over her shoulder. “He never locked it, in case someone needed to get to the dogs.”
Voillemin looked around. “Not afraid of theft, was he?”
“It’s hard to steal a basket terrier,” Rathe said.
DeVoss snorted. “I’d like to see someone try.”
“I was thinking of his coin,” Voillemin said.
“Precious little he had of that,” DeVoss answered, and waved generally at the narrow room. “But see for yourself.”
Rathe glanced around the shabby room. There was a single bed, the curtains looped back over a pile of faded coverlets, the usual table and chair that would do double duty for work and eating, a pair of stools stacked in one corner beside the clothes-chest, and a set of shelves stacked with papers, a handful of books, and an iron-bound strongbox. “Is anything missing?”
DeVoss shook her head. “Not at first glance. Though I wouldn’t know if any of his linen was missing, we weren’t on those terms.”
Rathe nodded and began sorting through the shelves. The books were all old and well-worn, except for this year’s Ephemeris; one was Corsten’s account book, and even the briefest glance told a sad tale of decline. He’d barely made enough to keep his dogs fed— though from the look of things he hadn’t stinted them—and half the sheets stuffed into the shelves were duns. He sorted quickly through them, grimacing as he found the Writ of Distraint, the Regents’ seal dangling on a black ribbon. He held it up so DeVoss could see. “Did you know about this?”
She shook her head again. “No. But I suppose that explains it.”
Rathe was inclined to agree. The Writ gave Corsten six days to pay his debts—almost a crown, with interest—or see his goods seized instead. He sorted quickly through the rest of the papers, finding only broadsheets, mostly astrological and most to do with the upcoming races. It looked almost as though Corsten had been trying to figure out which races to enter, but it was hard to be sure.
In the doorway, Voillemin cleared his throat. “Adjunct Point. Don’t you think you should open the strongbox?”
“I’m getting to that,” Rathe answered, and took his time sorting through the last few pages, aware of DeVoss’s imperfectly concealed smirk. But Voillemin was right, and he pulled the key from his purse. As expected, it fit neatly, and the well-oiled lock turned with a dull click.
The box was nearly empty, and he tilted it so that the others could see, then began lifting out the contents. A moneybag, also nearly empty, the leather worn soft and shiny; a set of ivory tablets, the wax smooth and stiff as though they had never been used, with a silver stylus—a gift, perhaps, too good to use, but cherished for the giver’s sake. The final item was a roll of heavy legal paper, tied neatly with red ribbon and sealed with an awkward blob of wax. He heard DeVoss’s breath catch and gave her a wry smile. “We’ll get to that. Let’s see to the money first. Adjunct Point, if you’d bear witness, too?”
Voillemin moved up closer, and Rathe spilled the coins onto the tabletop, then sorted them neatly into piles. There was perhaps a pillar there in mixed coin, and DeVoss shook her head.
“Not enough to feed them for a week. Which might be another reason.”
Rathe nodded, scooping the coins back into their bag, and reached for the rolled paper. “I’ll ask you all to witness it was sealed and tied.”
“Yes,” Voillemin said, reluctantly, and DeVoss nodded briskly.
Rathe snapped the brittle wax and unwound the ribbon, then pinned the single sheet flat with an empty candlestick and Corsten’s salt-dish. It seemed to be a sort of testament, leaving the training of any dogs he had in hand to Maewes DeVoss. It was dated two days before the Writ of Distraint, which meant it took precedence, and Rathe looked up, puzzled. Behind him, DeVoss began to laugh.
“Good boy, Jero, that’s done it.” She straightened quickly. “And now I call on you to witness, Adjuncts. I accept the charge laid on me, and I’ll send one of my assistants round to claim the dogs within the hour.”
“I’m not sure that’s permissible,” Voillemin said. “Not till it’s been proven, anyway, and that’s a matter for the courts. Besides, who’s to say that this isn’t exactly what she was aiming at?”
“Are you accusing me of murder?” DeVoss reached for her stick again, and Rathe stepped between them.
“It was suicide,” he said. “The deadhouse will rule on it, of course, but the journeyman who collected the body was certain already.” He looked back at DeVoss, who had subsided again. “He did this for the owners, am I right?”
“I’d guess so,” she said. “If their training isn’t part of his belongings, then any prizes go to the owners, less the trainer’s share, of course. But if the Writ were in force, then all the winnings would go to pay the debts, even the owners’ share. They’d count as junior creditors, you see.”
“You know a lot about this,” Voillemin said.
DeVoss looked down her nose at him. “I’ve been training dogs in this city for thirty years. I know every trick the law has against us.”
“The law—” Voillemin began, indignant, and Rathe began putting thin
gs back into the strongbox.
“Let’s put it to Claes,” he said. “It’s a matter for the chief point anyway.”
Claes found in DeVoss’s favor, as Rathe had known he would, and Rathe left the strongbox and its contents with him and made the long walk back to Point of Dreams. It was past noon already, but he didn’t stop to eat until he was back in Point of Dreams, and could visit one of the taverns favored by the Masters of Defense. To his disappointment, there was no sign of Philip, and he took the last half of his small-loaf back to the station with him.
The rest of the day was spent dealing with the repercussions of Corsten’s death. The trainer DeVoss had sent to the deadhouse identified him, the duty alchemist certified it as a suicide, and Rathe wrote out his own report and handed it off to the station’s clerk to make the requisite fair copies. Trijn approved it, but not before complaining that he hadn’t asked what DeVoss and her fellows know about Beier.
“Presumably Fairs’ Point has already done that,” Rathe said, startled into more honesty than he’d intended, and she stared at him narrow-eyed through a cloud of smoke.
“Voillemin hasn’t the brains to ask a nursing mother if she has milk, and Claes doesn’t pay nearly enough attention to what his juniors are doing.”
Claes also doesn’t like strangers poaching on his turf. Rathe swallowed the words and nodded meekly. “Next time I’m in Fairs’ Point I’ll ask, Chief.”
“Do that. And try to stay out of Voillemin’s way.”
Fairs' Point Page 2