Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

“And how I’m supposed to do both those things at once,” Rathe said that evening, sitting at his own table with the windows open to an unexpectedly soft spring night, “is beyond my meager comprehension.”

  Philip Eslingen set a cup of wine in front of him and poured himself another of Leaguer beer. He was fresh from the baths, his long hair still loosed to dry, a block-print dressing gown loose over shirt and breeches. Rathe caught a faint whiff of the musk-scented soap Eslingen favored and couldn’t help smiling.

  “Disguise yourself as one of the dogs,” Eslingen suggested. “You’re curly enough.”

  “Those are pocket terriers,” Rathe said.

  “You’re too big for that.”

  “Basket terriers are smooth-coated.”

  “How nice for them.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any dinner?”

  Eslingen shook his head. “I didn’t fetch any. Though—” He rose in a swirl of skirts and rummaged in the cabinet. “These eggs are fresh. And there’s cheese and that last bite of ham.”

  “And spring onions,” Rathe said, suspecting where this was going, and Eslingen dug a little deeper into the basket that usually held the vegetables.

  “Right, there they are. Omelet?”

  “Suits me,” Rathe answered, and pulled his feet out of the way. Eslingen built up the fire in the stove and began chopping ingredients, working with a brisk economy of motion that always startled Rathe. For a motherless man, haphazardly raised by his hostler father, Eslingen had some surprisingly domestic skills. “Who taught you to cook, then?”

  Eslingen looked over his shoulder. “My first sergeant. If you can steal it, I can cook it.”

  “That covers a wide range of possibilities,” Rathe said.

  “Well. Perhaps it would be better to say that if you’re likely to be able to steal it on the march, I can probably cook it. But that’s long for a motto.”

  “And it’s hardly a skill Lieutenant vaan Esling can admit to.” Rathe saw Eslingen flinch, and winced in turn. The Masters of Defense had renamed Eslingen when he joined their number, saddling him with an aristocracy to which he was not in the least entitled, and the point was still a sore one. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Eslingen waved his hand. “Lieutenant vaan Esling would make his leman do the cooking, so you should be grateful.” He turned the omelet out onto a plate, not perfectly, and set it on the table. “You cut.”

  Rathe obliged, and Eslingen set wine bottle and beer jug on the table as well.

  “You’ve heard the latest news about Malfiliatre?”

  Rathe looked up, grateful for the change of subject. “If you mean that she’s repudiated the brother’s debts—yes, I heard that.”

  “Oh, there’s more.” Eslingen poured himself more beer. “She had that posted in the Horsefair and at the Pantheon, and as soon as the bills went up, the creditors descended on young de Calior like a dragonnade and the upshot of the matter is that there’s going to be a Court of Redistribution in two days’ time.”

  “That’s quick.” Rathe shook his head. “I don’t know what Malfiliatre is thinking. It’s a rich holding, surely she could compound with the creditors. That has to be a better deal than this.”

  Eslingen shrugged. “Siredy said that Gavi told him he’d heard that Malfiliatre has a few debts of her own—”

  “As well she might. They’ve been here five or six years trying to get this settled.”

  “And she’s not particularly fond of the brother anyway, or so Gavi says. Apparently she doesn’t find him to be much use in her greater plans.”

  “She could marry him off…” Rathe began, then shook his head. “But not with those debts attached. Right, I see that.”

  “I suppose she thinks it’ll teach him a lesson,” Eslingen said.

  “It’ll break a lunar dozen merchants if we’re lucky. And set the city on its ear. Are they serious about a Redistribution?”

  “The bills aren’t posted, but I’ve seen one.”

  Rathe shook his head again. “You know how that works, right?”

  “Siredy was telling me,” Eslingen said, “but I’ll admit it didn’t make a great deal of sense.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t make sense,” Rathe said. “When a woman can’t pay her debts, and enough creditors are beating on her doors, they can band together to demand a Redistribution. If the Regents allow it, the points and the bailiffs go to the house and seize everything the debtor owns—she keeps the clothes she stands up in, and the tools of her trade, but that’s all. And they haul it all off to the nearest court and a triumvirate of advocates values everything and doles it out to the creditors. What good that does, I don’t know, because the creditors have to turn around and sell what they’ve been given, and they never get a decent price, because everyone knows they have to sell—”

  “So you might be owed a few seillings, and get the man’s shirt in exchange,” Eslingen said slowly. There was a note in his voice that made Rathe look sharply at him, and Eslingen shrugged. “I might have an interest in the matter, that’s all.”

  “You might.” Rathe controlled his voice with an effort. “Philip, you didn’t extend the man 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 already 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 gentleman. It seemed like a reasonable investment.”

  “How much does he owe you?” Rathe asked, after a moment.

  “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 calling 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 pay once his family’s affairs were settled. According to sober tongues, there had been more spectacular bankruptcies in Astreiant, and it was also whispered that Malfiliatre could have paid her brother’s way if she’d chosen to do so, but, coming hard on the heels of the winter’s follies, not just the conspiracy but the corms traded at a hundred times their proper value, the matter commanded a certain morbid fascination. The broadsheets were about evenly divided between condemnation and relief, though a fair number seemed to agree with Rathe that this was going to hurt some of the small-holders.

  Eslingen glanced around wincing as the kennel’s-worth of dogs confined in the most distant arch of the arcade set up another shrill round of barking. They were basket terriers, he’d been told, racing dogs who might be worth a great deal more—or less—in a moon-month’s time, after the Dog Moon ended the spring meets, but he found it hard to imagine. He’d taken a good look at them, peering dubiously over the woven fencing that contained them, and they were short-legged, short-bodied little dogs, nothing like the northern coursing dogs with which he was most familiar. But of course in the League, we race horses, he thought. How would I know what fares best in this sport?

  His eyes strayed to the next few arches. De Calior had had horses, too, a couple of nice hacks and a particularly dark and showy bay that thrust a disdainful head over the temporary barrier and tried to snatch the plume from the hat of a harassed-looking merchant. An equally harassed-looking groom in the court’s livery hauled on the shank and made apologetic noises, and Eslingen moved closer, hoping to deflect the merchant’s anger if necessary. But the woman had already moved on, and the groom gave him a wary look.

  “Careful, sir, he’s a handful.”

  “A beauty, though,” Eslingen answered. Closer to, the horse was exactly the sort he’d always loved, tall and well-muscled, with heavy hocks that spoke of both strength and speed.

  “And doesn’t he know it.” The groom shook the shank again in a vain attempt to pull the animal’s head back to his side of the barrier.

  “Biter?” Eslingen asked.

  “No.” The groom made two syllables of the word.

  He has plenty of other bad habits, then, Eslingen thought. The creature was too beautiful to be well-mannered. It had been a long time since Eslingen owned a horse. He reached for the horse’s nose, and the bay dipped his head obediently, but there was a look in his eyes that Eslingen didn’t trust.

  “What’s his name?” Eslingen twisted his hand away as the horse made a grab for the button that secured his coat’s cuff.

  “King of Thieves,” the groom answered, with some bitterness.

  A new voice spoke over Eslingen’s shoulder. “How singularly appropriate.”

  He hadn’t heard that voice since midwinter, and hadn’t expected to hear it here, so that for an instant his mind rejected the connection, and he turned half expecting a stranger. But indeed it was Coindarel, the Prince-Marshal himself in all his glory, leaning on an ebony stick bound with silver-embroidered ribbons that frothed over his unpainted hand. Trust Coindarel not to adopt a fashion that wouldn’t flatter him, Eslingen thought, and made a bow that encompassed both the Prince-Marshal and the entourage that followed him. He recognized Coindarel’s leman, the Major-Sergeant Patric Estradere, but the others were strangers, as were the blue-and-silver ribbons in their hats and threaded through the buttonholes of their coats: a unit token, but not one he knew.

  “Lieutenant vaan Esling,” Coindarel said, rolling name and title on his tongue, and Eslingen hoped the dim light hid his blush. Coindarel knew—few better—how precariously claimed both had been, and it was a kindness to acknowledge them so publicly. Eslingen bowed again, more deeply, and Coindarel gave him a private smile. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you one of de Calior’s creditors.”

  “Nor I you, sir,” Eslingen said.

  Coindarel’s smile widened, became mischievous. “Ah, but the young man wished to consider the profession of arms—did he never tell you? So I have a responsibility there.”

  Eslingen couldn’t help lifting an eyebrow at that. De Calior had never shown the slightest interest in soldiering as far as he had seen. Oh, the boy was happy enough to learn swordplay, that was suitable for a gentleman and the brother of a soueraine, but even there, his interest had been more in technique than competition. Eslingen could think of few people less likely to take up arms.

  “A very fine horse,” Coindarel went on. “He’d suit you, Philip.”

  Eslingen suppressed a sigh, and shook his head with what he hoped was creditable grace. “Beautiful indeed, sir, but I’ve no need for a horse in Astreiant.”

  Coindarel lifted an eyebrow in turn. He had never been a handsome man, his lean brown face more notable for intelligence than beauty, and years of hard living through a dozen or more campaigns in the queen’s service had left deep lines and the white fleck of a scar at the point of his chin: a good commander and loyal to his men, Eslingen thought, and tried not to remember just how he’d earned his first commission.

  “Prince-Marshal.” That was a woman in the court’s severe livery, her black coat buttoned from hem to chin, and Coindarel turned to her with his best smile.

  “Madame. You received my request, then.”

  “We have.” The woman bent her head in a polite bow. “The apportionment is not yet complete, but I believe there will be at least some women who’ll listen to your offer.”

  “I hope they’ll all listen,” Coindarel said, and Eslingen could see the woman warming to him in spite of her grave responsibilities.

  But that was Coindarel for you, charming to the last, and Eslingen looked back at the makeshift stall. The groom had seized the chance to pull the big horse back into the shadows, where there was less chance of him snatching hats and feathers, and Eslingen allowed himself a sigh of regret. Coindarel was right, King of Thieves would have suited him very well indeed.

  “Lieutenant.” Patric Estradere had fallen behind the rest of his party, and touched Eslingen’s sleeve in polite invitation. “Walk with me a bit.”

  “Of course, sir,” Eslingen said, and let enough surprise show in his voice to stand for a question.

  Estradere gave a wry smile. “De Calior was no more interested in going for a solider than his sister is, as I’m sure you know from teaching him. But he kept a very fine stable, and we’re here to see what we can pick up from his leavings.”

  Eslingen murmured some agreement, wondering why the Major-Sergeant was telling him this.

  “You may have heard rumors of a new City Guard?” Estradere touched the ribbon in his buttonhole.

  Eslingen shook his head. “I hadn’t, sir.”

  “It’s a proposal of the Metropolitan’s,” Estradere said. “A small, elite troop, to act as royal bodyguard when needed and supplement the points when they need extra muscle. The plan is to mount them and arm them dragon-style—wheellock carbine, pistol, and saber, plus ba
ck-and-breast. Astreiant’s idea is that the points’ writ only runs in the city—something we were all made aware of midsummer past when the children were stolen—and there have been times when a miscreant broke free of the walls and couldn’t be pursued. Astreiant wants to close that loophole, and she sees the City Guard as the answer. They will answer to the Queen, to her, and to the points, in that order, and they’ll have explicit authority to take pursuit outside the city and bring it back—authority to take the case to the points and through them to the judiciary.”

  Eslingen took a breath. At first glance, it looked well enough, but the points wouldn’t stand for it, at least not happily: their authority had been hard-won, against the pretensions of noble and merchant-resident alike, and they were unlikely to cede any bit of it willingly. And it was equally unlikely that the sort of person Coindarel could recruit for an elite troop would take kindly to subordinating themselves to a pack of southriver rats… “Has anyone asked the points, sir?”

  Estradere’s smile was wry. “That’s Astreiant’s business, thank all the gods. But, no, it won’t be easy. And that’s why—Philip, Coindarel is looking for officers. He wants you for one of them. A proper commission, perhaps even a captaincy.”

  Eslingen opened his mouth, closed it again, the breath short in his chest. He had thought his military career ended when he named himself Rathe’s leman, and counted it a small price indeed for what he gained: a lover, a home, the best friend he’d ever known, and the man with whom he had three times faced magistry and death in the service of the law. But to be offered this, the chance to be a soldier again and still serve the law, to be himself, not some idiot fencing master, this week’s broadsheet marvel….

  He shook his head, not in answer, but because he had none. “You know my leman’s Nicolas Rathe—Adjunct Point—”

  “At Dreams. I know.” Estradere was looking at him with something like compassion. “That’s a good part of why we want you: you know the points, you’ve worked with them and you understand their ways, you live with one. You respect them. We’ll need that, in the Guard.”