Eslingen shook his head again. “I don’t—I can’t answer.”
“No need,” Estradere said. “There’s still a great deal to settle.” He reached to his buttonhole, loosed the knot of blue and silver ribbon, and held it out to Eslingen, who took it helplessly. “But think on it.” He turned away without waiting for an answer, lengthening his stride to catch up with the Prince-Marshal.
“I can’t,” Eslingen said again, but in spite of himself his fingers closed hard on the pretty trifle.
“Lieutenant vaan Esling?”
Eslingen shook himself back to the moment, turned with a smile to face one of the clerks of court, her ledger under her arm. “Yes, that’s me.”
“If you’ll come with me, Lieutenant, the court has made its valuation.”
Eslingen followed her through the busy crowd, shoving aside all thought of the Guard. Estradere had said it wasn’t certain; until it was, he should let it go, and concentrate on what he might receive from de Calior’s cast-offs. The boy’s linen would fit him, and the coats would require only minimal alteration; shoes and boots would be more problematic, but not impossible.
They stopped at the long table where the three judges sat enthroned, robes open in the spring heat to reveal sober skirts and the tips of well-made shoes.
“Lieutenant vaan Esling, please the court,” the clerk announced, and Eslingen made a general bow.
“Your Honors.”
“Philip vaan Esling,” another clerk said. “Of the Masters of Defense. Subsumes the debt of Urvain Soumet into his. Seven pillars, three seillings.”
“Is that correct, Lieutenant?” That was the judge in the central seat, an apple-faced woman with eyes hard as stone.
“Yes, your honor.”
“One basket terrier, called Sunflower, dark brown with yellow brindle, bought for seven pillars from Anceret Geleyn. With basket, one seilling,” the clerk said. “One pair of fine wool stockings, two seillings.”
Eslingen blinked, opened his mouth to protest, and shut it again at the expressions on the judges’ faces. Presumably he could sell the dog? Surely someone would value it? Though at seven pillars… A third clerk thrust a roll of fabric into his hand—the stockings—and yet another handed him a slip of paper.
“Take that to the dog pens and you can claim your dog.”
“Thank you,” Eslingen said, faintly, and turned away.
It was even noisier at the arch where the dogs were penned, and it took Eslingen a moment to find the court’s representative. She was busy with another woman, however, a tall, lean woman dressed like a shopkeeper, who looked just as dismayed as Eslingen felt. Eslingen started to lean on the woven fence, realized it wouldn’t hold him, and rested his shoulder against the nearest pillar instead. He had no idea what he would do with a basket terrier, or where to look to sell it, and he regarded the milling dogs with dismay. As he watched, a kennel man waded into the pack, a basket under his arm, and scooped up a white dog with brown ears and a big brown spot like a saddle over the middle of his back. He tucked it into the basket in spite of its wriggling and vocal protests, and Eslingen shook his head.
“Not a dog fancier, Lieutenant?”
Eslingen didn’t recognize the voice, and glanced sideways to see a short man in a flashy coat grinning at him from the other side of the archway. “I’ve no fixed opinion,” he said.
The man’s grin widened. “They’re a lot a of work, of course. And a risk. Some of them can’t run, and some of them just don’t have the heart for shoving through the pack. And even the best of them get sick if they’re not fed right.”
“Much like horses,” Eslingen said, and nodded to the clerk as she approached. “Madame.”
She took the slip of paper with a nod, and said something to the kennel man, who began wading into the swirl of dogs again.
“Well, a horse you can get some use out of even it if can’t race,” the man said. “Not like a dog. That’s all they’re good for, really.”
“And I’m guessing you know all about that,” Eslingen said.
“I’m by way of being in the business,” the short man said. “I’ve a few dogs in kennel. And, speaking of which—that dog you’ve got, Sunflower. He’s got a decent pedigree, but he’s not been raced, not even in the early trials. You’ll have to have Tyrseis’s own luck to find him a trainer at this date.”
“Make your offer,” Eslingen said. In the pen, the kennel man scooped up a dark-brown dog and brought it over to the clerk. She turned its ear back, checking some mark there, then nodded, and the kennel man stuffed the frantic animal neatly into another basket. Eslingen hoped a seilling basket would be strong enough to hold it.
“I’ll give you three pillars for him,” the short man said. “It’s as fair a price as you’ll get anywhere in the city, especially once the rest of this lot goes up for sale. There’s some proven racers in the mix—”
“Not interested,” Eslingen said. The kennel man was winding a heavy cord over and under the lid, fixing it securely in place, and the clerk was fumbling among the sealed packets on the table.
“Three pillars and a snake, then. You won’t get a better offer.”
“Not interested,” Eslingen said again.
“Pedigree and horoscope,” the clerk said, holding out the sealed packet, and Eslingen tucked it into his cuff. “And your dog.”
“Thank you.” Eslingen brushed past the man before he could make another offer, and only then wondered if he was making a mistake. Inside the basket, the dog let off a burst of high-pitched barking, the basket shaking against his side. Rathe would know what to do, he told himself, and started for Point of Dreams.
The city clocks were striking the half hour as Rathe made his way back to the station, not entirely appeased by the report from the deadhouse confirming that Jero Corsten had committed suicide. If the man had only held out until the announcement of the redistribution, now in full swing in one of the cavernous buildings in the Western Reach, he could probably had compounded with his creditors, and come away without losing his dogs. Suicide it might be, but the responsibility lay squarely at Malfiliatre’s feet. He scowled at a broadsheet seller whose table was hung with woodcuts of Malfiliatre happily spinning while her brother tore his hair and the bailiffs carried away furniture and horses and a pair of pretty chorus boys. If it was a joke, it was likely to prove a very cruel one.
Something moved in the alley between the Cazaril Grey and the stationer’s, and Rathe paused, his frown relaxing as he recognized the young woman who seemed to materialize out of the shadows. “Besetje. You could have gone in.”
Besetje Naimi shook her head. She might be going by another name these days, Rathe thought, but she had been born a Quentier, one of a dynasty of pickpockets that worked out of the old caravanserai straddling the border between Hopes and Sighs; she had been allowed to leave the family business only because her stars were dreadful for a pickpocket—and if she was here, Rathe thought, his attention sharpening again, it could only mean trouble.
“I’m still not fond of the stations.” She was a tall young woman, long-limbed and gangly, with freckled skin and the wide-eyed look of a girl just up from the country. Her unfortunate reddish hair was hidden under a stylish cap, but she wore a leather apron over plain skirt and bodice, and he remembered that she’d gone to Fairs’ Point to work for a dog trainer there. From the look of her, she’d prospered in that work.
“Will you come in with me?” Rathe asked. “If you were looking for me, I mean.”
“I was.” Besetje considered for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. If I could have some tea.”
“Of course.” Rathe led the way into the station, pretended not to notice when she shied like a horse at the doorway, and brought her up to his workroom. The tea on the stove had gone cold, and he sent a runner for a fresh pot, but she drank off two cups anyway before it arrived, and put the cup aside with a sigh of content.
“Thank you. That was good.”
“You
’re welcome.” Rathe rested his elbows on his table, waiting for her to decide how to go on. Nearly ten years ago, as a new-made pointsman himself, he’d arrested her for what she had cheerfully admitted was a clumsy attempt to lift a merchant-venturer’s purse, and he’d learned then that she couldn’t be hurried. Even as a girl, her mind had worked differently from most women’s; it was best to be patient and let her come to her business in her own way.
“It’s not as bad as that,” Besetje said. “It’s about my father.”
Rathe blinked. He remembered her father well enough, as he’d been part of the problem in the first place. Bertal Faar had been a better-than-average climbing-thief until a fall from the eaves shattered his ankles and left him to walk with two sticks. But, improbably enough, Besetje’s mother Tievet had married him—Rathe had seen the marriage lines—and that left Faar with a claim on her family for his maintenance. He’d been the one it had been hardest to persuade that his daughter hadn’t the stars to be a thief.How could that be so,he’d asked,with us her parents?
“I though you’d settled that,” he said carefully, when it seemed certain she wouldn’t continue. “It’s been, what, six years now, hasn’t it?”
She nodded. “And so we had. But he’s lost his place.” She stopped, the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she sorted her story into better order. “He was doorkeeper to a lacemaker on Regents’ Street. He’s a nice-spoken man, you’ll remember, knows how to brighten a woman’s day without being familiar, and the merchants-resident are no less susceptible than Mother was. He could sit in a chair at the door, see, and mind the traffic, and Aunt Estel’s people agreed not to trouble the shop since he was there—that was in lieu of his maintenance. But his boss, she gave credit to Dandin de Calior, and so did her partner and half her regular customers, and so she’s laying off the unnecessary hands. It’s all Malfiliatre’s fault.”
This wouldn’t be the last time he’d hear a story like this, Rathe thought. He said, “She doesn’t owe him maintenance herself, I suppose? Him being so sweet-spoken.”
“No, he just worked for her,” Besetje said. “So he says as well as her, and I believe him.” She shook her head. “And in a better year, I could keep him better, but my money is tied up in the dogs right now.”
“And will be until after the races.”
“Exactly.” Besetje looked gratified that he’d understood.
“And Faar can’t wait, what, a month?” There were reasons a cripple might not be able to wait.
“He says dogs lose,” Besetje answered, with a wry smile. “And of course they do. Though I’ve not put in more than I can afford to lose, but I wasn’t expecting to have to keep him, either.”
“You’re not still with Neylen, then,” Rathe said.
Besetje shook her head. “Hare and Hounds, he retired three years ago. I’m assistant to DeVoss, her senior, and she’s let me take a dog or two on my own account.”
She sounded proud of herself, and well she might: to have gone from the least-regarded of the horde of Quentier children to Maewes DeVoss’s right hand was indeed an accomplishment. With DeVoss encouraging her to begin setting up her own kennel, it was likely Besetje would become a person to reckon with among that sorority.
“But that’s not really the problem,” Besetje said. “Dad needs money, well enough, but he’s asked the family to get involved. And it’s his right—since Mother married him, they’re responsible, too.”
“Estel agreed to let you go,” Rathe said. “And she’s not one to go back on her word.”
Besetje nodded. “But Aunt Idomey would like a bigger piece of the business, and she thinks she can get it by making Aunt Estel look bad. Or by making her eat her word in public.”
For a craven moment, Rathe was glad he was assigned to Dreams: a quarrel among Quentier factions would keep both Hopes and Sighs on the hop for months. “So what do you want from me?”
“You stood patron to me before,” Besetje answered. “Would you do it again? Dealing with Aunt Estel always makes me stupid.”
“It’s not an uncommon feeling,” Rathe said. “But, Besetje, last time—Estel agreed to it in advance because I had something useful to say, remember? I could tell them how easy you were to catch.”
Besetje nodded. “And LaSier got her astrologer to prove I couldn’t do it. I do remember.”
“But Estel agreed to it first,” Rathe said, patiently. “She wouldn’t like me just showing up at your side, Besetje.”
“No, that’s true.” Besetje stopped, shaking her head. “And I forgot the important thing. I have a note for you.” She reached into her skirts, came out with a folded slip of paper, and slid it across the table. Rathe took it, recognizing Estel’s thumbprint in the wax that sealed it.
“You could have given me this first,” he said, and Besetje ducked her head.
“I should have, shouldn’t I? I didn’t think.”
And that was how she’d always been, and there was no point in scolding. Rathe broke the seal and studied the single scrawled line.If Besetje wishes it, you may come. It was signed with Estel’s complex monogram, and he sighed. “Can I keep this?”
“I think you’d better,” Besetje answered. “I might forget again.”
“When do you meet?”
“It’s not set yet. But it’ll be after first sunset, for my sake.”
“If you want me to be there, you’ll need to give me the time in advance,” Rathe said. “At least by that morning.”
Besetje pushed back her chair. “I will. Or Estel will. I’ll tell her you’re coming.”
“That would be helpful,” Rathe said, but she was already out the door. He sighed. He hated having private favors on his books, even when it was someone like Besetje, who deserved the help. And dealing with the Quentiers could be construed as poaching on Hopes or Sighs—though if he spoke to Monteia first, she’d probably give him sanction. He added that to his mental list of the day’s chores, and reached for paper and pen.
The basket lurched and barked in his arms all the way through Point of Hearts and across the Hopes’ Point bridge and into Point of Dreams. It was still barking, though more hoarsely, as he climbed the stairs to the rooms he shared with Rathe. The little dog threw himself back and forth against the woven vines, and Eslingen wasn’t surprised when the door opened.
“Philip? What in Astree’s name?”
Eslingen saw his face change as the details registered, and nodded, grimly. “Yes, I’m back from the redistribution.”
Rathe stepped out of the doorway. “A basket terrier?”
“No, it’s a magic basket that barks and shakes.”
Rathe took it from him, and Eslingen latched the door as the other man began to unwind the cords that kept the lid securely in place. “She—he?—will be better once she’s out of there.”
“He, I think,” Eslingen said. “Its name’s Sunflower.”
The basket convulsed as Rathe loosened the last knot, and the lid popped off with a shrill yap. Sunflower poked head and shoulders above the rim, then leaped up and out, landing on the table where Rathe had been working. He swore again, and caught the dog before he could do any more damage, setting him back on the floor. He barked again, almost in admonition, and set off to explore at full speed.
“That’s what they gave you,” Rathe said.
Eslingen spread his hands. “De Calior paid seven pillars for him as a puppy. Or, rather, didn’t pay.” He gave the dog a dubious look as he disappeared under the bed. “He seems fast enough.”
Rathe nodded, though Eslingen thought he was suppressing a smile. ”Has he raced?”
“Not yet. I gather he’s only just old enough this season.”
Sunflower emerged from under the bed, dust on his sleek coat and trailing from his whiskers, and Eslingen stared helplessly at him.
“What are you going to do with him?” Rathe asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Rathe cocked his head. “Someone’
s annoyed you. How much did she offer?”
“Three pillars,” Eslingen said. “And it was a he.” And probably it had been foolish, but he’d taken a dislike to the man.
“Well, you won’t get any more than that, and probably less, if you try to sell him now,” Rathe said. “Not when everyone has their kennel in place already. You could always race him, I suppose. Mind you, that would mean laying out some more money for the trainers, but if he wins, you might get a decent bit more for him. Or hire him out at stud—he is intact, right?”
Eslingen looked at the short-furred hindquarters, elevated as the dog tried to dig his way under the clothes press. “Unmistakably.”
“But of course if he doesn’t win, what you’ve got is a nice dog.” Rathe shook his head. “Probably best to sell him now.”
Eslingen crossed to the cabinet beside the stove and poured himself a glass of beer, feeling that he’d earned it. “I don’t know. It’s not like I have the money in hand now. Why not race him, see what he does?”
“It’s a risk,” Rathe said. “And you’d have to find a trainer willing to take him on at this late date, or else pay to house him until at least the fall meets. All of that costs.”
“I imagine I could make a deal with a trainer to share the winnings if she shares the costs,” Eslingen said. It was always amusing to see Rathe’s southriver thrift make an appearance. “At least, horse trainers are usually willing. That would cut the expenses.”
“It’s possible,” Rathe said. “Do you have any idea whether he might be any good? Horoscope, pedigree, anything like that?”
“I’ve got both,” Eslingen answered, and dug in the cuff of his coat for the packet of papers. “But I couldn’t make head or tail of them.”
“It’s a specialized business,” Rathe said. “It’s a pity Beier’s gone missing, he’d have been the man to look at them for you, though he’d have charged you what it was worth.” He sighed. “If you’re serious—you could maybe use my name with Maewes DeVoss. One of her assistants is by way of owing me a favor just now, too. She’s an odd bird, but a good trainer, if DeVoss has kept her.”
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