Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

  “Meet them here, then,” DeVoss said. “And be sure and bring the dog.”

  “Absolutely,” Eslingen said, despite what he felt were reasonable qualms about walking through the city with a barking basket under his arm, and she turned away without another word.

  Still, it was progress, he told himself as he started back across the larger fairgrounds. It was far less crowded than it had been at Midsummer, only the permanent arcades at each end of the area fully occupied along with a lunar dozen two-room booths that marched in a row down the center of the grounds. There was a forge at the far end, set a little apart from the other buildings for fear of fire, and he slowed as he saw the inlaid back-and-breast hung on a stand just inside the building. It looked like Leaguer work, the slightly pointed breast with brass scrollwork at hip and shoulder—Altheim or even Curtling, he thought, though he couldn’t see how the journey would pay. Unless a Leaguer smith had managed to pay the Guild fees, or marry into an Astreianter family?

  He paused in the door, blinking at the heat and smoke that rolled off the open hearth. A heavyset youth was hauling rhythmically on the bellows-beam while a man and a woman rolled bar steel in the glowing coals. The woman said something, and they lifted the bar to lay the red-hot center across the anvil. The man began at once to hammer, while the woman shifted the material back and forth; Eslingen flinched at the noise, and stepped back. He didn’t need armor, any more than he needed a horse.

  “Lieutenant vaan Esling.”

  Eslingen turned, pasting on his most bland and unrevealing smile. “Major-sergeant.”

  “They do good work,” Patric Estradere said. He was dressed for the heat, a light block-printed coat and vest, and a painted parasol rested on his shoulder. “We’re thinking of commissioning some of our gear from them. When the Guard is approved, of course.”

  “But you think it will be.”

  “I think it’s unlikely it won’t,” Estradere answered. “As to when—sooner rather than later, and I want to be prepared. And, on that subject, have you given the idea any more thought?”

  “And what would the commission cost?” Eslingen asked.

  “Oh, Coindarel plans to equip the troop himself. Mount them, too—he bought up de Calior’s stable at a very decent price, plus he had a few still in hand. I expect her majesty will be pleased at the savings.”

  “You’ll have to train de Calior’s lot,” Eslingen said.

  Estradere nodded. “Another reason I’d like to have you in the troop, you were always good at that. There’s a very nice bay who’d suit you, too, and he won’t need much work. In fact, why don’t you come back to the barracks with me and put him through his paces?”

  “You’re going to quarter the troop in a barracks?” Eslingen asked. It was more a way to defuse temptation than real curiosity—more and more companies were trying the system, particularly in towns where they’d be resident for some time, and it seemed to make for better relations between soldiers and civilians.

  “It’s not so much for the quarters as for the stabling,” Estradere answered. “And of course to have someplace besides a tavern for the duty watch to wait. You wouldn’t be required to live there. Unless you wanted to, of course.”

  “I have lodgings,” Eslingen said.

  “Come and try the horse,” Estradere said.

  It was a mistake, Eslingen knew, but he found himself nodding anyway.

  They caught a low-flyer across the Manufactory Bridge, skirting the gallows mercifully empty of felons’ bodies, and Estradere directed the driver almost to the edge of the city before telling him to stop at a long, low building that seemed to back on a large and well-fenced enclosure. Estradere led him through the building—it had been built by a Silklands merchant in her native style, Estradere said, but she’d returned home and the children who’d stayed in Astreiant had sold it to buy more fashionable residences—and along the courtyard fence to the stable block opposite.

  “Saddle King of Thieves, please,” Estradere said, to the nearest groom, and waved away Eslingen’s protest. “As you see, we’ve set up a ring in the courtyard for training, and of course we’ll have the use of the parade grounds at the palace.”

  “It’s a long way to send in an emergency,” Eslingen said, but his attention was on the stall where King of Thieves was objecting to his saddle.

  “I know.” Estradere nodded. “But it’s what we have for now. And being mounted will help.”

  “God help the troop that has to go charging through these streets,” Eslingen said. King of Thieves’ objection had been more high spirits than a real complaint; the groom had him well in hand as she brought him out into the courtyard.

  “It won’t be so bad,” Estradere said. “Give you a hand up?”

  This was definitely a mistake, Eslingen thought, his hand already on the horse’s warm satin shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Estradere heaved him up, and Eslingen settled himself as the groom hurried to open the ring’s gate. King of Thieves fought the bit as Eslingen turned him into the space, kicked up his heels in protest before Eslingen got them settled. Once settled, though, he did have a nice gait, and decent manners; he answered willingly enough to the pressure of knee and rein and someone had taught him a few of the showier paces. Eslingen persuaded him to change leads, and back again, achieved a respectable half-pass despite the way King of Thieves shook his head against the bridle, but that seemed to be about as far as his training had gone. Still, it was better than Eslingen had expected. He’d need to learn to stand pistol shot—well, perhaps that was not so important, given that locks were illegal in the city, but he’d certainly need to learn to behave in a crowd. And how to crowd a man afoot, how to break a riot.

  And this was not a thing he should be considering. Not until he knew exactly where the guard would stand vis-à-vis the points, and not until he was sure it wouldn’t cost him Rathe’s lemanry. He should never have permitted himself to try it, to remember what he had given up. He hadn’t known until then just how much he had missed soldiering. He brought King of Thieves back to the gate and the wary-looking groom, swung himself down with a smile and a pat for the horse. King of Thieves snatched again at his sleeve, but in a desultory fashion, and let himself be led away.

  “He suits you,” Estradere said.

  “He needs training.”

  “Certainly.” Estradere smiled. “The offer stands, Philip.”

  “I know,” Eslingen said, and made himself walk away.

  The notes came just as the clock struck six, one a grubby slip of paper, folded in careful thirds and sealed with a cheap pink wafer, the other a neat demi-sheet closed with string and wax that bore Estel’s thumbprint. Rathe opened them both, scanned the wildly varying hands, but the gist of the message was the same: the Quentiers would meet to decide the current question at half past seven at the ’Serry, and Rathe should be there. He scribbled a note for Estel, and handed it and a seilling to the waiting runner.

  “And tell the woman who gave you the other one that I’ll be there,” he added, and saw the runner’s eyes widen. “And on your way back, fetch me a pie from Wicked’s.”

  The runner scurried off and Rathe dug his hands into his hair. It had been a beast of a day, with the new licensing regulations to enforce and the first stack of complaints from Solveert about improper horoscopes. Even now, he could hear a woman’s voice raised in outrage as one of the juniors tried to explain about the bond, and Rathe rose to his feet, starting reluctantly for the door, before he heard Sohier get the matter in hand. Trijn had come to the door of her workroom as well, and she shook her head slowly.

  “A fine mess they’ve left us. I’m inclined to begin enforcing the daylight rule just to give the juniors some peace.”

  By statute, the city’s smallholders were supposed to do non-emergency business with the points during daylight hours, but no points station ever held strictly to the rule. Rathe gave her a startled look, and she sighed.

  “I know, it would o
nly make things worse.”

  “Yeah.” Rathe paused. “I’ve some business tonight, Chief.”

  Trijn gave him a narrow look. “That sounds ominous.”

  “I hope not,” Rathe said. “A few years back, I stood patron to one of the Quentier cousin-daughters—one of the ones who’s left the trade—and she’s asked me to speak for her again.

  “Do I want to know the details?”

  “Probably not,” Rathe admitted. “But I’d like you to know where to look if I don’t come back tonight.”

  “If it’s likely to come to that, I don’t want you going,” Trijn said.

  “It’s not,” Rathe said. “I just like to be careful.”

  Trijn nodded. “If you’re not back betimes, I’ll send your black dog after you.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Rathe answered, and retreated to his workroom.

  When the runner returned with the pie, he wolfed it down along with the last of his tea, and when the clock struck the half hour, he exchanged his leather jerkin and truncheon for a shapeless coat and a knife that was exactly at the legal limit, and started for the ’Serry.

  It was not yet second sundown, but torches were lit on either side of the courtyard gate, sending a stream of smoke and sparks into the purpling sky. A couple of the Quentiers’ men were lounging apparently idly by them, a pitcher and cups and dice in the dirt beside them. They also carried short clubs, half-hidden under the skirts of their short coats, and Rathe spread his hands as he approached.

  “Estel expects me.”

  One of them, tall and broad as a bull, waved a hand politely enough. Not Estel’s man, Rathe thought, but he couldn’t remember which of the women claimed him. “Go on in, Adjunct Point.”

  Rathe nodded his thanks, and pushed through the shrieking gate. The courtyard itself was unusually empty, the usual hordes of Quentier children and unofficial apprentices all dispatched elsewhere for the evening; no one sat on the edge of the old horse-pool, and the doors were closed all along the row of converted stables. Only the tavern showed more than a candle’s light, more torches lit at the door to drive off night-flying insects, and lantern-light spilling out of the open door onto the beaten dirt.

  Rathe made his way to the door, nodding to yet another Quentier man, who stepped smoothly out of his way.

  “Adjunct Point,” he said, not loudly, but enough to carry to Estel, who sat in a single chair placed before the serving bar. She looked up sharply, not quite disturbing the baby at her breast, and said something to the woman at her side. Cassia Quentier, known as LaSier for the length of her river-black hair, nodded and detached herself from her sister, crossing the room to smile up at Rathe.

  “Evening, Nico.”

  “Evening,” Rathe answered, and suppressed the instinct to protect his purse. “I don’t see Besetje?”

  “She’s in the back,” LaSier answered. “You know crowds take her badly. In the meantime, would you like a glass of wine?”

  “It’s like that, is it?” Rathe cocked his head.

  “We’re planning to make this as peaceful as possible,” LaSier answered, and beckoned to a girl of fifteen or so, who scurried over with a tray of cups and a pitcher of what proved to be quite decent wine.

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” Rathe said, sipping cautiously, and let his eyes rove around the room. He knew most of the women there by sight if not by name, though he certainly recognized most of the Quentier siblings and their lemen. Annet was there, along with Maurina Tauçon—Annet was Estel’s third sister, next after the dead Tievet—and the golden-haired ballad singer who was Annet’s favorite decoy. An older, gray-haired woman sat placidly knitting a stocking—Estel’s aunt Rostanha—and a medium-sized man in spectacles was fussing with the tap of the wine barrel. He was another Quentier, a brother or a cousin, though Rathe thought he was primarily a receiver rather than a pickpocket himself. The last man in the room was seated in a chair by the side door, sitting very upright in his fine coat and lace-trimmed shirt, and Rathe wasn’t surprised to see the twin sticks leaning close at hand. Bertal Faar was still a handsome man, though there was more gray in his hair and harsher lines bracketing his mouth, but at the moment he looked tired and old. Besetje looked nothing like him, Rathe thought idly. She must have gotten all her looks from her mother.

  Another knot of women had gathered on his side of the room, near but not too close, and Rathe couldn’t help frowning as he looked at them. That was where the trouble was going to come, and he wondered which of them was Besetje’s Aunt Idomey.

  “You see it, then?” LaSier asked quietly, and Rathe slanted a glance in her direction.

  “Besetje said something about an aunt wanting a bigger share of the business.”

  “That would be Idomey,” LaSier said. “The one in the green cap.”

  Rathe nodded. Idomey Quentier wasn’t tall, but she carried herself like a much bigger woman, and the other women with her clearly deferred to her. And there were nearly a dozen of them: almost as many as were there to support Estel, and Rathe glanced again at LaSier. “She thinks she’s going to win.”

  LaSier shrugged. “Tievet was fool enough to marry the man. We’re definitely obligated to support him—and Tyrseis knows we’ve done our duty. But the damned Malfiliatre business has upended everything.”

  “Can’t he find other work?” Rathe knew the answer as soon as the words were spoken, and shook his head. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Not with plenty of hale men willing to do the job for the same wage,” LaSier said. “Surely this will run its course soon enough. The entire city can’t have loaned him money.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Rathe said, thinking of Eslingen, and LaSier managed a sour smile.

  “Ah. There’s Nelis. I’d best fetch Besetje. Can she stand with you?”

  “Of course,” Rathe answered. He remembered that from when Besetje was a child, how much the press of bodies in a crowd had distressed her, one more reason she’d never make a pickpocket. Not that the fairgrounds were uncrowded during the races, but a trainer stood on the other side of the ropes, in open ground.

  LaSier returned a moment later, Besetje’s hand firmly held in hers, and planted her in front of one of the pillars that held the rooftree. “Stay there,” she said, and looked at Rathe. “She mustn’t leave.”

  Besetje said, “I know.”

  Rathe nodded, and took a step back so that he would be in position to grab the younger woman’s sleeve if she lost her composure. She looked calm enough, though—aggressively neat and tidy, her hair scraped back into a tight braid, what must be her best skirt and bodice still smelling of the moth-repelling herbs, but relatively calm. She put her thumb to her mouth, worrying at the nail, then realized what she was doing and tucked her hand into her skirts.

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “It’s not fair.”

  She hadn’t bothered to lower her voice, and several of the other women shot her disapproving looks.

  “Well, it’s not—”

  Estel handed the baby to one of her friends, and did up her bodice, looking out over the crowd. “Right, then,” she said, and the room came instantly to order. “Bertal, state your business.”

  Faar sat up straighter in his chair, his hands closing tight over the arms. “Thank you for hearing me, Estel,” he said, “especially since I know this matter’s been settled once already. But things have changed. I’ve lost my job, and been told not to expect it back once things improve again. There’s not much else I can do but watch the door at a shop or a tenantry, and I’ve not found another place that would take me. I give you my word I’ve looked.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Estel said.

  Faar nodded. “Thank you for that, too. But the fact is, I’m behind on my rent, and I owe the owner of the low-flyer I paid me to get to work each day. I need more help, and I’m coming to you to ask for it.”

  “It’s your right,” Estel said. “You’re Tievet’s husband and the father of her daughter. B
esetje, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “She’s asked me to represent her, Estel,” LaSier said.

  Estel nodded, but Idomey lifted her head. “Let the girl speak for herself. What’s she afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid,” Besetje said. “And I want Aunt Cassia to speak for me.”

  “And she’s brought the points,” Idomey said. “Estel, this is getting out of hand.”

  “Rathe’s here because I asked him,” Besetje said. “And because he knows what happened before. And I still want Aunt Cassia to speak for me.”

  “Either she can speak for herself, or she’s not competent,” Idomey said.

  “She’s competent,” Estel said shortly. “That was decided long ago.”

  “And yet you let her go.” Idomey spread her hands. “Abandon her responsibilities.”

  “That’s not what happened!” Besetje saw LaSier’s frown, and closed her mouth tight, her shoulders pressed against the pillar.

  The woman LaSier had identified as Nelis cleared her throat gently. “Perhaps I might clarify?”

  “Go ahead,” Estel said. “Best tell who you are, though, there’s people who don’t know you.”

  Nelis nodded. “I’m an astrologer and Rostanha’s kin—her man that was is my brother—and I cast the horoscopes the last time the family met to discuss this matter. The choice made then was the right one, and you can see it from the girl’s success.”

  “She’s been paying the agreed-upon support,” LaSier said. “There’s not a demming in arrears.”

  She stared at Faar, and the man dipped his head in agreement. “That’s true, I never said it wasn’t. But I’m in dire straits, and it’s not enough—”

  “And Besetje won’t come up with the money?” Idomey asked.

  “I don’t have it!” Besetje said.

  “Besetje’s a trainer,” LaSier said. “It’s the Dog Moon. Of course she doesn’t have any cash to spare. And before you say it, Idomey, how was she to know the world would run mad? Of course she didn’t have anything extra set aside.”

  “She knew her father’s condition,” one of the other women said. “She had to think it could happen any day.”