Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

  “Training jumps,” a woman said, at his left hand, and then started. “Seidos’s Horse—it’s Eslingen, isn’t it?”

  He turned, frowning, to see a tall, broad-bodied woman in a decent blue suit. It had been trimmed in the summer’s latest style, pale silk flowers and knots of silver cord, but the decoration couldn’t hide that skirt and bodice were several years old at best. Her parasol was new, her hat old, woven straw perched on graying hair worn longer than he had ever seen it before, and the scar across the back of her left hand showed bone-white against her tan. “Colonel Ospinel? A pleasure to see you again, madame.”

  There weren’t many women with the stars to take them to command of heavy cavalry, but Ospinel had always had them—and a good thing, too, Eslingen thought. She was the fourth or fifth daughter of an Ajanine landame, thirty-two quarterings of nobility and not a demming to her name except what she’d taken by the sword. And she’d always been quick to put her troop in the way of plunder.

  “And you,” Ospinel answered. “Though—I think I owe you an apology. I believe it’s vaan Esling now, and a commission.”

  Eslingen bowed slightly, and she smiled, showing good teeth.

  “My congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  At the end of the track, the boxholders were loading the last dogs into the compartments, and Ospinel turned eagerly to watch. Eslingen leaned slightly to one side to avoid her parasol, and she collapsed it with a murmur of apology. The boxholders stepped back then, lifting both hands to prove they were offering neither help nor hindrance to their dogs, and a woman lifted a white handkerchief.

  “Ready?”

  There was no call of protest, and she dropped the handkerchief. In the same instant, an apprentice threw a lever, and the doors of the boxes sprang open all at once. On the platform behind the bales, one of the other apprentices released the lever, and a bedraggled ball of fur began bounding down the track. The dogs leaped from their boxes in pursuit—well, all but one of them, who leaped on his nearest neighbor, wrestling him into the dirt. Their boxholders scrambled over the boxes to separate them, but the rest of the dogs ignored the fight, hard in pursuit of the bobbing bit of fur. They took the jumps in stride at first, until a black-and-white dog misjudged the third jump and caught his front paws as he went over. He fell in a rolling ball of fur and dust, nearly tripping the two dogs behind him, but was up again in an instant, following the pack. The leaders were over the last jump, heading for the tiny opening in the hay bales. For a second, Eslingen thought a brown dog had the victory, but a stockier white dog muscled him aside at the last possible moment, diving under him to get through the hole first. The other dogs followed, and there was a whirl of activity behind the bales as the leather-aproned trainers caught and controlled the yelping pack. It was no wonder they wore the aprons, Eslingen thought. Even well-clipped claws would tear clothes and skin to pieces.

  Beside him, Ospinel shook her head. “That one won’t keep his mind on the business. Floreis ought to geld him.”

  It took Eslingen a moment to realize she was talking about the dog that had tried to start a fight at the beginning. “Or a muzzle? I see some of them have them.”

  “Or both.” Ospinel brought a set of tablets out of her skirts, began making notes in the stiff wax leaves. “You never used to be a gambler, Sergeant—Lieutenant, I should say.”

  “I acquired a dog at the Redistribution,” Eslingen answered. “I thought I’d see what he could do before I sold him. I take it you’re here for the races yourself? Have you a dog, then?”

  Ospinel gave a sideways smile, and tucked away her tablets. “I do not, sad to say. Someday, perhaps. But, no, I’ve been in the city all the winter. Sibilla t’Anthiame has stood patronne to me these ten years, and the least I could do was stand with her.”

  Eslingen suppressed a groan. T’Anthiame was the other claimant to Malfiliatre, the losing claimant. It was just Ospinel’s luck that her patronne would be on the wrong side of the case. “I’m sorry for her loss.”

  “The de Caliors fee’d the judges,” Ospinel said darkly. “And look what happens when you put a family like that in power! No one of real breeding would repudiate her own brother’s debts. It just shows what a miscarriage of justice that decision was.”

  She hadn’t bothered to lower her voice, and Eslingen wasn’t surprised to see agreement on some of the faces around them. Ospinel saw it, too, and dipped her head to hide a smirk of satisfaction.

  “But we have plans,” she said, in a lower voice. “The de Caliors can flaunt their victory for now, but it won’t last. Not any longer than a basket terrier’s.”

  Eslingen raised an eyebrow at the metaphor, and she turned away, focusing on the boxholders as they lowered another set of dogs into the starting boxes. The official lifted her handkerchief again, received no protest, and released it. The dogs sprang from their boxes, bounding down the course and over the jumps in a whirl of legs and fur and noise. They tangled at the end before one managed to force its way through the opening, and the others followed, to be collected again by their trainers. Ospinel had her tablets out again, and was making notes, and Eslingen took the opportunity to edge away. But he would have to tell Rathe, he thought. He had never known Ospinel to make an idle threat.

  A soft rain was falling with the first sunset, just enough to cool the air and settle the dust and bring a sudden violent scent of new leaves in through the open windows. Rathe lit the second branch of candles as the dusk thickened, and poured himself a second glass of wine. It was an unexpected moment of quiet in a long and busy day, and he settled himself in his favorite chair, stretching his legs under the table. He heard the courtyard gate creak softly, and then the sound of the stairway door opening and closing, and soft feet on the stairs: Eslingen, by the rhythm of it, and he was not surprised to hear the key in the lock. The door swung open, and Eslingen came in, shaking the rain from his broad-brimmed hat. A few drops had formed beads on the shoulders of his coat, and caught the candlelight like tiny diamonds. His hair was down, still wet from the baths, and for a moment Rathe could smell it on him, steam and musk and spring, like some creature out of a granddad’s tale, a water-horse made man in search of adventure. And then Eslingen gave his hat a last brisk shake and came inside, shrugging out of his coat to hang it carefully to dry before he returned it to the press. It was only him, running his hand through his damp hair and reaching for the wine jug.

  “Wet night,” Rathe said.

  “Not too bad.” Eslingen poured himself a cup and settled himself at the opposite end of the table.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “At the baths. But if there’s more of that tart…”

  Rathe grinned. Eslingen had a surprising sweet tooth for a grown man. “There might be.”

  “Thanks.” Eslingen tipped his chair back to reach the tart in its pan, and broke the last wedge neatly in half.

  Rathe shook his head, smiling still, and Eslingen settled back.

  “You got Sunflower settled, then?”

  “Your Besetje took him. She was mildly optimistic.”

  “She’s a good kid.” Rathe reached for the other piece of tart after all, and it was Eslingen’s turn to grin. The expression faded quickly, though, and Rathe cocked his head. “Bad day at the salle?”

  “No, that was fine,” Eslingen said, somewhat indistinctly. “When I was at the New Fair, though…” He shook his head, tried again. “I saw one of my old officers at the Fair, watching the dogs being trained.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  Eslingen stared at a dropped raisin as though it might escape. “She’s an Ospinel, one of the daughters of the Landame of Geildda.”

  Rathe shook his head.

  “They’re an Ajanine family, thirty-two quarterings, a tumbledown manor with a defensible tower, ten acres of rocks, and six or seven daughters to launch on the world, never mind the clutch of sons. Tanasse—she was my captain first, then colonel—she’s the fourth or fifth, a
nd her mother bought her a horse and a sword and turned her loose. A good captain, mind you, mostly careful of her people, but always looking for plunder, and not too scrupulous about making a way if one wasn’t obvious.”

  Rathe nodded, wondering where this was headed, and Eslingen took a breath.

  “I thought she was here for the races, but it turns out she’s been here all winter. In Sibilla t’Anthiame’s train.”

  Rathe looked up sharply at that. T’Anthiame had been none too happy about losing her case, and rumor said she planned to appeal to the Queen directly; in the meantime, Temple Point had already had to break up half a dozen quarrels between her household and Malfiliatre’s.

  Eslingen nodded. “She was talking about revenge, that she and t’Anthiame would make the de Caliors pay.”

  “There’s been a lot of talk,” Rathe said. “And some scuffling. Temple Point’s borne the brunt of it.”

  “I daresay there has.”

  Eslingen prodded the raisin across the table, and Rathe, unaccountably irritated, snatched it away. He popped it in his mouth, said, “Out with it. Why should I worry?”

  “Ospinel doesn’t make idle threats,” Eslingen said. “If she says they’re planning revenge, they’re planning revenge.”

  “Why would she tell you? That doesn’t make sense.”

  Eslingen shrugged. “She doesn’t think she’s doing anything wrong—she was trying to stir up trouble at the Fair, saying loud enough for everyone to hear that t’Anthiame wouldn’t have repudiated a brother’s debts. They’re not done, whatever the courts say.”

  Rathe sighed. “That’s just lovely.”

  “I thought you should know.”

  “And I want to know, I’m grateful, believe me. It’s just—why does the Dis-damned woman have to bring her troubles here?”

  “She’s got an eye for the main chance,” Eslingen said. “And she stands to gain if t’Anthiame is chosen.”

  “Which she won’t be,” Rathe said. “I’ve never heard of a judge overturning such a decision, only the Queen. And she has more sense.” He shook his head again. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll send a circular to the other stations, tell them to keep their eyes open.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  “And now you wish you hadn’t told me.”

  Eslingen shrugged. “I’m fond of her, that’s all.”

  “You can’t let that get in the way,” Rathe said, and swallowed the rest of what he’d been going to say as too likely to start a quarrel.If you want to be in this Guard, you’ll have to learn that. He reached for the wine jug and turned the conversation.

  He was still feeling vaguely discontented when he made his way back to Dreams the next morning. It was busy already, four or five women standing at the duty point’s desk, and one of them detached herself from the group, seeing him enter. Rathe hid a groan. Ourielle Zedey was one of the local taverners, who owned two houses of her own and had shares in several more: a woman of substance and considerable respect, and every year she ran an open book out of the Jumping Jack. She was not one to take kindly to the new regulations.

  “Rathe! What’s this nonsense about a bond?”

  Rathe spread his hands. “You see the notice, dame. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “I saw it,” Zedey said, “but I didn’t believe it. What in Demis’s name were they thinking?”

  “That I can’t tell you, because they haven’t shared their reasoning with us. All we have is the new rule. Which we have to enforce.”

  “But you know I’m good for the money. You’ve never had trouble with me in, what, it must be twenty years I’ve been doing it.” Zedey looked more hurt than offended.

  “I know,” Rathe said.

  “And I’ve made good other women’s ill luck. Two years ago—well, you weren’t here, but Trijn can tell you. Anyone can.”

  “I do know that,” Rathe said. “But we don’t have any leeway. The Regents have been very clear.”

  “Here, now.” That was another of them, a short, sharp-faced woman in a skirt and bodice that had been made over from the wardrobe of a larger woman. She had the badge of the Maternité on her collar: probably from the Foundling House on the border of Dreams and Hearts, Rathe guessed. They usually ran a betting book as well, and made a tidy profit on it for the benefit of the house. “If anyone’s going to get an exception—”

  “Demis have mercy,” Zedey said.

  “No exceptions are being made,” Rathe said firmly. “As I understand it, dames, it’s not possible for us to make any exceptions.”

  “There are always ways,” the woman from the Foundling House said darkly.

  “This is Rathe you’re talking about,” Zedey said.

  “Well, yes, but he’s not Chief Point, either—”

  “And you’ll have to talk to her about it,” Rathe said hastily. Trijn wouldn’t be happy, but it was better to nip this in the bud. “If you’d like, I’ll tell her you want a word.”

  “I’d take that kindly,” Zedey answered, and the woman from the Foundling House nodded sharply.

  “Right, then.” Rathe retreated up the stairs, and tapped on the door of Trijn’s workroom. “Sorry to bother you, Chief.”

  “No, you’re not.” Trijn’s voice was only slightly muffled by the door. “Come in if you must.”

  Rathe pushed open the door. “Sorry,” he said again. “Dame Zedey and a woman from the Maternité and I’d guess three more are downstairs asking about the bond. There’s been some discussion of whether there can be exceptions made.”

  “Astree’s tits.” Trijn laid her pipe on its pewter plate with an expression that suggested she would have liked to throw it instead. “No, there are no exceptions. We’re not permitted to admit exceptions, and you can tell them that from me.”

  Rathe said nothing, and she sighed.

  “Very well, I’ll talk to them. In the meantime—” She rummaged among the papers on her table, came up with a half-sheet. “You can take a look at this.”

  “Yes, Chief,” Rathe said, meekly, and retreated to his own workroom. As he closed his door, he could hear Trijn’s voice raised in hearty greeting, and hoped she’d be able to smooth things over properly.

  The paper proved to be another circular from Fairs’ Point, neatly copied in a familiar secretarial hand. Taken out of the familiar formal phrases, it was a warning about a new gang of pickpockets working the races, and Rathe suppressed a sigh. The races were as big a target as the Midsummer Fairs, or the theaters at Midwinter; every year saw the emergence of another gang, banding together to make a profit from the crowds and disappearing afterwards. It was generally a race to see whether the points would catch someone who could be persuaded to name either the ringleader or the primary receiver before the meet ended, and Rathe skimmed to the bottom, curious to see what kind of success Claes had had so far.

  The answer brought him up short. Claes’s people had taken no one, called no points at all. He went back to the beginning, reading more carefully this time, and when he’d finished, poured himself a cup of tea from the cold pot. It made no sense. Claes listed nearly two dozen thefts already, most from around the training tracks, but some from the shops and temporary stalls that had sprung up to serve the fair-goers. Most of them had lost coin from strongboxes, tricky but not impossible in the press of business, though Rathe would have expected to see more of that as the races got fully underway and the crowds grew even larger. More striking, though, was the thieves’ restraint: they’d grabbed the silver, and left the copper behind. If they were that disciplined, Rathe thought, they were going to be hard to catch, particularly since they weren’t sticking to any one technique. Some of the women had lost coin, some had lost their entire purse, sliced neatly from its strings without so much as a tug, so that they’d only noticed it missing when they went to pay for a cup of wine, and found it gone.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs, and looked up, unsurprised to see Trijn scowling at him.

  “
You’ve read it, then? Good. I’d like a word with you.”

  “Of course.” Rathe followed her into her workroom, and settled himself at her gesture on the visitor’s chair. “It’s an odd business.”

  Trijn nodded, busy refilling her pipe. “It is that.”

  “They haven’t taken a single pickpocket?”

  “So Claes says.”

  Rathe eyed her warily, wondering exactly what she was trying to imply. “It’s odd they’re going for strongboxes, too.”

  “A bit.” Trijn sucked noisily on her pipe, then released a cloud of smoke and a satisfied sigh. “And before you ask, I think Guillen Claes is an honest man, and, more to the point, not such a fool as to take fees that would lower his standing with the businesswomen of his district. There are others at Fairs’ Point, however…”

  “Voillemin,” Rathe said.

  “I didn’t say it, and I can’t say it.”

  But we both know who you mean. Rathe nodded. “Understood, Chief.”

  “But before I say there’s nothing in it for us to worry about, I want you to have a chat with your friends the Quentiers. Since you’re close enough to be called to their councils.”

  Rathe sighed. “That’s a somewhat different matter. There was a daughter of the family, with the worst possible stars for a pickpocket and no taste for the trade. I was one of three or four who spoke for her.”

  “And you’re still speaking for her,” Trijn said.

  “Only to certify she’s still no pickpocket.”

  “What does she do?”

  Rathe winced. “She’s a dog trainer. Maewes DeVoss’s assistant.”

  “Is she, now?” Trijn’s eyes brightened, and Rathe shook his head.

  “She’s an honest woman—they both are, she and DeVoss.”

  “I know DeVoss.” Trijn shook her head. “All right, we’ll leave that, then. But I do want you to talk to the Quentiers. Unofficially, of course.”

  Not that there was anything official that he could say, nor the slightest chance that any of the Quentiers would be receptive to an official approach. And if there was anything going on, he’d put his money on Voillemin’s being involved. “Yes, Chief.”