Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

  “Right.” Rathe rubbed his forehead, considering his next move. At least he could rely on Eslingen to bring the bad news to DeVoss, and that left him free to—what? Spend the rest of the day talking to people along the riverside in Manufactory Point, and at Point of Graves, with a stop at Dreams first to let Trijn know what was happening, and to borrow Sohier to help with the interviews, if she was available. He suppressed a groan. “I’ll look forward to your report.”

  “I’ll send to Dreams if anything unexpected turns up,” Fanier said. “But I think you’ve got pretty much all I’m going to find.”

  “It’s a start,” Rathe said, with an optimism he didn’t entirely feel, and let himself out into the hall.

  The sun had risen by the time Eslingen reached the New Fair, the heavy golden light pouring between the buildings on the east side of the fairground to burnish the remnants of the night’s fog that still clung to the lower ground. The dogs were barking as loudly as ever, and journeymen trainers and the occasional boxholder dashed back and forth with laden buckets while apprentices and the majority of the boxholders toiled at the main pump, hauling water and washing out the emptied food buckets. Eslingen found a spot by the training tracks that was out of the traffic and rested his elbows on the fence, grateful for the golden light. It felt good on his skin after the river damp, and he tilted his his head back to let it fall full on his face. He would have to find DeVoss soon enough, as soon as she was done with the morning’s feeding, but he might as well take a moment to restore himself before he went looking.

  It was DeVoss who found him before the feeding was finished, and came stamping across the hard-beaten earth with her skirts still kilted to the knee beneath her working apron.

  “Eslingen—” She stopped as she saw his face, her own expression changing. “News?”

  “I’m sorry,” Eslingen said. He’d done this before, broken the news to friends and kin, but nothing made it easier. “The pontoises found Poirel.”

  “Oh, Demis.” DeVoss closed her eyes. “Dead?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry,” he said again.

  DeVoss swore under her breath. “What happened to him, do they know?”

  “Not yet.” Eslingen chose the details carefully, but from the look on her face she’s guessed most of it already. “He’d been in the river some days when they found him.”

  “Damn the man for a fool.” DeVoss scrubbed angrily at her face. “He knew he was needed.” She paused, a new calculation coming into her eyes. “So he must have died about when we missed him.”

  “That was the pontoises’ best guess.”

  “So he didn’t desert us,” DeVoss said. “That’ll make Besetje feel better.”

  Not much, Eslingen thought, but knew better than to say it. “Rathe will be in touch once he knows more. And I daresay the deadhouse will want someone from the kennel to make formal identification. But Nico wanted you to know he was found.”

  “I’m grateful,” DeVoss said, and squared her shoulders. “He’s at the deadhouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll send to them, tell them we’ll claim him when they’re done.”

  Eslingen nodded. He was sure Rathe had expected as much, but to say so would be to pass judgement on her solvency, a tricky comment at the best of times. “I’ll tell Rathe when I see him.”

  “Thank you.” DeVoss shook herself, shaking her skirts back to a more ordinary length. “I came to tell you Besetje was thinking of running Sunflower in a test match this morning. She sent to your lodgings, but she hadn’t heard back.”

  “That’s a bit of good news,” Eslingen said, though it was a wrenching effort to turn his mind to more ordinary matters. “When do they start?”

  “The first race goes at nine,” DeVoss answered, “and I believe yours is second or third. So you’ve time for breakfast and the barber if you want it.”

  Eslingen nodded, knowing dismissal when he heard it, and turned away. He visited the barber first, grateful for the neat shave and the warm water, and let the barber’s assistant wind his hair into a neat tail and fasten it with an indigo ribbon to match his dyed fingers. By the tower clock by Fairs’ Point, he still had an hour before the test matches began, and he made his way to one of the smaller cookshops that temporarily ringed the fairgrounds. They were between crowds, the trainers and boxholders long gone, the normal run of gamblers and astrologers not yet out of bed, and it was easy to find a table in the sun. A cheerful waitress brought fried cakes and cheese and a pot of tea, and when a broadsheet crier passed with a satchel of newly-printed horoscopes, Eslingen felt almost at peace with the world.

  He unrolled the horoscopes he’d bought, his own and one for Sunflower, not that a human horoscope was precisely reliable for animals. But, as with horses, a natal sign gave some indication of temperament, and he couldn’t resist seeing what the city’s astrologers had to say. If he had known Rathe’s stars, he would have bought his horoscope as well—but Rathe did not share that information. It was more of a sore spot than Eslingen wanted to acknowledge, and he turned his attention to Sunflower’s sheet. The dog had been born under the Mother, a sign Naimi swore was good for racers, and certainly Metenere was currently exalted in that sign: a good omen, he hoped, and drained the last of his tea.

  “Eslingen.”

  He looked up to see Patric Estradere leaning on one of the stanchions that marked the cookshop’s boundary, his fair hair loose beneath a dashing hat. “Major-Sergeant.”

  “A lovely morning,” Estradere said. “Have you had a chance to think about the Prince-Marshal’s offer?”

  I’ve done nothing but. Eslingen swallowed the words, and gave his blandest smile. “I am thinking, of course, though I’ve been a bit busy these days—”

  Estradere came around the rope barrier without being asked, and seated himself in the chair opposite. The waiter bustled over with more tea, and Eslingen made no protest as he poured out another pot.

  “It’s going to happen. It’s not official yet, but the word’s come down. And Coindarel wants you,” Estradere said. “That’s the short of it.”

  “And the long?”

  Estradere took a pinch of black salt from the waiting dish and added it to his cup, campaign habit, and swirled it thoughtfully. “It’s a tricky business, this new Guard. We all know that. Add to the mix all the noble mothers who’d like to lodge their darlings in a regiment that’s not likely to leave the capital, and it’s only trickier. We need you, Philip. You understand the points, you understand why the Guard must be subordinate to them, and you can set the tone for your fellows—you’re the man who saved the children at Midsummer, and the Queen herself at Midwinter.”

  “Hardly on my own,” Eslingen pointed out, and Estradere nodded.

  “Working in tandem harness with Rathe, and that’s even more to our advantage. You see, I’m frank with you. But we can’t hold a spot for you forever.”

  Eslingen chose his words carefully. “And I’ll be frank with you. I need the time to make it right. If you want me because of Rathe, then you have to let me manage that at my own pace. He’s not exactly sure this is a good plan, and I can’t blame him.”

  “We want you for yourself, not just because of him,” Estradere said.

  “And I can’t give you an answer yet.” Eslingen refused to apologize. “I have to have more time.”

  Estradere sighed. “As much as we can, you know that. But we will need an answer soon.”

  To Eslingen’s relief, the clock at Fairs’ Point began to strike, and he pushed back his stool, reaching into his purse to leave a scattering of coins on the table. “As soon as I can,” he said, and turned away without waiting for an answer.

  He made his way to the training pens, only to be told that the test matches were at the main courses. He arrived to find Naimi and a pair of boxholders standing watch over a stack of four baskets, all shaking and yelping in excitement. Naimi’s eyes were red, and Eslingen grimaced, bracing himself to offer sympathy, but sh
e lifted her hand.

  “I heard. And thank you for telling us, but that’s all I want to say.”

  Eslingen nodded. “As you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, and sniffled fiercely. “I’m running Sunflower second. The other dogs have a bit more experience, but they’re proven third-rankers. He should be faster, and they’ll show him how it’s done.”

  “I trust your judgement.” Eslingen went down on one knee beside the basket that contained Sunflower—he was getting good at identifying particular baskets—and thought that the barking stopped for an instant as the dog caught his scent. It resumed, more frantic than ever, and he patted the side of the basket before pushing himself to his feet. “Good luck,” he said, generally, and worked his way down the fence until he found a reasonable spot.

  He rested his elbows on the top of the fence, craning to see the first race of dogs loaded into their boxes. They barked and struggled, the boxholders cursing, and then miraculously they were all tucked away and the judge dropped her handkerchief. The boxes sprang open and the tangle of dogs burst out, half of them still barking madly, and tore down the course together in pursuit of the furry lure. A yellow dog held the lead most of the way, but a spotted dog ducked past her at the last possible moment, darting through the hole in the bales before the bigger dog could force her way through. There was a smattering of applause and comment, and out of the corner of his eye Eslingen could see coins changing hand. No one was supposed to bet on these practice matches, but here as everywhere Astreianters interpreted the law to suit themselves.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a familiar profile: Colonel Ospinel, using her folded parasol to make her way through the crowd. There was a well-dressed woman with her—t’Anthiame, he thought for an instant, then got a better look at the woman’s dress. That plain heavy silk belonged to a merchant-resident, not a noble, and he wasn’t sure that wasn’t worse. If Ospinel was trying to recruit the wealthy merchants to her cause—but that was folly, he told himself. He had no proof that there was any cause, beyond the general attempt to get the case reheard, and for that t’Anthiame would do well to have Ospinel cultivate the merchants-resident. There wasn’t, there couldn’t, be anything more than that, but he watched uneasily until they were both lost in the crowd.

  The course was reset, and a new set of boxholders had stepped into the track. One of the judge’s assistants whistled sharply, and they began to load the dogs. Sunflower was easy to spot, the only black brindle in the pack, writhing and twisting as he was dropped into the fourth box. It was a decent starting position, and Eslingen held his breath as the other dogs were loaded in. The boxholders stepped back, raising their hands, and the judge lifted her handkerchief. It fell, and the boxes sprang open. The dogs leaped forward, some still barking, most head-down and intent on the bobbing lure. Sunflower was toward the front, jostling in a knot of dogs just behind the leaders, tongue unreeling as he stretched out over the first jump. It seemed as though he gained half a length in the air, was in fourth place at the second jump and third as they came over the next, scrambling wide to miss a brown-and-black dog who’d tangled herself in her landing. And then they were tumbling through the opening, and Eslingen gave a yelp of delight. Second or third, surely no worse than third— He swung to check the board, and couldn’t repress a grin as one of the judge’s assistants hastily chalked the names: Sunflower was second. In a real race, that would have been prize money, and whatever odds he’d been able to get.

  The boxholder came past, grinning, Sunflower’s basket under his arm, and said politely, “He ran nicely, Lieutenant.”

  Sincere or not, Eslingen recognized the cue for a tip, and drew a demming from his purse. “Let’s hope he keeps it up.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the boxholder answered, and lugged the basket back toward the other end of the track.

  Naimi had two more dogs to race, both older dogs that Eslingen gathered just needed a reminder of the game. The first finished respectably, but the second was bumped off-stride by a young dog and fell over the first hurdle. He got up and finished, which Eslingen had to think was a good sign, but was still dead last. The noises from his basket, as the boxholder carried him past, held a definite note of complaint.

  Eslingen trailed after him, timing it so that he arrived just after Naimi had given her instructions and dispatched the boxholders back to the kennel. Naimi gave him a satisfied smile.

  “I’m pleased,” she said. “He did well—definitely faster, it was just experience that told against him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I’d thought about running him in a couple more practice matches, but he’s doing well enough I thought I might try him in a plain maiden stakes. It’s only a few seillings to enter—the prizes are lower, of course, but there’s a decent chance he’d at least make back your entrance fee.”

  Eslingen considered for a moment. “What would be the reasons not to run him?”

  Naimi shrugged. “Mostly wanting to keep him fresh, and of course there’s always the chance something could happen that would put him off the game—getting bumped hard, or bitten. But that can happen in practice, too.”

  “Right.” Eslingen rubbed his chin, the early morning starting to drag at him again. The trouble was, he didn’t really know enough to have an opinion on the matter, and he shrugged. “Why not? Let’s see what he does.”

  “Excellent.” Naimi gave him a brilliant smile. “There are three races in the next few days that would suit him. I’ll see how they’re shaping up, and let you know which one I choose.”

  “Thank you,” Eslingen said, and she turned away.

  Left to his own devices, Eslingen looked around for Ospinel, wondering if he could persuade her to talk a bit more about her patronne and their plans, but the lanky colonel was nowhere to be seen. He took a turn through the bower at Mama Moon’s, on the theory that it was the most likely place for t’Anthiame to hold court, but the bower was in sun at this time of day, and most of the tables were empty. He settled for a cup of magist-cooled lemon tea at a neighboring stall, and drank it in the shade of the patched awning, wishing he could join the gang of apprentices taking turns sticking their heads under the pump at the far end of the enclosure. But that was one of the prices one paid for rank, and he adjusted his hat to a better angle before venturing back into the sun.

  The main fairground was packed, women shoulder to shoulder around each of the training tracks, parasols and hats bobbing as the ones at the back tried to catch a glimpse of the running dogs. Apprentices bustled by with buckets of water, small buckets for trackside, bigger ones slung on shoulder yokes for the kennels, and at the far end of the grounds a carter was trying to force his way through the mob, his cart piled with barrels intended presumably for the taverns. Eslingen groaned, and turned back toward Mama Moon’s. If he went through the side alleys, he’d come out by the river, and could walk back to Dreams from there in relative peace.

  The first alley was shadowed but not cool, stinking of the midden, and he picked his way carefully through the oily puddles, only to emerge in a blast of noise and stink behind someone’s temporary kennel. The banner that hung limp beside the door showed a treed gargoyle and a pair of dogs, and he fumbled for the name before he came up with it: Stines Djala, an up-and-coming trainer who also apparently tended dogs for other women. Eslingen picked his way around the edges of the pens, and came out at last onto a quieter street where small shopkeepers sold broken goods salvaged from the fairs. Most of them were open, though they didn’t seem to be doing much business; he shook his head at a lurking apprentice and kept moving, the sweat damp on his neck after the cool of the morning.

  The noise came from his left, between two houses, a sharp cry abruptly cut off. Eslingen looked up sharply, recognizing the note of real fear, and reached for his sword before he remembered he’d come out only wearing his legal knife. There was another shout, a different, angry voice, and Eslingen swore. The sho
uts had come from the narrow alley, and he started toward it, loosening his knife. There was a knot of boys at the dead end, four or five of them clustered against the brick wall, and as he opened his mouth to shout, another boy fought his way free and darted for the alley’s mouth. His nose was bloodied, coat wrenched open and one stocking around his ankle; he saw Eslingen and tried to swerve around him, but tripped and went sprawling as the other boys rushed him. Eslingen swore again and hauled the fugitive to his feet, setting him against the wall behind him.

  “What in Seidos’s name are you about?” He put a sergeant’s snap into his voice, and the other boys checked at the sound.

  “He’s a thief,” one of them said, and another picked up the call.

  “A dirty, stinking thief—”

  “And where are the points?” Eslingen heard a window open above his head, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the attackers. “This is Astreiant, not some border town.”

  “We’re taking him to the points,” the first boy said. “Him and his silver.”

  “I’m not a thief!” the fugitive shouted back. He was twelve or so, with a trainer’s badge around his neck, a blue and ochre eye on a white background, but Eslingen couldn’t place the image. “It’s my money, I earned it!”

  “Liar!” A third boy lunged for him, and Eslingen cuffed him back.

  “Leave him be, it’s not your place to pass judgement.”

  “He’s a thief,” the leader said again. “He’s got four seillings in his purse, and there’s no honest place a motherless dog-sucking boxholder could get that kind of money. We’ll take him to the points, no worries.”

  Eslingen doubted that. They’d take the money, more likely, beat the boy solidly and divide the coin among themselves.

  “And however did you come to know what’s in his purse?” he asked, trying to buy time. They were boys still, the oldest no more than sixteen; he could certainly take them, but not without doing them some actual harm.

  “Saw him in Mother Anjele’s shop, trying to buy a hat,” the leader answered. “She sent him off with a flea in his ear—”