“It wasn’t his fault,” Eslingen said. “He didn’t start the fight.”
“He knew my rules,” Texier said. “And he certainly contributed, him and his stories about silver in the walls. I ask you, is that reasonable?”
“He told you about that?” Eslingen kept his voice level, tried to sound idly curious.
“Who didn’t he tell?” Texier retorted. “I swear he had every boxman and dog-handler at the Fair through here, wanting to hear the tale. Four silver seillings lodged in a tavern wall? Ridiculous!”
“Where do you think he got the coin, then?” Rathe asked. “Assuming you’re sure he had it.”
“He had it, all right,” Eslingen said, and Texier nodded.
“Little fool. I told him I’d keep it in the strongbox if he wanted, but, no, he had to have it in his purse. Silver calls silver, he said, and you see where that got him.”
“So where do you think he got it?” Rathe asked again.
“He’s no thief,” Texier said.
“Off the books,” Rathe said, patiently.
Texier hesitated, then shrugged. “As I said, he’s no thief. But there’s been a plague of pickpockets, I thought he probably found their leavings, invented the rest of the tale to make the other apprentices leave him be.”
“And you’ve seen no sign of the silver yourself?” Eslingen asked.
“Of course not.” Texier gave him a look that she probably reserved for particularly hapless dogs. “He made it up. Now, if you’re done?”
“We’ve a dog to see to,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.
“Thanks, dame.”
They shouldered their way back out of the kennel, paused by unspoken consent in the relative quiet and narrow shade of the next-door lodging, and Rathe rubbed at his ear.
“Tyrseis, I’d forgotten how loud the beasts were.”
Eslingen opened his parasol, tilting it against the sun. “Do you believe her?”
“Do you?”
Eslingen paused, considering. “I think she believes it. I don’t think it’s true, though. I think—I’m sure Colyer was telling the truth.”
“She’s a very definite sort of person,” Rathe said, with a smile. “Still, I wish we could talk to the boy.”
“So do I.” Eslingen shifted the parasol. “Although—if he talked as much as she said, he may be better off out of the city.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Rathe said. “Coins in the wall—hidden there, I wonder? Left to recover later?” He shook his head. “It still doesn’t make a lot of sense. But if he did talk, Besetje will have heard.”
“And, conveniently, we’ve a dog to visit,” Eslingen said.
They stopped at the Golden Eel to buy a packet of the liver biscuits that Naimi had decreed acceptable for dogs in training, and Eslingen watched as the shopkeeper wrapped and sealed the oiled-paper packet before tucking it into his sleeve.
“Not that Naimi seems particularly worried about drugging,” he said, “though one hears stories, but she wants to be sure he doesn’t eat anything that’s gone off.”
“Dogs do get drugged sometimes,” Rathe said. “But it’s better than it was. There was a scandal, oh, it must be ten years ago now, when a consortium of trainers conspired to fix the races, and they doped their dogs to do it. They’d have gotten away with it, too, except that one of the dogs had the wrong stars and reacted badly to the drug, or maybe got too much of a dose, and had a fit in the box. And that got Claes wondering—he was just named Chief then—and he teased it out in the end.”
Eslingen blinked at that. From everything he’d heard about Claes, he’d taken the man for a time-server, the sort of man who’d bought his promotion. He said, carefully, “I’d never heard that story.”
Rathe gave him a sideways smile, as though he’d guessed the real thought. “Claes is good, that’s the thing. He may be overwhelmed, but he does know what he’s doing, particularly where the races are concerned. He’s the one who set up the veterinary checks before all the races.”
Eslingen nodded. He’d seen the veterinarians about, taciturn women in gray magists’ gowns, watching as the dogs were loaded into their boxes or hurrying from one kennel to the next; Naimi had said they were there to prevent cheating, but he’d never really considered the details. “It’s necessary, I suppose.”
“No one wants a repeat of that year,” Rathe said. “A bloody mess, it was. The Patent Administrator had to void most of the races, and there was hell to pay over the betting. It took a decree from the Regents to straighten it all out.”
“What did they do? Or do I want to know?”
“Froze the bets as they’d been paid, confiscated all the prize money that the involved trainers had won, and banned them for life.”
“That’s surprisingly sensible. Pity they didn’t try something similar with the book-writers.”
“I know.” Rathe shrugged. “Still, it seems to have gotten the message across.”
“So it does,” Eslingen said.
“Mind you, there were riots,” Rathe said. “That’s when I learned never to get in the way of a trainer’s stick. I’ve never seen one used on a dog, but they’re deadly in a fight.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” They had reached DeVoss’s kennel, and Eslingen slipped the badge from under his coat to display it to the lounging watchman. “He’s my guest.”
“Of course,” the watchman answered, with a grin that showed he recognized Rathe. Eslingen folded his parasol, pretending he didn’t see, and ducked past him into the main building. It was crowded with pens, the ones at the front each with an apprentice to mind the dog, the rest supervised by a pair of boxholders, and Eslingen paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the reduced light. The smell of dog was very strong, and the noise was deafening.
“Besetje!” Rathe lifted his hand in greeting, and Eslingen turned as well, unsurprised to see the assistant trainer smiling in answer.
“Nico. And Lieutenant vaan Esling.”
“Please, call me Philip,” Eslingen said, feeling it was required, and the young woman gave an odd, sideways shrug.
“If you like. Have you come to see Sunflower?”
“And brought him a present,” Eslingen said, producing the package from his sleeve.
Naimi took it, checking seal and paper with an expert glance, and nodded. “He’s had his first run today, so there’s no harm in treating him. No more than four, mind.”
“Absolutely,” Eslingen said. Sunflower came bounding to the front of his pen, barking wildly, and skidded to a stop when he saw the paper package.
Rathe snickered. “I see someone’s well-trained. I don’t say who.”
“There’s no harm in treats,” Naimi said.
Eslingen ignored them both, and broke the seal, pulling out the first of the hard little biscuits. Sunflower came up on his hind legs, dancing like a fiddler’s shill, and Eslingen passed the treat through the bars of the pen. Sunflower snatched it and retreated, shaking his head to kill it before he settled to consume every crumb. Eslingen passed him another, and looked at Naimi.
“When do you plan to run him next?”
“I’ve entered him in the last race tomorrow. It’s not much of a prize, but it’s not much of a field, either. Think of it as practice.”
Rathe reached for the packet, and Eslingen let him take a biscuit, watched as he got Sunflower to turn in ecstatic circles before dropping the treat.
“Is there any more news on Poirel?” Naimi asked, and Rathe shook his head.
“Too soon, I’m afraid—”
The door to the trainer’s room at the end of the row snapped back, and an all-too familiar figure appeared, DeVoss at his heels, fury in every line of her body. “Nico,” Eslingen said, but it was too late. Voillemin had seen them, and was striding toward them, clearly ready to take out him temper on someone else. Naimi took a step backward, then held her ground with an effort that made her shudder.
“Rathe! I thought t
he chief told you to stay out of our business.”
“He’s just here with me,” Eslingen said. “Come to see the dog—”
Voillemin ignored him. “Rathe! I’m talking to you!”
Rathe dropped the last biscuit to the capering dog, and handed the packet of treats back to Naimi. “I expect everyone in the kennel heard you. It’s my day off, I’ve come to the races.”
“I don’t—” Voillemin swallowed the direct insult in the nick of time, and Eslingen swallowed a curse, knowing he had no excuse to intervene. “You’ve no business being here.”
“He’s here at my invitation,” Eslingen said. “To see my dog.”
Voillemin glanced down at Sunflower, his lip curling in an unpleasant smile. “Such as it is.”
Naimi drew breath to answer, and visibly thought better of it. DeVoss said, “Eslingen’s our client, right enough, and who he brings as a guest is his business. I’ve no complaint to make.”
“The complaint’s not yours to make,” Voillemin answered, but he seemed to have himself under control again. “It’s between Fairs and Dreams, and you know your chief will hear of this, Rathe.”
“She gave me the day off herself,” Rathe said. “And she’s made it clear I’m not to cause you trouble.”
Voillemin nodded sharply, and looked at DeVoss. “Dame, I’ll take your word to the chief, and I’m sorry for the loss of your man. But you know as well as I that we have one or two such deaths every racing season.”
“Not quite like this,” DeVoss said, but shook her head. “Do as you please, I’m done with it.”
“I’ll carry that word, too,” Voillemin said, with acid courtesy, and turned away.
DeVoss swore comprehensively, and looked at Rathe. “And now I don’t dare be seen talking to you, or he’ll think I’m in some conspiracy. But you can tell Besetje anything I need to know.”
“I’ll do that,” Rathe said.
“Right.” DeVoss shook herself, much like one of her own dogs, and started down the row of pens. Naimi looked from one man to the other.
“I don’t want to be in the middle.”
Eslingen saw Rathe make himself relax, finding a smile somewhere. “It’s all right, Besetje,” he said. “I promise I won’t do that.”
Naimi hunched her shoulders, looking suddenly very young. “He thinks I’m spying for my cousins. He said he’d call the point.”
“Well, you’re not, and he can’t,” Rathe said briskly. “DeVoss will protect you, and it’s a tougher man than Voillemin who’ll stand against her.”
Naimi shook her head, but some of the tension eased from her shoulders. “He’s not a nice man. And he doesn’t like dogs.”
“More fool he,” Eslingen said, with a glance at Sunflower, still circling and sniffing at the dirt as though he might find one final crumb. “We did have a question to ask you—”
“I can’t,” Naimi said. “You heard him.”
“Nothing to do with Poirel or any other business of his,” Rathe said quickly. “Just an odd story Philip heard.”
“Oh?” Naimi cocked her head like a terrier.
“I had a run-in with some prentices yesterday,” Eslingen said. “They’d cornered one of Texier’s boys, said he’d stolen some silver coins he had on him. But the odd thing was, the boy said he’d found them in an alley wall.”
“I’ve heard that tale,” Naimi said.
“And?” Rathe prompted, when she seemed disinclined to continue.
“Well, I haven’t found any.”
“Did you look?”
Naimi scuffed her feet. “Didn’t seem to be any harm in looking. But the stars must not have been right.”
“Where did you look?” Eslingen began, but the Fairs’ Point clock began to strike, and Naimi’s head lifted sharply.
“Hare and Hound, I’m late. Meet me after the races, and I’ll tell you what I know, but I have to go now.”
“I’ll buy you dinner,” Eslingen began, but she was already gone. He looked at Rathe. “Well.”
Rathe shrugged. “We might as well see a few races.”
They made their way through the fairground to the main tracks, and Eslingen elbowed his way through the crowd until they could claim spots along the fence by the track where Naimi would be running her dogs. They watched a couple of races without particular involvement, and it was only when Naimi appeared, carrying a basket badged with DeVoss’s mark, that Eslingen realized Rathe had been paying more attention to the crowds around them.
“You’re good,” he said quietly, and surprised a short laugh from the other man.
“I keep thinking about those pickpockets. I’m damned if I see how they’re doing it.”
Eslingen just managed to keep from checking his purse. “They’re not working now, surely?”
“A couple,” Rathe said. “Don’t turn, she’ll come into your line of sight in a minute, but—a very respectable-looking woman in a plain green gown and a big hat. She’s not someone I know, but she’s lifted two purses since we got here, passed them on to a couple of girls dressed like apprentices.”
And there she was, Eslingen thought, very respectable-looking indeed in her neatly tailored skirt and bodice, a broad hat shading her face. It would be hard to swear to her once she changed her clothes, and he nodded in appreciation.
“Much as I hate to say it, there’s never a pointsman when you need one,” Rathe said. “I don’t know what Claes is thinking, not having more than a handful on duty. I haven’t seen a single pointsman since we spoke with Voillemin.”
The woman in green had disappeared into the crowd, and Rathe sighed. Eslingen shook his head. “You’d turn her in.”
“I’d call the point myself, except it would cause more trouble than it’s worth,” Rathe said. “But I hate seeing them get away with it.”
Eslingen wasn’t sure what to say to that, remembering Rathe’s unlikely friendship with what seemed to be the entire Quentier clan—but then, he himself had been friends with people on the other side of the half-dozen little wars he’d fought in. He supposed it wasn’t much different.
Rathe shook himself. “Look, they’re loaded.”
Eslingen turned his attention back to the boxes just as the last boxholder raised his hand. The steward dropped her handkerchief, and the doors sprang open, releasing a tangle of dogs. Three of them collided on the first jump, and their part of the race dissolved into a tussle while the remainder of the dogs pelted on down the track in pursuit of the lure. A brown dog with a white belly managed to force her way in first, but most of the attention was on the boxholders as they separated the struggling dogs, hurling insults to match the dogs’ frantic barking. Luckily the most aggressive one had been muzzled, and the others seemed unhurt, but Naimi was scowling as she collected her animal, her hands running quickly over his body. Eslingen saw her relax, and felt his own muscles loosen. It was too easy to grow fond of the little beasts.
Naimi had a dog in the next race, too. It went off without a hitch, though Naimi’s dog trailed the field. She didn’t seem too upset as she collected her, though, and Rathe touched his sleeve.
“How about a drink? I’m parched.”
And that way it wouldn’t be obvious that Naimi was meeting them, Eslingen thought, but nodded. “This way.”
Several of the smaller cookshops had joined forces to rent one of the caravaners’ pavilions, and Eslingen quickly claimed a table as far from the stove as he could manage. It was nicely shaded, and a waiter hurried over to take their order, brought tea and a pint of beer. Rathe ordered the cold ordinary for them both, and Eslingen rested his elbows on the rickety table, stretching his back.
“Well, I say the woman’s got a point.” That was a man at the next table, his face flushed with beer or sun. “No true noble would drop her brother like that. It’s not natural.”
“Are you joking?” The shabbily-dressed woman who sat opposite shook her head. “You can’t let a spendthrift ruin the family.”
�
��Still.” That was a second man, dressed like a shopkeeper, an expensive hat on the table beside him. “It’s not right, and it’s done harm to the city. It seems to me that’s an indication that the judgement was flawed.”
“Will t’Anthiame take it to the Queen, have you heard?” the first man asked, and the shopkeeper shrugged.
“There’s talk she might. But who knows for sure?”
“And in the meantime, the entire city’s in an uproar, women are cutting their losses, and the whole thing’s an ungodly mess,” the woman said. “There shouldn’t be nobles if they’re going to act like that.”
“That’s leveller talk,” the shopkeeper said, with disapproval.
“So?” The woman glared at him, and the first man shook his head.
“It’s also careless. Come on, Sabadie has a dog in the seventh that I’d like to watch.”
They gathered themselves, the woman still grumbling, and headed back toward the tracks. Rathe watched them go, frowning now himself, and Eslingen raised an eyebrow.
“Trouble? I thought you didn’t think that talk was serious.”
“I might owe you an apology,” Rathe said, and leaned back to let the waiter serve them. “The woman, that’s Janilho Slies. She writes for the broadsheets. And she’s popular at the University. If she’s pushing the matter—no offense, Philip, but she’s got more influence in the city than either your old colonel or her patronne.”
“What’ll you do about it?” Eslingen reached for the loaf of bread, carved them each a thick slice, and snagged a chunk of hard sausage.
“Tell Trijn, I suppose. Politics are her business, not mine.”
And Rathe was something of a leveller himself, Eslingen thought, though he knew better than to say it. Instead, he reached for the dish of flavored oil and concentrated on his meal.
Naimi appeared as they were finishing, trailing a nervous-looking girl behind her. Rathe looked up from his glass of wine and gestured for them both to sit. The girl jibed, but Naimi put a heavy hand on her shoulder and pushed her onto a stool.
“We can’t stay,” she said, “I’ve got the afternoon vet to deal with, and Albe—this is Albe, she’s one of our apprentices—has to clean pens, but—I thought she should talk to you.”
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