Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

  b’Estorr lifted his head. “Of course, it is silver.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rathe asked.

  “What you said before,” Eslingen said, in almost the same instant, and b’Estorr nodded to both of them.

  “Yes, that. Silver doesn’t like magistry—it’s a pragmatic metal, like lead, just about inert when it comes to magists’ work. That’s why it’s used for working more active metals, just as lead is. So I suppose it’s possible that we’re not finding any traces of magistry because the silver’s already shed it? Rid itself of whatever was used on it?”

  “How, then?” Fanier asked. “I don’t say it’s impossible, mind, but—how?”

  “I have no idea,” b’Estorr said. “But I wonder if those walls mightn’t hold more trace than the silver itself.”

  “That’s a thought,” Fanier said.

  Rathe sighed. “Except that means going into Fairs’ Point, and I don’t have any standing there, Istre. I’ve been ordered to keep out.”

  “I could go on my own,” b’Estorr began, and Eslingen cleared his throat.

  “Why don’t you come with me? Not only can I show you exactly where we found this one, but everyone expects me to be at the races.”

  He glanced at Rathe as he spoke, hoping he hadn’t overstepped, and was pleased to see him nodding. “That’s a good idea. And I can sit blamelessly in Dreams—or, more likely, spend the rest of the day chasing unlicensed astrologers and book-writers—and no one can claim I had anything to do with it.”

  “Just two gentlemen of leisure enjoying a day at the races,” Eslingen said, and Rathe grinned.

  “In the meantime,” Fanier said, “can I keep this, Nico? I think Istre might be onto something about it shedding magic. I’d like to see if I can make it do that, and how long it takes.”

  “Go ahead,” Rathe said. “I’ll need it back sometime, though.”

  “Intact and unchanged,” Fanier promised.

  “Testing that will take a lot of energy,” b’Estorr began, and Fanier gave a sharp smile.

  “That’s what we have apprentices for, isn’t it?”

  “On your head be it,” b’Estorr said, and looked at Eslingen. “Fairs’ Point, Lieutenant?”

  “Off to the races,” Eslingen answered, and held the door like the gentleman he wasn’t.

  They took a low-flyer most of the way to Fairs’ Point, abandoning it only when the crowds got thick enough to slow their progress. Eslingen led the way toward the New Fair, and glanced back to see the Chadroni wincing at the noise.

  “I’m not all that fond of dogs,” he said.

  “I rather like them,” Eslingen answered, and quickly smiled to take away any inadvertent insult. “And the races are good.”

  “In Chadron we race horses.” b’Estorr looked a bit like a horse himself, wide-eyed and ready to spook, and Eslingen wondered if the man simply didn’t like crowds. It took some people badly to be around so many others.

  “Over here,” he said, and caught b’Estorr’s sleeve, pulling him into a quieter corner of the grounds. b’Estorr gave him a nod of thanks, but made no offer of an explanation, and Eslingen went on as though he hadn’t noticed. “We races horses in the League, too, but over jumps. Point to point, too. But there’s no room for that sort of thing in the city.”

  “No,” b’Estorr agreed. There was color in his face again, and he gave a crooked smile. “Sorry. The ghost tide’s coming, and when there are this many people together—there can be rather a lot of ghosts all at once.”

  In the excitement of the races, Eslingen had more or less forgotten the impending ghost-tide. He grimaced and nodded, and b’Estorr went on, “Not to mention I’ve been—less than fond—of crowds since the old king was murdered.”

  “At a festival?” Eslingen hazarded, remembering vague tales, and b’Estorr nodded.

  “At a family feast, which is how things are done in Chadron.”

  “Sounds like you’re well out of it.” Eslingen had avoided most of the Chadroni wars for very much that reason.

  “Well. It was interesting work,” b’Estorr answered. “But after that I couldn’t stay.”

  He didn’t say it was home, Eslingen noted. But that was more than he could ask, no matter how curious he was about the man. “We can go round about,” he offered. “Skip the morning races and go straight to the taverns, if you’d rather.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.” b’Estorr gave another small smile. “I should have thought.”

  Eslingen led them around the edge of the Fair, came out at last by Mama Moon’s bower. It was less crowded this early in the day, and he claimed a table, drawing b’Estorr to sit beside him, their backs to the tavern walls. The waiter brought tea and cakes and a pitcher of lemon water for b’Estorr, but Eslingen waited until he was sure the necromancer was settled before he spoke again.

  “The alley’s on the other side—it cuts through to a pack of kennels, and half the boxholders use it as a necessary.”

  “Lovely.” b’Estorr took a long drink of his lemon water.

  “It’s a reason to go there,” Eslingen pointed out, and b’Estorr lifted an eyebrow.

  “But hardly conducive to privacy.”

  “I never look,” Eslingen said virtuously, unable to stop himself, and to his surprise the necromancer laughed.

  “What, not even if you saw sparks?”

  “I might steal a glance,” Eslingen conceded. “To see such prodigious endowment.”

  “Not really comfortable, though,” b’Estorr said, the lines at the corners of his eyes tight with laughter. Eslingen grinned back, newly aware of just why Rathe liked the man. For once the thought was free of the usual sting of jealousy, and he downed the last of his tea, not sure what to do with the feeling.

  “Once the races start in earnest, things should be quieter. The real money’s in the afternoon.”

  “Quiet enough?” b’Estorr looked doubtful, and Eslingen shrugged.

  “We can only try.”

  Both the tavern and the bower were emptying rapidly, but Eslingen waited until the sudden explosion of barks and shouting signaled the start of the first race. He paid the waiter, and they moved toward the alley like men in search of quick relief.

  The shadowed street was empty, smelling of garbage and urine, and Eslingen grimaced in spite of himself. It was even less attractive by daylight, and from b’Estorr’s expression, he agreed completely. Eslingen moved along the wall, stepping carefully over puddles and rotting vegetables, and found the second spot first, a deep gouge in the plaster at the chimney’s edge. There was no coin in it, of course—probably the other pointsman had collected it after they’d made their escape—but he ran his finger over the plaster anyway.

  “Here’s one.”

  b’Estorr stepped up beside him, crooking his fingers into an odd shape. There was a flicker of light, pale blue in the shadow. “Interesting.”

  “I daresay,” Eslingen said, and b’Estorr shook himself.

  “Sorry. There’s been magistry at work somewhere around here, all right, and it’s left a residue in the wall.”

  “That’s not all,” Eslingen muttered, looking at the stained plaster, and b’Estorr looked quickly over his shoulder. He took a step back, and waved both hands in a broader gesture. There was another flash of light, this one from the other side of the chimney, just about where they’d found the first coin, and one, maybe two fainter flashes from further into the alley.

  “It’s fading fast, though,” b’Estorr said. “I can’t get much sense of it, except that it’s—attached to? associated with?—this tavern.”

  “Mama Moon’s?” Eslingen couldn’t help sounded doubtful—Mama Moon’s had a reputation as a sober and quiet house, as taverns went—and b’Estorr shrugged.

  “It doesn’t make sense, I know. But that’s what it feels like. Someone did some working here, or possibly inside. But if it was big enough to draw silver—”

  He broke off, and Eslingen
turned, letting his face fall into his most bland and unthreatening smile.

  “What’s this, then?” The pointswoman scowled at them from the entrance to the alley, and Eslingen let his expression slip further into drunken cheer. “What are you two playing at?”

  “Nothing at all,” Eslingen answered, slurring his words just a little. To his shock, b’Estorr made a sound that was almost a giggle.

  The pointswoman rolled her eyes. “Take it within doors,” she advised. “Move along, masters.”

  Eslingen doffed his hat, making the gesture too broad, and turned away. b’Estorr tucked his arm through his, leaning enough of his not inconsiderable weight against Eslingen’s shoulder to make him stagger, and they made their way out of the alley.

  Once they were out of sight, b’Estorr disentangled himself with a rueful smile. “And sorry again. No offense, I hope.”

  “Thanks for backing me,” Eslingen said. He felt profoundly awkward, for all he was fairly sure Rathe and b’Estorr had never been lovers, and cleared his throat. “So you’re sure there was magistry involved?”

  “I’m not sure what else could be doing it, honestly,” b’Estorr answered, looking relieved himself at the change of subject. “But, yes, if there was any doubt, that’s laid it. Something was done, there in the alley or in Mama Moon’s, that’s drawing the silver.”

  “They’re neither one the place I’d choose for such a thing,” Eslingen said.

  “Nor would I.” b’Estorr shook his head. “And yet, that seems to be the only answer. I’ll need to think on it, do some reading, but then maybe I can come up with an answer. And to that end—back to the University, I think.”

  “Good luck,” Eslingen said, and the other man turned away.

  There was a fountain in the alcove just inside the deadhouse lobby, a plain fish-shaped spout above a spotless alabaster basin, a polished brass coin box set into the wall beside it. It was a demming for each use, according to the equally tidy notice pinned above the faucet, but Fanier had long ago showed him the trick. Rathe pressed the fish’s left eye and scrubbed his hands beneath the resulting stream of water. He caught the last of it in cupped hands, drank thirstily, then wiped his chin and dried his hands on the front of his coat. He wanted to stay, watch the experiments over Fanier’s shoulder, but he knew he couldn’t spare the time. There was too much other business to attend to during the races; even in Dreams, their workload had doubled, particularly now that the Patent Administrator had gotten himself into the swing of things and was issuing complaints about unlicensed book-writers and astrologers-without-patent three times a day. He wiped his hands on his coat again, knowing he’d trespassed on Trijn’s good humor already, and started for the door.

  “Nico, wait.”

  That was Fanier, pushing hastily through the doors that led to the inner rooms, and Rathe turned, frowning.

  “Trouble?”

  “There’s a body,” Fanier said.

  “Mine?” Rathe asked, his stomach sinking, and the alchemist shrugged.

  “Customs Point called us, but they say it came from Point of Knives. My journeyman says Aulard was none too pleased about it when they brought the cart. And it’s a nasty one.”

  “They usually are,” Rathe muttered. “Close to the Court, was it?”

  Fanier nodded. “Been dead a while, too, though why you’d keep a dead body…”

  Rathe swore. The Court of the Thirty-Two Knives was technically part of Point of Knives, but in practice the warren of tumbledown mansion and outbuildings that was the actual court remained its own fiefdom, and the points went there only armed and in numbers. To make matters worse, Mirremay, the head point there at Knives—she wasn’t allowed to call herself a chief—was a descendant of the bannerdames who had controlled the area for generations. But even Mirremay had no real standing within the Court, and if she’d refused to take responsibility for the body, left it for Customs Point—

  “The main thing is,” Fanier went on, “I think it’s Beier.”

  “Astree’s tits.”

  Fanier nodded. “You know him better than I, and I thought it might save us some time if you could say yea or nay.”

  Rathe sighed. If Fanier said it was nasty, it would be, and if it was Beier—but they had to know. “Let me borrow a runner, let Trijn know what I’m doing. Then—yeah, I’ll take a look.”

  “Thanks.”

  The journeymen had brought the body into one of the larger rooms, and lit great bundles of save-all and other herbs in the brackets at each end of the slab where the body lay. The air was colder than ever, a preservatory hastily applied, but even so there was a distinct whiff of rotting flesh. The only attending journeyman was older, a scar-faced young man Rathe didn’t recognize, and the apprentices had been shooed away: not a job for beginners, he thought, and swallowed hard.

  The body was still covered with a pale sheet, the smoke from the burning herbs drawn to and over it, lessening the smell, and the journeyman looked up at their approach.

  “He’s stable now, master.”

  “Good,” Fanier said, taking his glasses out of the tangle of his hair. “That’ll buy us some time, anyway.” He took hold of the top edge of the sheet, and glanced over his shoulder. “Ready?”

  Rathe nodded, bracing himself. Fanier folded the sheet away from the face, the movement unexpectedly gentle, and Rathe winced.

  “His own mother wouldn’t know him.” The man had been dead some time, all right, the skin mottled and stretched; the lips were peeled back over blackened gums and teeth that showed too large even without the swollen tongue protruding between them. The hair was right, gray and untidy, but it was missing in places, as though great hanks had been yanked away. There were wounds in the neck and into the collarbone, disappearing beneath the sheet; one ear was missing, and the cheekbone on that side looked as though it had been chewed.

  “Wait,” Fanier said, and made a series of passes. The smoke from the smudges shifted, swirling back toward the body. It glided over the dreadful face, then took shape above it, a mask that removed the ravages of time and decomposition. Rathe flinched again—the image was smiling, smug and self-satisfied as the man had been in life—but nodded.

  “That’s Beier.”

  Fanier gestured again, and the image dissolved, the smoke retreating, and Rathe swallowed hard.

  “What killed him?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” Fanier folded the sheet the rest of the way back, revealing more cuts in the body, all down the torso and across the belly and ruined sex and into the mottled thighs. The skin had split and blackened in places, and Rathe looked away.

  “Gods below.”

  “There’s more of the same on the back, flayed to the ribs in a couple of places.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Rathe said. He swallowed, his mouth tasting of copper, and to his relief Fanier drew the sheet back up over the ravaged body.

  “At least some of that was done after he was dead. Maybe all of it, I’ll have to test it. But any one of those chest wounds—and the ones in the back—any of them could have killed him.”

  “Who’s his next of kin?” Rathe asked.

  “I’ve no idea. We sent to Fairs’ Point—you know we had to.”

  Rathe sighed and nodded. Fanier was right, they’d had no other choice, particularly since Customs Point had already passed it on, but that meant there wasn’t much time before Fairs’ Point claimed it, and knocked him off the case, and he found that he didn’t want to let it go. “What can you find out before they get here?”

  “As much as I can.” Fanier walked slowly around the table, and Rathe looked away as the smoke began to swirl again, tracing ugly and uncomfortable shapes against the sheet.

  “Were there any belongings?”

  “No.” That was the journeyman, who looked distinctly disapproving. “He was stripped, either by whoever killed him or after.”

  “After, for my guess,” Fanier said. “The corpse has been moved, and more
than once.”

  “Why?” Rathe began, and answered his own question. “No, I know, to hide the body, and then if that wasn’t safe enough, moved again, or if they needed to search the body.”

  “All of that,” Fanier said, almost absently, his attention still on the patterns that blossomed in the smoke. “And then some. Geffres, you test it.”

  The journeyman stepped forward obediently, his hands tracing the same complex gestures, and then he frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, but it’s the answer I got, too,” Fanier said. “Moved at least five times, and quite possibly more. Someone wasn’t going to let him lie in peace even after he was dead.”

  “These post-mortem wounds,” the journeyman said thoughtfully. “I almost think they’re repeating—enlarging?—ante-mortem injuries.”

  “Do you, now?” Rathe said, and Fanier lifted an eyebrow.

  “Go ahead, test for it, then.”

  Geffres folded the sheet back again, exposing all the injuries, and Rathe looked away again. Geffres traced another series of gestures, then shook his head. “Or maybe not?”

  “No, no,” Fanier said. “You almost had it.” He made what looked to Rathe like the same movement, and a cluster of sparks flew from his fingertips to gather on the body. “Some days after death, I’d say.” He looked back at Geffres. “You needed to add in more time.”

  Geffres nodded thoughtfully.

  “So the body was moved, more than once,” Rathe said slowly, “and while he was being moved, someone—what, cut into the original wounds?”

  “That’s what it’s starting to look like,” Fanier said, and looked at Geffres. “Fetch the tell-all, will you?”

  The journeyman obeyed without question, returning with a stoppered jar the size of a child’s head. Fanier pulled a leather glove from his pocket, slipped it onto his right hand, then took the jar in the crook of his other arm. He worked the stopper loose, and set it aside, then reached in with gloved fingers to draw out a pinch of dark gray powder that glittered oddly in the magelights. He dribbled it on the slab around the body, drawing a thin outline, then took a larger pinch and blew on it, so that it fell in a shimmering haze across the corpse’s face. He spoke a word that Rathe couldn’t hear, and the outlining powder rose like smoke, draping itself across the body like a veil. Fanier made a satisfied noise and set the jar aside, careful to seat the stopped securely.