Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

  “Let’s see now.”

  Rathe looked away, not wanting to watch the rest of the examination. In spite of the smoke and the preservatory, he could smell death in the room, death and decay. Beier hadn’t deserved this. He’d been an annoying man, right enough, a thorn in the side of the University and the Patent Administrator, every last one of them, but nothing he’d done seemed worthy of a death like this. He wrote broadsheets for bettors, touted horoscopes for dogs: you might as well kill the woman who wrote the broadsheet that listed the week’s plays at the Gallenon or the Bells. It simply didn’t matter enough, not to the women who made money from racing. Or if it did, it mattered more to their pride than to their purses, and the trainers were nothing if not practical women. He’d have expected them to go after Beier’s art, his livelihood, not his life.

  There was a sharp knock at the door, and Fanier looked up, frowning. Geffres moved to answer, spoke quietly to the apprentice at the door, then shut the door again.

  “The woman from Fairs’ Point is here already.”

  “Damn it,” Rathe said. “We’ve a claim, of sorts—he fathered a child for a woman who lives in Dreams, and she came to us about him—but there’s no question Fairs takes precedence.”

  Fanier scowled. “Have Kijten take Nico into my workroom—if you’ll wait, Nico, I’ll give you my answers as soon as I’m done here—and then you can bring the other pointsman in.”

  “Will they let you finish?” Rathe asked, and Fanier gave him a sharp smile.

  “Oh, yes. He’s not going anywhere until I’m done.”

  Satisfied, Rathe let himself be led through a warren of narrow hallways and settled into Fanier’s surprisingly comfortable workroom. There were two great cabinets of books, a writing table and a broader worktable, all beneath a pair of windows that let in the day’s doubled sunlight. Kijten offered tea or a meal; Rathe accepted the tea, glad of the sharp familiar bite to take away the memory of Beier’s mutilated body, and by the time Fanier reappeared, apron discarded and his hands still damp with washing, he was almost comfortable again.

  “Well, that’s a mess,” Fanier said, and dropped into what was clearly his chair, carved wood incongruously padded with bright green pillows. “What did you do to piss off Fairs’ Point, Nico?”

  “Gave them Voillemin,” Rathe answered. “Though it wasn’t really my doing.”

  Fanier grunted. “I’ve had dealings with him myself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It would be better if you could get rid of him altogether.”

  “His mother has influence,” Rathe said. “He’s traded on it most of his life.”

  “Charming.” Fanier shook himself. “Well, at least Claes is a reasonable man, and they can’t ignore this.” He reached into his pocket and tossed something at Rathe, who caught it by pure reflex. It was a blackened coin, a silver seilling, and Rathe looked up sharply.

  “This?”

  “That’s what killed him.” Fanier nodded. “Or one of the things that killed him. I pulled that out of one of the wounds in his belly, and I’d swear that the other injuries were caused by more coins. There was a hole went right through his heart, and another two in the liver, not to mention one in the left lung—any one of them would have killed him, never mind all of them.”

  Rathe set the coin on the writing table, repressing the urge to rub his fingers on his breeches. “You’re saying—what, he was killed like Poirel?”

  “I’d say so,” Fanier answered. “Though I’m not sure how far that gets us, being as I haven’t exactly worked out how he came to have a piece of silver in his heart. Though I suppose it’s just possible someone else did the same thing, using some other means. But whatever the method, it’s the same result.”

  “And the wounds were cut open later?” Rathe asked. That was starting to make an ugly picture, and he grimaced when Fanier nodded again.

  “I’d say so. I expect whoever found the body was after the silver. As many wounds as were on him, he was carrying a small fortune, never mind what else he might have had in his purse. I’d guess that explains the body being moved, too. Once it was found, whoever had it wanted to take the time to recover all the coin.”

  “A nasty business,” Rathe said.

  “Very.”

  “So we’ve got two men shot through with silver coin—riddled with it, in Beier’s case—and no idea how it was done, never mind by whom.” Rathe shook his head slowly. “Or to what end. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Fanier held out his hand, and Rathe handed him the coin. “I’ll do my best to tell you how it was done,” he said. “I’ve a few thoughts I’d like to try. For the rest—well, that’s a pointsman’s job.”

  “And a thankless one,” Rathe answered, but the words and the promise were obscurely comforting.

  Eslingen took the long way back to the main tracks, circling around the edges of the New Fair and ducking through the caravan hall that currently held a lunar dozen small shop-holders enterprising enough to set up booths to serve the race goers. He emerged behind the central track, and circled around, working his way patiently through the crowd. There were three races still to run, though he had missed the most-discussed of the day’s matches, featuring two of last year’s winners. From the conversations around him, he gathered that neither one had won, or even showed particularly well, and most of the bettors were gossiping about the second-place dog, a three year old of merely decent breeding who had managed to overcome being jostled at the start and very nearly won the whole thing. Already, the most enterprising broadsheet sellers were hawking what purported to be its horoscope, and Eslingen paid his demming without hesitation. Outrider was certainly a dog to watch, though not one to bet on: its odds would go down after this victory.

  But it was worth betting on Sunflower, whose odds put him in the middle of the pack. Eslingen found a book-writer who had him at five to one, and put a seilling on him for luck, and an aster on a dog called Moon who he’d heard Naimi speak well of, then found himself a place on the rail by the start.

  The first race went off without a hitch, a brindle bitch getting the lead at the first jump and holding it to the end. Her owner, red-faced and sweating, collected her and the prize purse, holding them up to the crowd one after the other, and eliciting a larger cheer for the money than for the dog.

  Moon was running in the next race, a black-and-white dog who looked rather bigger than the rest of the field. Not so good for speed, Eslingen thought, but certainly better if he had to muscle his way through the pack at the end, and leaned against the rail to cheer him on. It was close-fought, but, true to form, Moon bulled his way through the pack at the finish, sending the smallest dog sprawling, and dove in first. Eslingen grinned, but, glancing over his shoulder, decided to collect his winnings after the last race.

  He could see Naimi at the end of the track talking to her boxholder, who was nodding in agreement. A moment later, the steward signaled that it was time to load the dogs, and the boxholder tucked Sunflower’s basket under his arm and stepped into the enclosure. This late in the day, the boxholders were all business, tucking the dogs quickly and expertly into their boxes, then stepping back with arms raised. The steward gave them a final glance, and dropped her handkerchief.

  The dogs leaped from their boxes as the doors fell away, chasing the bobbing and bedraggled lure down the long course. Sunflower had gotten a good start, was third over the first jump and second over the third and fourth, and Eslingen leaned hard against the rail, cheering him on. At the fifth jump, he was gaining on the leader, and passed her at the sixth, darting across her path to drive himself first through the hole. Eslingen cheered, and the woman next to him gave a wry smile.

  “You had him, then?”

  “He’s mine,” Eslingen said, and accepted the congratulations of the bystanders who’d overheard.

  Naimi was beckoning from beside the steward’s stand, and Eslingen excused himself, working his way around the milling trainers and
apprentices trying to collect dogs and baskets until he came out at her elbow.

  “Very nice,” he said, and was rewarded with a radiant smile.

  “He ran beautifully! And it’s good practice for him.” She raised her hand, waving to her boxholder who came bustling toward them with Sunflower in his basket under his arm. “Are you going to turn back the prize?”

  “What?”

  “Turn it back. You know.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Eslingen said, and she gave him a look that made him feel more foreign than ever.

  “When you win a small race like this, you can either take the money, or turn it back toward a bigger race. If your dog finishes in the money in that next race, you get the first prize back at odds as well as whatever you won in that race.”

  “Like betting, only with the race stewards as book-writers,” Eslingen said, and she nodded. “Can you keep going with that?”

  “All the way to the last day,” Naimi said. She braced the basket in the boxholder’s arms, and lifted the lid just enough to examine the dog, thrusting him back again when he managed to shove his nose out. “Yes, yes, sweetheart, you’ll get your treats, I promise.”

  “The prize presentation for the final race,” someone called from the steward’s stand. “Owners and trainers, please.”

  Eslingen followed her toward the stands, and waited at her elbow while the third and second-place dogs received their prizes. Both owners took the modest purses, plain linen embroidered with the city’s crest, and Eslingen wondered how common it was to turn back the prize money.

  “First place, uncontested,” the clerk shouted. “Sunflower, by Sunspark out of Merrymaiden. Trainer Besetje Naimi, owner Philip vaan Esling.”

  There was a cheer at that, though Eslingen couldn’t decide if they’d recognized his name or were just glad at the end of the day’s racing. Naimi thrust Sunflower into his arms, and he took a solid grip on the squirming dog before lifting him into the air. There were more cheers at the sight, and the clerk held out the purse.

  “Will you take it, master—sorry, lieutenant—or turn it back?”

  “Turn it back,” Eslingen said, and there was another cheer from the crowd.

  “To be turned back,” the clerk repeated. “So noted. Your trainer can tell you the races for which this qualifies your dog—”

  There was a noise in the distance, a low rumble of voices that raised the hairs on Eslingen’s neck. He grabbed the basket from the staring boxholder and stuffed Sunflower unceremoniously into it, then shoved it into Naimi’s arms.

  “What —?”

  “Trouble,” Eslingen said, and pushed her toward the kennels. “Go—”

  The noise was louder, resolving to angry voices and the sound of glass shattering, and Eslingen swore. “Get inside!”

  Naimi ducked toward the nearest shelter—Hadril Justinis’s kennel—and Eslingen shoved the next trainer after her. “Go on, get the dogs away—”

  That got them moving, even more than the threat to themselves, and the first of the mob came swirling around the corner of the Fair. They were men, mostly, in shabby workman’s clothes, scarves drawn up to hide their faces as they waved sticks and sturdy-looking clubs.

  “Repudiate the Repudiation! Revoke the choice! Revoke the choice!”

  Eslingen swore again, looking for a way out. At least they didn’t have torches, not yet, and he grabbed a woman’s hand as she stumbled at the corner of the track, hauling her up and out of the way of the fleeing crowd. She swung round, drawing her own knife, and Eslingen shook his head.

  “Get inside, for the gods’ sake—”

  “That’s my stall there—”

  “Too late,” Eslingen said, and knew his voice was grim. Even as he spoke, the leaders pitched the first booth over on its side, scattering its freight of cakes and beer. The mob cheered and kept coming, trampling the food into the dirt. They reached the first track, abandoned now; half the mob poured past it, but the rest remained, hauling on the fences that surrounded the track. There was a crack as the first board splintered, and someone cheered.

  Where in Seidos’s name were the points? Eslingen thought. He backed toward the kennel door, found himself shoulder to shoulder with a pair of trainers who’d drawn their heavy sticks. Behind them, apprentices were dragging boxes and bales to block the door, protecting the dogs and the people who’d taken shelter with them. He couldn’t see Naimi, not in that quick glance, and hoped she and Sunflower had made it to safety.

  “There,” he said, and pointed to the tables and chairs scattered beside the nearest cookshop. “Grab them, quick—”

  The closest trainer caught his meaning at once, and caught the nearest boxholder’s sleeve, dragged him with her to grab a table and then another. Eslingen joined her, and so did the steward, her face a mask of fury as she hauled breathlessly at the rough-made furniture. They dragged it back to form a barricade, not perfect, Eslingen thought, but as long as there were no torches—but there would be, soon enough.

  “Heira stand with us,” the judge said, her voice grim, and drew a knife from beneath her robes that was definitely past the legal length.

  “Where are the points?” someone said, and there was a peal of bitter laughter.

  “Did you pay for riot, dame?”

  The first of the mob ran past them, willing for the moment to skirt a group armed and braced, and there was a scream from somewhere on the far side of the Fair. Eslingen cursed, unable to see what had happened, and the steward caught his sleeve.

  “Nothing you can do.”

  He knew it, too, and took a steadying breath, a boxholder edging up beside him, stick already swinging. In the distance, a bell was ringing, and then another, and another, calling out the points with a general alarm. They wouldn’t get here in time, though, and even as he thought that the first of the rioters charged their barricade. One of the trainers dropped him neatly, but that caught the mob’s attention, and a group rushed them. Eslingen caught up a stool, used it to parry the first blow, and then another, each one jarring all the way up to his shoulder. He struck back, not caring whether he hit something vital, and was rewarded by a shriek of pain.

  The sound of drums rose above the roar of voices, someone beating a rapid tattoo, and he caught a quick glimpse of men and women in leather jerkins forming a shield line as they moved into the Fair. The points were here at last, he thought, and ducked another swinging club. He swung the stool in answer, felt it smash home against someone’s ribs, resisted the temptation to follow, and stabbed at the next man in reach. He fell back, yelping, and the nearest trainer swung her stick. Behind them, the dogs were in a frenzy, the apprentices shouting as well, but he couldn’t spare a look to be sure the kennel was safe, blocked the swing of a too-long knife and answered it with a thrust of his own.

  Another drum sounded from the far side of the Fair, the Customs Point side, and he saw another line of pointsmen moving into the Fair. The mob wavered, but someone shouted something, rallying them to the riot. Then a trumpet sounded, the familiar call to horse, and abruptly the mob broke and ran. A few stragglers lingered, throwing stones and anything loose they could get their hands on, but the lines of pointsmen advanced on them. Then the first horsemen appeared, hooves loud on the stones, and even the stragglers turned and fled.

  Eslingen ducked into the kennel, knife still in hand, and saw to his relief that no one had found their way in the back. A trio of boxholders had shoved hay bales across the opening, but neither barricade nor men would have held against a determined assault. He wiped his knife on the nearest bale, sheathed it, and looked around for Naimi. He didn’t see her at first, found her after a moment wedged into a narrow space between two stalls, dogs’ baskets stacked behind her and an older, bigger dog gripped tight by the collar. Her teeth were bared along with the dog’s, and Eslingen showed empty hands.

  “It’s over,” he said. “All’s well.”

  Naimi stayed frozen for a moment longer, then shook herself,
shifting her grip on the dog’s collar so that she held it now by a short leash. “Easy now,” she said, running her free hand down its back. The dog growled once more, and was silent.

  “Are you all right?” Eslingen said. “And the dogs?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes. Both, I mean.”

  “Good,” Eslingen answered. “The points are here, and it looks like Coindarel’s Dragons, too, and the mob’s run off.” He was talking to her the way he’d talk to his horse, he realized, and stopped, embarrassed, but the color was coming back to her face.

  “How bad?”

  “I didn’t really see,” Eslingen began, and she gave him a scorching look. “We were busy at the door. Some stalls overturned, and they were trying to tear down the fences around the tracks, last I saw, but—it could have been worse.”

  “Could have been better,” Naimi said. “And what the judges were thinking, to give Malfiliatre to a woman like that—” She stopped, shaking her head.

  “It shouldn’t take much to fix the tracks,” Eslingen said.

  “Yes, but the money comes out of our pockets.” Naimi showed teeth again, a sharp smile. “A whip-round, it’ll be, for all that the stewards and the Racing Secretary ought to cover it. But ‘we’re all in this together, dames, so how about handing over the coin?’ You wait and see.”

  Eslingen couldn’t disagree. He said instead, “Do you want me to walk you back to DeVoss’s kennel?”

  Naimi considered for a moment. “We’ll all go together, that should be good enough. They’ll be chastened for now.” She shook her head. “I hope.”

  “I’d be happy to go with you,” Eslingen said.

  She squared her shoulders, and shifted the dog to her other side. It leaned hard against her knee, and she seemed to draw comfort from its presence. “No, that’s all right. We’ll be fine.”