Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

  “All right.” Eslingen turned away.

  The Fair was a mess, stalls overturned and their contents smashed and scattered, the fences broken around two of the tracks, and the finish enclosure half-demolished at the first. A shopkeeper, half in tears, was shouting at the nearest trainer, pointing to her broken tables, and the trainer cradled one arm against his chest and glowered at her, obviously on the verge of an explosion himself.

  “Dame,” Eslingen said, before he could think better of it. “Thank you—if it hadn’t been for your furniture here, there’d have been more women hurt. Maybe even dogs, too.”

  “No thanks to her,” someone muttered behind him, and yelped as the injured trainer stepped neatly backward, catching him with his heel.

  “Let me help you collect what’s yours,” Eslingen went on, though the thought of more lifting and carrying made his shoulders ache, “and then we’ll see what can be done about your stall.”

  “Nothing,” she said, with a bitter glance at the ruins, the crude shelter overturned and the roof split from the sides. “There’s nothing there to save, nor my day’s goods, neither.”

  “Your strongbox?” That was DeVoss, striding through the crowd like a mare parting tall grass. “They didn’t get that, Isilis, surely?”

  “Maewes.” The two women clasped hands, the shopkeeper shaking her head. “Not all of it, I’d just emptied most of it when they came—” She reached beneath her skirts, and her face crumpled. “Oh, Demis, it’s gone.”

  “Your purse?” DeVoss caught her shoulders as her knees buckled.

  Isilis shook her head, drew out the empty purse. The strings were still knotted, the stout leather still intact, but clearly there was only a handful of coins left within it. She undid the knots, and spilled the remaining coins into the palm of her hand: a solid handful of copper, asters mostly, but nowhere near what she should have earned.

  DeVoss scowled. “That’s madness.”

  “I emptied my strongbox,” Isilis said again. “The day’s take, all the silver. I left enough copper for the boys to make change, took the rest—but how in Heira’s name could a pickpocket steal only my silver?” Her voice rose to a wail. “Theft and ruin, and it’s all that damned woman’s fault.”

  “Hold hard, mistress,” one of the pointsmen said, breaking away from a group busy at the edge of the track. “Let’s hear no more of that.”

  “Hear this, then,” Isilis retorted, waving the half-emptied purse at him. “I’ve been robbed—”

  “So has everyone, dame,” the pointsman said. “Give me a moment, and I’ll take your particulars, too.”

  “But not like this,” Eslingen said, to the man’s retreating back, and looked at DeVoss. “Or so I’d assume?”

  “It’s an interesting question,” DeVoss said grimly. “If I keep my ears open, will you tell Rathe? Unofficially, at least.”

  Eslingen nodded. “As officially as he’ll let me.”

  DeVoss grunted. “Right. Come on, Isilis, let’s see what we can salvage—” She led the other woman away, still talking, and Eslingen took a careful breath. His shoulders would be stiff in the morning—nothing he did at the salle worked those muscles—but he was otherwise no more than bruised. Whether the next days’ races would go off was another matter, but the stewards and some of the trainers were already clustering around the worst damaged of the tracks, and a couple of apprentices had fetched a cart from somewhere and were starting to fill it with the worst of the debris. A man in a fine hat—the Patent Administrator, surely—was talking to someone who looked like Voillemin by the middle track, and a quartet of Coindarel’s Dragons came trotting back into the square from the direction of Point of Graves. It was Coindarel himself in the lead, looking regrettably pleased with himself, and in the same instant he recognized Eslingen, and pulled his horse to a walk.

  “Lieutenant!”

  Eslingen went reluctantly to meet him, catching hold of the horse’s tack to steady them both. The horse blew and stamped, but stood, blood up but not overworked, and Coindarel looked down at him soberly.

  “This is why I need you, Philip.”

  “Your men seem to have handled it well enough.”

  “It’s a bloody mess,” Coindarel said. “And they’d have been haring off down blind alleys if I hadn’t been there to keep them in hand, and that’s not my business. And on top of that, Claes and his Adjunct got themselves in the way of a gang with iron-filled sticks, and I expect they’ll be out of action for a week or three.” He shook his head. “Claes looked bad when they carried him off.”

  “Which Adjunct?” Eslingen asked, hoping against hope that he’d been mistaken, and Coindarel shook his head.

  “Don’t know the man’s name, but it was the senior.”

  “Damn it.” That left Voillemin not only uninjured, but in charge, and that couldn’t be good.

  “We need you, Philip,” Coindarel said again. He gathered his reins, the horse shifting under him, and Eslingen released his hold on the tack. “But I can’t hold the place for you forever.”

  “I know,” Eslingen said, but Coindarel had already wheeled away, urging the horse to a ringing trot. Eslingen stared after him, wondering what Rathe was going to do about this. If there was anything he could do at all.

  Chapter Ten

  The riot in Fairs’ Point had repercussions for every other station in the city, with the result that Rathe found himself yawning in his workroom at noon on the following day. He hadn’t been home since his return from the deadhouse, though he’d managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep in one of the cells before Falasca had brought in a pair of journeymen accused of taking part in the riot. They denied it loudly and at length, and Rathe had left them to it, returning to his workroom and yet another pot of tea. At least Eslingen had sent a note to say that, while he’d been caught in the riot—Of course you were, Rathe muttered—he was unharmed and had gone blamelessly home to bed.

  After that, though, the news had been uniformly bad. A hastily-copied circular from Fairs’ Point informed the other stations that both Claes and the senior adjunct Legie had been injured in the fighting, and Voillemin was in charge until one of them recovered. Rathe swore long and loudly at that, but managed to keep from going to Trijn to complain. The chief point had complaints enough of her own: either Claes or Solveert had called in Coindarel’s men, and an exceedingly frosty note had come from the Surintendant’s office reminding all the stations that they were expected to be able to handle riot and mayhem without having to resort to military intervention. Any chief or senior adjunct who felt unable to resolve the matter on her own should not expect to keep her post for much longer. Trijn snarled at everyone for the rest of the morning, and Rathe could hardly blame her. By all accounts, this had been worse than the usual student rioting, or the brawls between actors’ claques that occasionally plagued Point of Dreams. There had been an intensity that frightened even the hard-nosed women of Customs’ Point, used as they were to swarming aboard ships at dock, or storming locked warehouses in search of contraband. If they said this was bad—if they’d been glad of the Dragons’ intervention, as the private circular from Aulard had hinted—then Astreiant had been lucky to come out of it this well.

  He poured himself another cup of tea and downed half of it at a gulp, then looked up sharply as the workroom door opened.

  “Sorry, Adjunct Point.” It was Marrij, the youngest of the station’s runners, holding out a folded slip of paper. “This just came for you. He said I should bring it right away.”

  “Who said?” Rathe asked, and unfolded the note.

  “The man.”

  Rathe looked at the careful letters, a neat, unpracticed hand spelling out an unprecedented and unwelcome request. Mikael, the most notable knife in the Court of the Thirty-Two Knives, wanted a meeting.

  “He’s still here,” Marrij said helpfully. “He said he’d wait for your answer.”

  Rathe looked at the note again. He certainly wasn’t going to meet a
t Accke’s, that was too far into the Court and entirely too much under Mikael’s thumb. “Next time, tell me that first,” he said, and pushed himself away from his table. “Where is he?”

  “In the yard.” Marrij looked conscious. “And I will, next time.”

  “Tell him I’m coming to talk to him,” Rathe said, and knocked on Trijn’s door.

  “Well?”

  “Mikael at the Court wants a word with me,” Rathe said. “I thought you should know.

  Trijn lifted her eyebrows. “Yes, indeed. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Of course not.” Rathe gave what he knew was a rather bitter smile. “We’re just discussing where to meet at this stage. I won’t get anything useful until we actually sit down together. Or whatever we end up doing.”

  “Tell me when you’re going, and where,” Trijn said. “And when I should send the Dragons after you.”

  “Not you, too,” Rathe said.

  “It’ll take the army if I have to fetch you out of the Court,” Trijn said, “and if the Sur doesn’t know it—let’s just say I’m sure he does.”

  “If it comes to that, tell him to send Philip,” Rathe said, and started down the station’s stirs.

  The young man waiting in the courtyard was a stranger, fair-haired and slighter than Rathe, with dyed hands and darkly painted eyes. Beneath the paint, though, his features were unremarkable, and Rathe nodded in acknowledgment of the disguise.

  “I’ll meet, but not there. Mikael should know better.”

  By the young man’s lack of reaction, Mikael did. “How about the Tin Trumpet?”

  “How about Wicked’s?” Rathe countered, and the young man grinned in spite of himself.

  “Mikael’s on her banned list.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  They settled at last on an ordinary tavern in Point of Hopes that had no particular reputation for good or ill except for the quality of its kitchen. Mikael didn’t stint when it came to his personal comforts. Rathe agreed to be there in an hour and the young man slipped away.

  The White Laurel was unprepossessing, small and dark with neither an upstairs gallery nor a garden to open the space, but the smells from the kitchen were indeed intriguing, oil and onions and the sweet bite of Silklands peppers. Rathe was early, but even so Mikael was there before him, a massive shape in the shadows by the side door. He rose at Rathe’s approach, a giant of a man, broad-bodied and red-faced, hair and beard showing a bit more gray than the last time Rathe had seen him. But that had been a year ago, easily, and Mikael’s was an exacting profession.

  “I’ve ordered myself the ordinary,” he said, as though they were just friends meeting, “and I’d recommend you do the same.”

  Rathe nodded to the waiter, and ordered a pint of wine as well, then seated himself opposite the bigger man. Mikael had chosen a table that put neither of their backs to the door, an unprecedented piece of courtesy, and Rathe frowned.

  “What’s so bad that you have to butter me up?”

  “I’ve got information to share,” Mikael answered, and stopped abruptly as the waiter returned with their wine and a platter of olives.

  Rathe waited until the man was out of earshot. “On what terms?”

  “Not terms, precisely, just—” Mikael shrugged elaborately. “You were decent about the children, last summer, and none too shabby at Midwinter, either. There’s a thing I want to tell you, but I won’t answer questions on it.”

  “Oh, come off it.”

  Mikael shook his head. “That or nothing.”

  “I’ll find out some other way,” Rathe said. “And then I’ll be in a foul mood when I call the point. Sure you want to risk it?”

  “That would be their business, not mine.” Mikael took a sip of his own wine, and nodded in appreciation. “Not bad, this. Came down from Chadron last fall balance. You wouldn’t want to keep it much longer, it’s about perfect now.”

  The wine was good, but Rathe shook his head, refusing to be distracted. “You don’t want me in a temper, Mikael.”

  “Like I said, that’s their business,” Mikael said. “This is by way of doing them a favor.”

  Rathe considered that as the waiter brought shallow bowls of a Leaguer-styled stew. Mikael probably wouldn’t mind if the points rid him of a business rival, and he shrugged. “On your head, then.”

  “Not my head,” Mikael said. “This one isn’t mine, Rathe. It’s not precisely anyone’s, but—it’s an odd story, and one I think you’ll find interesting.”

  “Try me.” The stew was good, too, but Rathe barely tasted it, his attention on the other man.

  “I heard you found a body.”

  Rathe snorted. “I’ve got two on my books at the deadhouse at the moment.”

  “Beier’s body.”

  “It’s been found.” Rathe’s attention sharpened, though he didn’t move. “A very odd body, that one.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Mikael toyed with his spoon. “The tale I hear is, it’s not our body—not the Court’s, I mean.”

  “The Court has better uses for silver than to kill a man with it,” Rathe said. “Generally speaking.”

  “Just so. But if someone were to find a body, and one full of silver—you can’t blame a woman for not wanting to see all that coin buried.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Rathe said. “Straight.”

  Mikael sighed. “As I understand it, some of my colleagues were coming back from a job, and one of them thought the middens behind the tanners had been disturbed. They decided to take a look, see what had been buried there, and they found Beier’s body.”

  More likely they’d been looking for a place to hide a body of their own, Rathe thought, but nodded. “And so they collected it?”

  Mikael nodded. “Meaning to extract the silver from it. Which they did, as much as they could manage, and dumped it on Customs’ Point, or so I’m told.”

  “And moved it once or twice in the process.” Rathe watched the big man narrowly, but as far as he could tell, the knife was telling the truth.

  Mikael nodded again. “There was apparently some question about how the proceeds were to be divided,” he said, “and who had rights to what. Not to mention the question of what they owed the Court.”

  “Right.” It was an ugly story, but hardly surprising; Rathe could have guessed most of it without Mikael’s help. “Why tell me?”

  “There’s something bloody strange about that silver,” Mikael said. “It vanishes. Goes missing from locked boxes. I’ve seen it myself—”

  “Seen it happen?” Rathe sat up sharply.

  “You know about this, then.” Mikael scowled, and Rathe shook his head.

  “Not this, but—yeah, something similar has happened elsewhere. Did you actually see it go?”

  “No. I locked it in my strongbox overnight—and you know my locks are good ones—and in the morning it was gone.”

  “Damn it.” That was nothing new, and Rathe reached for his wine.

  “My lads were worried it was something to do with the body,” Mikael said. “But you’re saying it’s not?”

  “I don’t know,” Rathe said. He pushed his plate away, not able to finish the last spoonfuls. “If they’re worried about it, they should talk to a necromancer. All I can say is we’ve seen other thefts like this.”

  Mikael shook his head, his broad face unwontedly sober. “A bad business, Rathe. If someone’s figured out how to take coin from locked strongboxes—well, nothing’s safe, is it?”

  There was considerable irony in the best of Astreiant’s knives worrying about theft, but Rathe closed his mouth over any clever answer. “No. It’s not. So if you hear anything—”

  “I’ll let you know,” Mikael said. “And if you find the cure…”

  “I’ll pass it on,” Rathe answered.

  The race stewards were still supervising repairs to two of the tracks as Eslingen made his way through the New Fair, but the word was that the day’s races would take place regard
less. It would take longer to run them, with only two tracks available, but Solveert was determined not to lose a day. The weather continued to be unexpectedly good, and the consensus seemed to be that it was better not to waste it. Certainly the bettors were out in force, consulting horoscopes and making plots of which dogs were being switched to which tracks. What was missing, though, was the book-writers, and Eslingen frowned. Dame Calaon had promised her daughter would have the list of dates at the Fair today, but at the moment she was nowhere to be seen.

  He wound his way through the fairgrounds twice, west to east and then back along the main axis, but saw only a handful of women sitting in their stalls at the eastern end of the ground. They were all professionals, women who wrote book on cargos and caravans as well as the dog races, and all of them had their licenses conspicuously displayed. Eslingen frowned at that, and nudged a man he knew had dogs running with DeVoss.

  “The points are cracking down?”

  The dog-owner—Nacoste, his name was—rolled his eyes. “That acting chief, Voillemin, he’s had his people sweeping the fairgrounds since yesterday demanding to see every license and patent he can think of. Respect for the law, he says.”

  “Respect for his fees, more likely,” the woman next to him sniffed, and Nacoste grunted agreement.

  “And when what’s really needed is help with the repairs—no, I’m not in charity with the man.”

  “No one is,” the woman said.

  “I have business with a writer, but I don’t see her here today,” Eslingen said. “Any idea where she might have gone?”

  “A bunch of them relocated to the Basket of Grapes, over by the river,” the woman said, “but Voillemin’s probably found them by now.”

  Nacoste nodded morosely. “Waste of time and money.”

  Eslingen left them grumbling, and traced his way through the maze of riverside streets only to find the Basket of Grapes closed up, its front door barred and the windows shuttered. He stared at it for a minute, startled, and the woman sweeping the street in front of her smaller shop next door leaned on her broom.