Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

  “Don’t get on the wrong side of the points, master, that’s the lesson for you.”

  “What happened?”

  The woman snorted. “The points chased half the book-writers out of the New Fair, so they came down here to think what to do—a couple of them were all for a complaint to the Regents, as if that would help—and the points followed them. What a bloody mess, women trying to get out the back, jumping out the windows, and if a few of the points went home with bloody noses, it serves them right.”

  “Did they call many points?”

  “Not this lot.” The woman smiled, not pleasantly. “All the writers got away, so they arrested the house, from Sareij Versluys who owns it down to the boy who minds the fire. Cooks and waiters and all. Bloody fools, the lot of them.”

  “Lovely.” Rathe would be furious, Eslingen thought, and rightly so. “I was supposed to meet one of the writers, but I suppose that will have to wait.”

  “You might try over the border in Point of Graves,” the woman answered. “Seems as though most of them were headed that way.”

  Anything to get out of Fairs’ Point, Eslingen thought, and nodded. “Thanks, dame.”

  In the end, he tracked Calaon’s daughter to her mother’s shop in Manufactory Point, and listened to Calaon’s indignation over a glass of beer. She had the list for him as well, and he tucked it into his sleeve. “I’ll certainly have a word with Rathe when I see him,” he said, for the third time. “I doubt anyone outside Fairs likes this proceeding.”

  “Mairet’s got a bruise on her ribs the size of a plate,” Calaon said. “She can hardly breathe for it. And she says she’s a lucky one.”

  “I know,” Eslingen said. “I heard there was some talk of going to the Regents. Do you think that would help?”

  Calaon sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t think so, but—we have to do something.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Eslingen said, though he was afraid he was being overly optimistic, and headed for the University to give the list to b’Estorr.

  Of course the necromancer wasn’t in his lodgings, or at classes, but the doorkeeper unbent enough to say that he thought b’Estorr had gone to the deadhouse, and might still be there. Eslingen thanked him, not entirely happily, but turned toward the University’s bounds. He had no particular desire to revisit the deadhouse, but he had an itching feeling that he shouldn’t delay.

  To his surprise, the apprentice who answered the deadhouse door brought him straight back to a narrow workroom, much like the examining rooms except that there was no table for a dead body. Instead, there were twin stone-topped tables, an alchemist’s stove in one corner, and a pair of cabinets crammed with experimental vessels and less identifiable tools. Fanier sat astride a wooden bench, glasses down on his nose for once as he probed what looked like the mechanism of a lock, while b’Estorr and Rathe stared morosely at the pair of silver coins lying on the nearer table.

  “Philip!” Rathe sounded glad of his presence, and Eslingen couldn’t help a grin. “Did you get the list?”

  “Finally.” Eslingen handed it across, and Rathe unfolded it, using a pair of bankers’ weights to pin the corners. “It’s been a bit of a morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “Voillemin’s gone after the book-writers,” Eslingen answered. He gave a succinct explanation of his morning’s search, and Rathe swore.

  “That’s all we need. Bloody waste of time—”

  “‘Respect for the law,’” Eslingen quoted, and received the look that deserved.

  “The law doesn’t need help, at least not from him. Was anyone hurt?”

  “Bruises and bloody noses, from what I heard. And Voillemin’s people got the worst of it.”

  “Better than it could be, I suppose.” Rathe looked at b’Estorr. “Anything?”

  The necromancer shook his head. “Nothing that leaps out at me, anyway. I’ll make a closer comparison later. But for now—I’d really like to know what happened here.”

  “Not to mention how,” Fanier said, not looking up from his work.

  Eslingen looked at Rathe. “Trouble?”

  “Of a sort.” Rathe sighed. “Our silver’s gone missing, too.”

  “But not all of it,” Fanier interjected, looking up from the lock. He set his glasses on his head. “And I’ll tell you this for free, there was no tampering with lock or box. We put a few extra protections on them both, since we keep so many dead women’s goods, and none of them were touched. I’m Dis himself if I can tell you how it was done.”

  “Or why,” b’Estorr said. “I don’t see anything either, Nico. I’m sorry.”

  Rathe turned the coins over, the metal ringing softly on the stone top. “These—I think these are the coins we took out of the wall.”

  Eslingen came to join him, frowning at the pieces of silver. Rathe had said that the piece taken from Poirel’s chest had been a cut pillar, and there was nothing like that here; these were two seillings, worn and ordinary and he shrugged. “I can’t swear they’re the exact ones, but—they certainly look the same.”

  “That’s interesting,” b’Estorr said. Fanier put aside the pieces of the lock and came to prod at the coins.

  “Very.”

  “I’m not sure I quite see how,” Eslingen said, and surprised a smile from b’Estorr.

  “You remember I said it took a great deal of energy to manipulate silver?”

  Eslingen nodded.

  “I did manage a quick word with Maseigne Vair, and one thing she told me about trying to work silver magistically is that not only does it take a lot of energy to get it to react, the silver then tends to cling to that energy, and release it unpredictably.”

  “So you’re thinking that the coins are disappearing because they still have energy attached?” Rathe asked. “What was the original intention, then, I wonder?”

  “Not exactly,” b’Estorr said. “I think it’s more as if—I think there may be more than one thing happening here? There’s the original act, the one that puts all the energy into the silver, and then anything magistical around it sets off the residue.”

  Fanier was shaking his head. “That can’t be all of it, there’s been enough magistry in use here since the coins were found.”

  “All right, what if the original operation was incomplete, and the silver is trying to complete it?” b’Estorr shook his head in turn. “No, because all the evidence suggests that these deaths were intended—”

  “Couldn’t they have been an accident?” Eslingen asked. “Something gone horribly wrong?”

  “You must have tested for intent,” Rathe said, in almost the same moment, and Fanier looked at him over the top of his glasses.

  “You know as well as I do that intent’s a particularly tricksy thing to diagnose. Especially when the body’s been let lie a while.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think the intent was to kill them,” b’Estorr said. “Beier and Poirel. But I can’t prove it either.”

  “Philip said you thought there was magistry done at Mama Moon’s,” Rathe said thoughtfully. “And there’s been magistry done with this silver, at least enough to kill two men, which you say would leave a residue of power in the silver. The original working couldn’t call them back, could it?”

  “Ah.” Fanier cocked his head to one side, and b’Estorr gave a slow nod.

  “That makes some sense, actually. Whatever was done, it isn’t finished until the coins have spent their last energies, and without further intent, the coins would tend to repeat their last action.”

  “Except they haven’t killed anybody yet,” Eslingen said.

  “Well, no.” b’Estorr tapped his fingers lightly on the nearest coin.

  “But they could be returning to the site of the death,” Fanier said. “Or be trying to, anyway. It seems likely both men were killed in Fairs’ Point, why not in that alley?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Rathe said. “I don’t know where Beier lodged, but it’s easy enough to find out, and, anyw
ay, he’s bound to be have been a regular at Mama’s, all the dog fanciers are. Philip, do you know where Poirel lodged in race season?”

  “Most of the boxholders sleep in the kennel,” Eslingen answered. “But I can find out.”

  “Thanks.” Rathe looked at the others, alchemist and necromancer. “Is there any way you can test this? Give me proof enough to call a point?”

  b’Estorr shook his head doubtfully. “I just don’t know—”

  “It’ll take time,” Fanier said. “Maybe more time than you have, but I can build up the proof, I think. And the first thing we need to do is try that with the silver.”

  “Try what?” Rathe asked.

  “See how much energy it takes up, and how much is released when we complete the working. Istre and I were talking about that before you got here.”

  “It would be useful to know if Vair’s right,” b’Estorr said.

  Rathe nodded. “Might as well. When can you do it?”

  “Now, if you’d like,” Fanier said. He squinted up at the clock set high on the wall behind what looked like an iron cage—a sign, Eslingen thought, that experiments sometimes get out of hand. “It’s the end of our watch, most of the apprentices and journeymen should be available now.”

  “Why not?” Rathe said, and looked at Eslingen. “You can stay, right?”

  “Oh, yes,” Eslingen answered, and resolved to square it with the Masters later.

  It took the better part of half an hour to collect the required materials and then to collect nearly two dozen extra bodies, mostly apprentices and journeymen, but a couple of full alchemists as well. Eslingen wedged himself into a corner, perched half on the edge of a tall chest, Rathe pressed tight against him. It was an awkward position, and Eslingen shifted, hoping if he couldn’t achieve comfort he could at least keep from embarrassing himself. Rathe gave him a sympathetic glance, then winced as a hefty young man stepped hard on his foot.

  “Sorry, adjunct point,” the journeyman said, and Rathe sighed.

  “It’s all right.”

  “So what are they doing?” Eslingen asked. It was hard to see, over the wall of bodies, but he thought b’Estorr and Fanier had set up a sort of wire frame on a thick slab of black stone, and had put a copper demming inside it.

  “Experimenting?” Rathe said, with a wry grin, and Eslingen would have swatted him had there been room.

  “And why the demming?”

  The journeyman looked over his shoulder. “That’s to test the process. If it will work with copper, the form is good.”

  “All right,” Fanier called from the front of the room, and there was instant silence. He raised his hands, making a series of complex gestures, and a light blossomed at the top of the frame. It spread to the corners, then snapped like lightning onto the coin below. The demming shriveled, glowed, and flowered into a brilliant filigree. There was a murmur of approval from the watching journeymen, and one of the younger apprentices gave a squeak of pure delight, then clapped her hands over her mouth. Fanier removed it, careful not to disturb the frame, and replaced it with a sliver of silver cut from a larger coin.

  “So the procedure works,” Eslingen said.

  The journeyman nodded. “It’s brought the copper back to its original, purest form—”

  “All right,” Fanier called again, and the journeyman snapped abruptly to attention. Disrespectful of normal authority the alchemists might be, Eslingen thought, but they obeyed their own like soldiers. “Let’s haveIo Anders.”

  Eslingen looked at Rathe, who gave a tiny shrug, but the words seemed to mean something to the assembled alchemists. There was a moment of shuffling and coughing, and then Fanier lifted his hand. “On three. One, two, three.”

  The crowd of apprentices and journeymen began to chant, ragged at first, then louder and steadier as they caught the rhythm. “Io io anders, Demis polla mander.”

  The words were nonsense, no language Eslingen recognized, but the hair rose on his arms. Rathe drew breath once, sharply, but said nothing. There was energy there, all right, unfocussed still, but present, the energy of marching in step or cheering a play, and he could feel it building, filling the stone-walled space like water rising. b’Estorr nodded once, sharply, and Fanier raised his hands again. He gestured, and the light flashed along the frame, struck at the piece of silver. Nothing happened, and Fanier gestured again, and yet again, the miniature lighting striking in time with the chant, and then the silver slumped and shifted. The chant faltered, and Fanier lifted his hands, signaling a halt.

  The crowd stopped, ragged and off the beat, and the journeyman swayed abruptly. Rathe caught his shoulder to steady him, and the younger man gave him an apologetic glance.

  “Sorry, Adjunct Point.”

  “Nicely done,” Fanier said. He began to dismantle the frame. “Very nicely done, all of you. Now, go get something to eat—tell the buttery to make a general hand-out, on my direct orders. I want everyone to have at least a slice of bread and butter, is that clear? And a proper meal would be better.”

  “I’ll see to it,” one of the other alchemists said, and Fanier nodded.

  “Thanks, Jannie.”

  Eslingen waited while they all filed out, then followed Rathe down to the table, where Fanier and b’Estorr were staring at the crumpled mass of silver. Compared to the filigree of copper, it was distinctly unimpressive, and he looked from it to b’Estorr.

  “Was this what it was supposed to do?”

  “Not exactly,” Fanier said. “I was aiming to turn it back to its elemental form, same as the copper, but—not enough energy, I think.”

  b’Estorr nodded. “I agree.”

  Rathe picked up the lump, examined it, and handed it to Eslingen, who took it gingerly. It was mostly smooth, a rounded lump like a tiny hill, with a few crude strands that might have been the beginnings of filigree at one edge.

  “It was supposed to look like the copper?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” Fanier held out his hand, and Eslingen returned it. “Didn’t exactly work, though.”

  “Definitely not enough energy,” b’Estorr said, taking it from him. “But—”

  He set the piece of metal back on the table and sketched a sign over it. The bright silver blackened instantly, as tarnished as if it had lain in the air for a year, and Fanier’s thick eyebrows rose.

  “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I’m not following,” Rathe said, with a wry grin. “Could you be a bit more specific here?”

  “Sorry,” b’Estorr said. “What I did was supposed to add a light patina, a bit of age, but instead—well, you see. There was energy held in the metal that reacted disproportionately to what I did.”

  “And you think that’s what’s happening with the missing silver?” Rathe asked.

  “Maybe? I don’t know that I’d go that far.” b’Estorr gave the silver a dissatisfied glare.

  “We’ve settled two things,” Fanier said. “First, we’ve shown just how much energy it takes to work silver—that chant’s what we use for re-setting the preservatories on the workrooms, and we do that once a quarter. It’s a lot of energy, and you saw where it got us.”

  “Not very far,” Rathe said, nodding.

  “And we’ve shown that the silver holds the energy.” Fanier took the lump of silver and set it in a crucible, then placed the crucible on the waiting stove. “Mind yourselves, now.” He covered the crucible and worked the bellows.

  b’Estorr took a step back. “I’m not sure that’s—”

  There was a crack like a firelock going off, and the crucible wobbled on the hob. Fanier seized a pair of tongs and snatched it away. “Maybe not, but at least that’s defused it.”

  “You hope.”

  “Believe me, it’s going in an earthen box for a few weeks before I meddle with it again,” Fanier said.

  “That was the excess energy?” Eslingen asked, and the alchemist nodded.

  “Most of it, anyway.�
��

  “So what this means,” Rathe said, slowly. “What this means is that whatever is being done has left the silver wildly unstable.”

  “Yes,” Fanier said, and b’Estorr shook his head.

  “But that’s not the interesting point, Nico. I don’t see how anyone could be raising that kind of energy, not without being noticed. You saw how many people it took to do the little we did.”

  “So how many people are you talking about?” Rathe asked.

  “Hundreds,” b’Estorr said, then shook his head again. “Well, at least a hundred, I’d think, but probably more. I can do some calculations, get something more exact for you, but—a huge crowd.”

  “Surely someone would have noticed,” Eslingen said, startled.

  “You’d think,” Rathe agreed. “Is there any other way to do it? Without a crowd?”

  “I don’t know,” b’Estorr said. “I’ll look into that as well.”

  “Thanks.” Rathe clapped Eslingen on the shoulder. “Come on, I’m starving myself, even if I didn’t do any of the work.”

  “Oh, I’m not surprised,” Fanier said. “A chant like that, it’ll pull from bystanders once it gets going. You’ll be tired tonight, I daresay.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a quiet night, then,” Eslingen said, and followed Rathe from the workroom. He was hungry, too, as though he’d been working in the salle, or spent a day at the races, and he shook his head at the power involved. Though if you had thirty women, and drew the rest from bystanders? No, presumably they’d have to hear the chanting, and someone, surely, would not only have noticed but mentioned it to one of her friends, and the gossip would have been all over the city. Surely. He made himself put the problem aside, focusing on the immediate question of a cheap meal and a hasty trip to the salle to catch his last few lessons. Perhaps not thinking about it for a bit would help it all make more sense.

  Rathe made his way back to Point of Dreams still puzzling over the experiment’s results. There had to be a connection to the races, but at the moment he couldn’t see what it might be. His worktable was piled with circulars: more unlicensed book-writers and astrologers, plus the usual run of illegal printers. He skimmed through the pile, then hauled himself to his feet again.