“Don’t call him names,” Naimi said.
“Brilliant puppy! Beautiful puppy!” Eslingen said obligingly, dangling a leather strap over the edge of the pen. Sunflower leaped for it, yapping.
“Fast puppy,” Naimi said. “All right, that’s enough.”
Eslingen whisked the strap away, and Naimi caught the dog as he leaped after it, lifting him high into the air. “Aren’t you clever?” she exclaimed, and popped him neatly into the basket held open by her waiting boxholder. He secured it, grinning, while Sunflower gave a few more sharp barks and then settled with a heavy sigh.
“He looks good,” Eslingen said.
Naimi waved her hand in a warding gesture. “So-so. I’ve seen worse, but I’ve seen better, too.”
“Not in this race, I hope,” Eslingen said
She allowed herself a crooked smile. “Maybe not in this race.”
Eslingen followed her out into the watery sunlight, filtered through a veil of high, thin clouds. It was what he’d learned to think of as a good day for racing, warm but not too bright, with little wind to stir the dust or send strange smells through the tracks. They were neither first nor last to the track, Naimi’s usual habit of arriving inconspicuously in the middle, and Eslingen was shocked to see the size of the crowd.
“It’s the last rung of the ladder,” Naimi said, though she looked a bit wild-eyed herself. “Of course everyone wants to see who’s going to make the finals.”
“Do you think he has a chance?” Eslingen looked at the basket in the boxholder’s hands, abruptly aware of just how much of his money was riding on four stubby legs.
“He has a chance.” Naimi took a breath and blew it out with a sigh. “This race is harder than the final will be, I think—three favorites took a tumble in their race this morning, so the dogs that will pass through from that aren’t really the best. I doubt they stand much chance of winning, no matter who goes on from these last ones.”
There were three qualifying races left, Eslingen remembered, each the last rung of a ladder, this one and two others; the first and second place finishers in each would run in the final race tomorrow. “What about the two after us?”
Naimi shrugged. “We’ll have to see who wins. There are some good dogs there. But anything can happen—the Great Hound keep my dog clear of them!”
Eslingen nodded in agreement. “Who should I worry most about in this race?”
“Well, of course, they’re all maidens, same as him,” Naimi said, as they moved through the crowd to the entrance to the starting area. “So there’s really only this year’s races and their stars to go on. And every dog here has won a race. But of the dogs today—”
“Moo,” the boxholder interjected, and Eslingen gave him a look.
“‘Moo’?”
Naimi snickered. “His real name is Silklands Warrior. But he’s as spotted as a cow, so—Moo.” She sobered. “And there’s Ahina Ban, that’s Little Bear in one of the Silklands’ tongues, or so I’m told. You’ll have seen her, she’s the one with what looks like a dark mask across her face. They say there are bears like that in the Silklands.”
Eslingen had seen broadsheet woodcuts, of course, but never the animal itself. “So they say…”
They had reached the entrance to the starting pen where only the trainers and their boxholders could go. Eslingen saw Naimi brace herself to face the crowd, and wanted to pat her shoulder in reassurance, but thought it would do more harm than good. Instead, he worked his way down the fence, edging himself into the crowd until he had a decent view of the track. The trainers were all present, and the steward of the race collected the tokens that proved their dogs’ eligibility, a brass medallion matched to each dog. She inspected the contents of each basket, the boxholders expertly thwarting the dogs’ attempts to escape, and then nodded to her assistant. A white pennant rose to the top of the track’s flagpole, signaling that the race was ready to run. The steward gestured, her voice inaudible over the noise of the crowd and the calls for last-minute bets, directing the dogs to their boxes. Sunflower would be in box four, Eslingen noted: it had been lucky for him before. The crowd surged forward, jostling for place. Eslingen put his hand to his waist, not looking down, and slipped the compass into his waistband. There was no need to take chances with pickpockets, even if at least some of those thefts were likely to be linked more closely to the missing silver.
The dogs were all in their boxes, and the steward lifted her hand. Eslingen held his breath as her handkerchief dropped and the doors sprang open. The dogs leaped forward as though they were a single animal, feet churning the dirt.
Sunflower broke well, but the dogs were evenly matched, flying over the first two jumps in a flailing mass. At the third jump, the smallest dog had dropped back a little; at the fourth, the black and white dog, Moo, surely, and Sunflower were shoulder to shoulder with a dog with a black mark like a mask across her eyes. Eslingen clenched his fists as they came together over the final jump, just a short dash now to the finish. The masked dog was tiring, but Moo and Sunflower hit the bales almost together, and Eslingen cheered. First or second, Sunflower was in the final.
The steward called it second place—by a whisker, Naimi said, coming to collect him and escort Sunflower, safely basketed again though hardly silent, back to the start where the prizes would be given. He accepted the token that would admit Sunflower to the finals, and doffed his hat to the steward as she took the prize purse from the waiting chest.
“Do you accept it, Lieutenant, or will you turn it back?”
Accept it, Eslingen thought, but if he did that, then everyone would think he’d lost confidence in his dog. He couldn’t do that to Naimi. “Turn it back,” he said, and the steward nodded gravely.
“So noted. The prize money to be turned back.”
There was a cheer from the crowd, and under that cover, she said, “I’d like a word with you, Lieutenant.”
Eslingen blinked. “Of course.”
“Wait there,” she said, and turned to the next owner.
Naimi tugged at his sleeve, and Eslingen turned to see her smiling up at him, Sunflower’s basket tucked tightly under her arm. “He did well, didn’t he? Solid all through, and never faltered at the finish. That Moo’s a big boy, but I think Sunflower’s stronger.” She stopped, shaking herself. “Will you come back to the kennel? He deserves to be made much of.”
“The steward wants to talk to me,” Eslingen said, and she bridled.
“What about? He ran a perfect race—”
“She didn’t say,” Eslingen answered. “But I doubt it’s anything to do with the race. She wouldn’t have awarded the prizes if there was a question.”
“That’s true,” Naimi said, visibly relaxing. “But you will come back? He does like you.”
“I will,” Eslingen promised, and hoped he could keep his word.
The clock had struck the quarter hour before the steward managed to extricate herself from her duties and moved to join him at the edge of the enclosure,
“Would you rather someplace more private?” Eslingen asked, dubiously, and she shook her head.
“Hare and Hound, no. If anyone asks, you had a question about the turn-back.”
Eslingen nodded, and she hurried on.
“Is Rathe still interested in this matter? The thefts?”
“He’s been warned off,”Eslingen said.As you well know.
“That hasn’t always stopped him,” she answered. “Is he?”
Eslingen hesitated. If this were some sort of trap, some attempt to trick him into betraying Rathe’s disobedience… “It’s not Dreams’ business, of course. But yes, he’d like to know how it turns out.”
“I don’t know how much you know about it all, but—when the Secretary met with the Surintendant, about these threatened thefts—the Patent Administrator said he’d consult with the University about moving the silver. Rathe should know he hasn’t done it, and he isn’t going to move the coin.”
“Rea
lly,” Eslingen said. It might mean nothing, or at least nothing more than that Solveert was a stubborn man and certain of his own knowledge, but…
“Just so,” the steward said, with a sharp nod. “And I, for one, would be glad to have someone know it. Though what you can do with it, the Great Hound knows.”
Eslingen doffed his hat again as she turned away. The Great Hound and all the other gods, he thought. We’ll need all their help if we’re to pull this off, and I for one don’t see how. At least not without destroying Rathe’s career. Perhaps if they could trace the vibration he’d heard at the practice track, somehow link it to Solveert, but that would take time and that was the one thing they didn’t have.
And that assumed that Solveert was involved, when there was no solid proof of it at all. Unless Rathe had something, of course, but that seemed unlikely. Eslingen shook himself, shoving those concerns to the back of his mind. For now, he had to go praise his dog, and plan for the final. The rest would have to wait.
Chapter Thirteen
Rathe did his best to keep his mind on the day’s work, but he couldn’t help wondering what exactly Eslingen had managed to find at the New Fair. If anything, he reminded himself, and bent again over the station’s daybook. It was his turn to review the week’s events, to be sure nothing had slipped through their fingers, but he was finding it almost impossible to concentrate on the matters at hand. He made a last note that someone should follow up with the managers of the Gallenon about the complaint of spoiled wine, and finally closed the book with a thump, calling for a runner to return it to the duty point. The Bells’ clock struck six, followed more faintly by the clock at the Bridge-tower; the races had been over for more than an hour, and there was still no sign of Eslingen.
He shook his unease away. Possibly Eslingen had found something, and was pursuing it; more likely, he’d fallen into company with some of his fellow owners, and was either celebrating victories or commiserating over losses, with the help of a bottle or two of wine… And if that was the case, he told himself sternly, there was no harm done, but he knew he wouldn’t feel entirely comfortable until he knew Eslingen was safe.
His shift was over at seven, and he let himself out into the twilight streets, the sun red as a coal at the end of the west-running street. He turned his back to it, following his shadow back toward Wicked’s—surely Eslingen would have the sense to look for him there, if he’d been delayed at the races.
The fire was lit in the main hearth, a cheerful antidote to the evening chill, and the main room was already crowded, most of the tables occupied. A quick glance showed no sign of Eslingen, and Rathe made his way to the serving bar, wedging himself into the line. He’d get a couple of plates of the ordinary, he thought, and bring them home. If Eslingen wasn’t here, that was the next place he’d look.
Wicked herself was working the bar, assisted by a pair of buxom twins that Rathe hadn’t seen before. Wicked nodded at him over the shoulder of her customer, and came to serve him as soon as she’d taken the last coins.
“You’re late tonight,” she said.
“I didn’t know I was looked for,” Rathe answered, and she smiled.
“With so handsome a leman? I assure you, you’re watched.”
There was a note in her voice that made Rathe stiffen. “And not just because of gossip?” he asked, lowering his own voice. “Philip’s being watched?”
She nodded once. “He said I should tell you. He’s in one of the alcoves—he’s ordered, but you say what you want.”
“Whatever’s the ordinary,” Rathe said, his hunger disappearing. If Eslingen had been followed—but there was no point in borrowing trouble.
“You don’t like frittes,” Wicked said. “You’ll get spring noodles and like them. And here.” She pulled a bottle of wine from beneath the counter, uncorked it with a deft gesture, and set it in front of him. “Take that back to him, if you would.” She produced the cups to go with it, and he nodded.
“I’ll do that. And thank you, Wicked.”
“Oh, there’s nothing I like better than a bit of intrigue,” she answered, with a smile, and Rathe turned away.
As promised, Eslingen was sitting in one of the alcoves that ran along the back of the room, a candle-lantern lit in the niche at the end of the alcove. The spaces were private enough that conversations couldn’t be overheard, but they could still see most of the gathered crowd. Of course, that meant they could be seen as well, but if they were being followed, that might not be an entirely bad thing.
“Good day at the races?” Rathe asked, and set the wine on the table.
“Not bad.” Eslingen looked a bit disheveled, though, his shirt wilted and a few strands of hair straggling loose around his face. “I won a bit on a dog called Pointsman.”
Rathe gave him a wary look, not sure if he was joking. “You never.”
“I did, I swear. I bet him across the board, and he came in third at very nice odds. He’s paying for dinner tonight, if you like.”
“I’ll take that,” Rathe said. He slid onto the bench opposite the other, and poured a cup for each of them. “Wicked said you had some followers.”
Eslingen nodded. “And not for my pretty eyes, either. Voillemin had someone watching me most of the day.”
Rathe swore.
“And they’re following me still.” Eslingen took a sip of his wine. “Hm, that’s not bad. I spoke to one of them, mind you, the acting adjunct, and I doubt she loves Voillemin all that much herself, but it’s a matter of pride to the station.”
“That’s the problem,” Rathe said. “Some of them may even know I’m right, but it’s a matter of turf.” He grimaced. “And to be fair, I don’t know that I wouldn’t do the same if it was Dreams.”
“You’d think it,” Eslingen said, “but I doubt you’d do it.”
Rathe looked up, startled and pleased by the other man’s comment, and Eslingen shrugged.
“Well, I can’t see it, anyway. I’ve got news for you.”
“Oh?”
“Two things. First, the compass sounded by the practice track, but I’d just been talking to the adjunct point and she was watching me, so I didn’t try to follow. Also, it was time for Sunflower’s race, so I went on to the kennel. I’d thought we might try to go back tonight, but with these people following me, I can’t see how.”
“I should have asked about Sunflower,” Rathe said. “How’d he do?”
“Second, which puts him into the final,” Eslingen answered. “He was getting four-to-one and three-to-one when I left the Fair.”
“Still, you should have made a nice bit on the prize,” Rathe said. “That’ll make up for losing a week of lessons.”
Eslingen looked at his cup. “Actually, I turned it back.”
“You didn’t.” Rathe wished he could recall the words the moment they left his lips, and Eslingen shrugged again.
“I didn’t have much choice. If I hadn’t, everyone would have assumed I didn’t think he could win the final, and how would that look?”
“Might have gotten you better odds with the writers,” Rathe said.
“That would be cheating,” Eslingen answered, austerely. “Besides, it would have upset Naimi.”
And that was certainly true, Rathe thought. Besetje believed in her runners, and wanted her owners to do the same, not try to influence the odds for a bigger payoff.
“The steward had a word for you,” Eslingen went on.
“For me?”
Eslingen nodded. “She wanted it passed to you directly and in particular, even though I told her you were sitting blamelessly in Dreams having nothing to do with any of this.”
“I wish I were,” Rathe muttered.
“She said that Solveert hadn’t moved the prize money or the bond money, not any of it. And he hadn’t consulted anyone at the University about it, either. Apparently that’s worrying the Race Secretaries.”
“As well it might.” Rathe took a deep breath, trying to make these latest
facts fit the pattern. Solveert had always been a possibility, just because he had access to the coin—no, he corrected himself, Solveert was the man who decided where the coin was kept. And he’d lost money over Malfiliatre, even though he’d backed the winner: that might make a man bitter enough to plan a theft like this. But, no, he’d have had to work it out long before—say he’d had the idea for some time, but the Matter of Malfiliatre might have tipped it into action. Though Solveert was a University man, and unlikely to cooperate with Beier, unless the rumor was true and Solveert had offered to get Beier restored to his place. That was the one thing the astrologer still wanted, for all he’d tried to hide it; without the University’s acknowledgement, he was just another broadsheet scribbler, a petty astrologer casting horoscopes for dogs. “It’s not proof, though. It’s nothing like proof.”
“I know.”
The waiter brought their plates, and they applied themselves to the food for a few moments, before Eslingen said, “I thought we could try the compass around his house, something like that, but that was before I saw I was being followed.”
“And if you’re watched, I certainly will be,” Rathe said. He’d be within his rights to complain to Trijn, have her call the point on whoever Fairs had sent after them, but that would only cause the feud to escalate. And it wouldn’t keep there from being other spies. No, satisfying as it might be to make the watcher spend a night in the cells, it would serve no useful purpose. Especially when, if he took this to Trijn, and Trijn took it to Fourie, all Solveert would have to do was say “I’m a Fellow of the University, I don’t need to consult anyone else on the matter.” Without more proof—without some solid proof, there was nothing he could do.
“We could try leaving by the back way,” Eslingen suggested. “Over the wall beside the privy. But I’m not willing to bet this is the only one.”
“No more am I,” Rathe answered. He poked at the remains of his dinner, well-cooked as always, but at the moment he couldn’t remember tasting it. Even if they could lose their follower, they’d then be faced with a game of hide-and-go-seek in Fairs’ Point, against women who knew their patch like the backs of their hands. He pushed his plate away, shook his head at the waiter who appeared to ask if they wanted a slice of the night’s tart.
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