“I’ll take that and thank you,” Eslingen said.
They spent the rest of the evening making arrangement for the dog—the weaver who had the old stables offered her daughter to exercise it during the day, for a suitable fee, and in the walled courtyard Eslingen felt it was reasonably safe.
“And if you were at the Court,” the weaver said cheerfully, once the price was settled at a demming each walk, and not more than three per day, “you can tell me, maybe. Is it true the judges paid Gaeten Solveert’s debt in corms bought last winter?”
Rathe snickered, and Eslingen shook his head. “I don’t know, I left as soon as I was given the dog. And what’s so funny about that?” Even as he asked the question, though, he understood. The goods that passed through the court were valued at what de Calior had paid for them, and corms bought at the height of last winter’s folly would have cost ten or twenty times their real value. “And why does the court hate this Solveert?”
“It’s not really him they’d like to punish,” the weaver said cheerfully, “it’s his sister. She gave countenance to the de Caliors, sister and brother, and there’s a whisper that she encouraged Malfiliatre to repudiate the boy’s debts. Though he’s old enough to know better, I’d say.”
“Definitely,” Rathe agreed. He glanced at Eslingen. “Ariealle Solveert’s just been elected a Regent, too, so there’s not much the judiciary can do to her. But they can send a message by way of her brother.”
“Hard on him, if he had nothing to do with it,” Eslingen said. He had no siblings that he knew of, though he supposed there might be a sister somewhere, or a brother, if his mother had kept trying for the heir she wanted, and he felt that Astreianters sometimes overvalued those ties.
“He contributed,” the weaver said, and Rathe nodded.
“All the Solveerts gave them countenance—I think they were the first to back them, and I heard that Ariealle got all her friends to fund them, too. She has some things to answer for.”
“But—” Eslingen stopped, shaking his head, and Rathe touched his shoulder.
“It won’t hurt him, except maybe his pride. He’s the Patent Administrator this year. Second year in a row, too.”
“And what’s that mean?” It was happening less often, but now and then Eslingen was sharply reminded that he was still a foreigner.
“He’s the Administrator of the Royal Patent for Non-Veterinary Horoscopes,” the weaver began, and Rathe cut in.
“He’s one of the two people who runs the Dog Moon races, him and the Racing Secretary, and of the two, Solveert’s the important one.” He shook his head. “At least he’s being a little less demanding than he was last year—it seemed like every time you turned around, there was another circular from the Patent Administrator demanding the points put a stop to some astrologer or other. He and Aardre Beier had a broadsheet feud to rival anything Aconin ever wrote, and if Beier is missing, I’d be inclined to look hard at Solveert.”
“Is that true, then?” the weaver asked. “Beier’s missing?”
“His friends say so,” Rathe answered. “And there’s been a circular posted. And now you know everything I do, dame.”
The weaver grinned, unabashed. “More likely Solveert bought him off for the season. Which would be too bad. His horoscopes were better than most, and mostly honest, too.”
“Which is why I don’t think he’d let himself be bought,” Rathe said later, after they and the dog were all fed. “It would go against the grain.”
It was past second sunset by then, and Sunflower retreated to his basket to mumble over the lamb shank they’d bought him. Eslingen eyed him thoughtfully, but the dog seemed content, and he retreated to his own bed, sliding into the space against the wall.
“After the fuss it made all the way back from the Western Reach, you wouldn’t think it would choose to settle there.”
“Well, they call them basket terriers for a reason,” Rathe said, stripping off coat and breeches, and slid between the sheets in nothing but his drawers and a shirt so thin as to be almost transparent.
They had left the bedcurtains open and the shutters cracked to let in the night breeze; Eslingen could hear a tower clock in the distance and the sound of a cart on the cobbles beyond the garden wall. Part of him wanted to postpone this conversation even if just for the night, but he knew Rathe would blame him if he delayed.
“Coindarel was at the Redistribution.”
“Oh?”
“I talked to him a bit,” Eslingen said. “Well, to Estradere, really, but—”
“Estradere?” In the dark, it was impossible to read Rathe’s expression, but his tone was utterly neutral.
“Coindarel’s leman.” Eslingen gave the most reassuring answer first. “And his Master-Sergeant, most days.”
“And what’s that when he’s at home?”
“Second in command, but of the entire regiment, not with a company of his own like a captain.” Eslingen paused, trying gauge the other’s response, but could make out nothing in the shadows. “He made me an interesting offer.”
“Did he.”
“There’s apparently some talk that the Metropolitan might raise a new mounted unit,” Eslingen said carefully. “The City Guard, or some such, to be a bodyguard to the Queen and her heir, and to supplement the points outside the city walls where the writ doesn’t run. He said if it happens, Coindarel will offer me a captaincy.”
Rathe was silent, not even a shift of breath to give away his reaction.
“It’s a promotion,” Eslingen said. “Well, obviously. And regular pay, better than I have now. And no chance—well, almost none—that I’d be sent elsewhere to fight.” He made himself stop then, and lie still in the dark.
Rathe shifted uneasily, the rustle of the mattress and the whisper of skin against linen. “I’d heard that rumor, too,” he said. “I’d hoped it wasn’t true.”
“Estradere was very clear than any judicial work was meant to be entirely subordinate to the points,” Eslingen said.
Rathe snorted. “How long would that last, I wonder?”
“I wouldn’t even consider if I didn’t believe he meant it,” Eslingen said, and felt Rathe relax just a little.
“No, I know that. It’s just—Astree’s tits, Fourie must be furious.”
From all Eslingen had heard, the Surintendant of Points was fiercely jealous of his rights, and he nodded in spite of himself.
“We’ve been working for years to get the trust of the city,” Rathe said. “To prove that we stand for the law and none other—”
“That’s not the intent,” Eslingen said quickly, and didn’t quite dare reach for him under the sheet.
“That’s the effect,” Rathe answered.
Eslingen lay still for a long moment. After a bit, he said, tentatively, “The way it was put to me—you don’t have jurisdiction outside the city, I learned that Midsummer past. It took Coindarel’s Dragons to back us up, rescuing the children, and apparently Coindarel’s taken the same lesson to heart. It’s not meant to take anything away from the points.”
“Unless there’s a riot,” Rathe said. “Mounted troops are good at stopping that.”
“I don’t think that’s the intent.”
“I daresay it isn’t,” Rathe said, with sudden anger, “but Coindarel—and Astreiant herself, if this really is her idea—they’re stepping into a quarrel that’s older than either of them that they don’t understand in the slightest. The Regents would love to see us muzzled—”
“The Queen wouldn’t,” Eslingen said. “Astreiant wouldn’t.”
“You really want this.”
“I’m a soldier. Of course I do.”
He heard Rathe draw breath sharply, and then subside. There was a thump from the foot of the bed, and then the mattress shifted as Sunflower walked up the sheets between them and flung himself down at the edge of Eslingen’s pillow. Eslingen swore at the sudden hot and acrid breath in his face, and Rathe scooped the dog neatly away.
<
br /> “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, and there was another thump as it hit the floor. Nails scrabbled on the boards, and it jumped back onto the foot of the bed.
“Persistent,” Eslingen said, as Rathe repeated the eviction.
“They’re a stubborn breed.”
Rathe sounded amused again, and Eslingen released a soundless sigh. “It may not happen, you know,” he offered, and felt more than saw Rathe’s nod.
“I know.”
The bed sagged again, though Sunflower was slower to claim the head of the bed this time, and Eslingen sighed.
“They should have named him Distaff.”
“What?” Rathe had started to sit up, but stopped, cocking his head to one side.
“You know, in the fairytales. The heroine always puts her distaff down the middle of the bed to prove she’s kept her chastity.”
“That’s a Leaguer story,” Rathe said. “And I’m not letting a dog keep me chaste.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Eslingen said. There would be more to say later, but for now, he was glad of the distraction.
Chapter Three
Rathe sorted through the piles of paper on his workroom table, more surprised by what wasn’t there than what was. Half a dozen complaints about illegal horoscopes, yes, and about as many reports of false dealing, but nothing like what they usually saw at this time of year. Maybe Solveert was settling into his job, then, had achieved some modus vivendi with the broadsheet astrologers. Stranger things had happened. And without Beier fanning the flames, it could only be easier. There was no mention of Beier in the week’s circular, or in Dreams’ daybook, and he allowed himself the unworthy hope that the man would stay away for the duration of the meet. There was, however, a brief notice from the Surintendant, stating that the Metropolitan of Astreiant had proposed the establishment of a new City Guard and that the matter was under advisement. Confirming the rumors, Rathe thought, and set the sheet neatly back in its place. He didn’t like the idea, didn’t like the idea that Eslingen was being recruited for it, but he couldn’t see anything he could do about it for the moment.
“Nico?” Sohier pushed open the workroom door, a runner in City Point livery hovering at her shoulder. “This just came from the Surintendant, and Trijn’s not here to sign.”
“Bring it in,” Rathe said, and accepted the sealed packet from the runner. He signed her book, and nodded to Sohier. “See she gets her tip out of the strongbox, would you?”
“Right, boss,” Sohier answered, and led the runner away.
Rathe eyed the packet warily, tempted to leave it for Trijn. Nothing good ever came under triple seal—but that was exactly why he shouldn’t delay. He broke the seals and unwound the blood-red ribbon, then unfolded the full royal sheet. It was half again as wide as a broadsheet, and covered in neat scrivener’s hand, and Rathe let his eyes travel to the foot where the seals were impressed in the thick paper. Fourie’s, of course, directly under his uncompromising signature, but also the seal of the city’s Regents, and Rathe swore under his breath as his eyes went to the title.
An Act for the Protection of Credit as well as Regulating the Craft of Book-Writing. He swore again as he reached the end. Put in plain terms, the Regents had looked at the bankruptcies that bid fair to follow on Malfiliatre’s repudiation of her brother’s debts, and panicked: not only were they requiring more solid guarantees for those bankers who held Letters Patent from the city, but they were now requiring every licensed book-writer in the city to put up a bond—he checked the letter again—a bond equal to their likely losses, based on their previous year’s records. He swore again, more loudly, and Sohier checked in the doorway.
“Boss?”
“Have you heard anything about new regulations for book-writers?”
Sohier grimaced. “I heard there was some plan to make them all post a bond or something. I’ve a friend over at Fairs’ Point, and she said they were going mad because if it happened, they’d be the ones to keep the coin.”
“Well, they already have the strongroom for the purse monies,” Rathe said.
“Yeah, but they’ll need three more clerks just to keep track of who’s posted what,” Sohier said. “And Claes doesn’t want to pay for it—he’s making noises about getting the Patent Administrator to loan him some ofhis staff, while last I heard Solveert said it wasn’t his problem.”
“It’s madness,” Rathe said. Every sororal group in the city ran a betting book on the Dog Moon races, with a portion of the money going into the group’s treasury; seasonal traders and widowers and orphans traditionally supplemented their income by writing book. And, yes, every year someone failed to pay out, but it was rarely ruinous, mostly just a matter of getting the bettors back their original stake. But none of them were de Calior—changing the rules here wouldn’t solve any of the real problems.
Sohier nodded. “It’s tying up the basket after the dog is out. What does the Surintendant say?”
“What can he say?” Rathe asked. “The Regents passed it, we have to deal with it.”
“At least for now,” Trijn said, coming heavily up the stairs. “What they were thinking, or if you can even call it that—but I’ll spare you my rant.”
“Excuse me,” Sohier said and ducked away. Trijn watched her go, and shook her head again.
“So that’s it?”
Rathe refolded the announcement and slid it across the table. Trijn eyed it unhappily but didn’t pick it up.
“How bad does it look?”
“I haven’t read it carefully,” Rathe said, “but—it’s not good. Is there any chance the Regents could change their mind?” Trijn’s elder sister was a Regent; for all that the two of them didn’t get along, there was always the chance that Gausaron might have let something slip.
“I doubt it.” Trijn’s voice was grim. “She voted against it, you know. Gausaron, I mean. Which just tells you what a bad idea this is.”
“It’s likely to be unenforceable,” Rathe said. “Sweet Sofia, all a woman has to do is not apply for the license. All that changes is that the crown doesn’t get her share.”
“And the book-writer can’t come to us if there’s a problem,” Trijn said. “It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“How many licenses have we issued already?” Rathe asked.
“I’m not going to find out. My ruling is, this isn’t retroactive, and anyone who was quick enough doesn’t have to post a bond.” Trijn shook her head. “Not that that will make much of anyone happy, either.”
“Probably not.”
Trijn slid the paper back across the table toward him. “Get this posted somewhere conspicuous, and if anyone complains, tell them to take it up with the Regents.”
As if that would do any good, Rathe thought, but knew better than to say it. “Yes, chief.”
“You settled Corsten, right?”
“The alchemists ruled it suicide,” Rathe said. “Though the real cause is de Calior’s bankruptcy, and I’d love to try to call the point.”
“That dog won’t jump,” Trijn said. “Don’t even think of trying it. Anything on Beier?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“Well, the next time you’re in Fairs’ Point, see if they’ve made any progress and haven’t bothered to tell us. Just don’t step on Claes’s toes.”
And precisely how am I supposed to do that? Rathe swallowed the words, knowing they were pointless, and collected the Regents’ announcement. “I’ll just get this posted,” he said instead, and made his escape.
The clock that capped the Venturers’ Hall was striking ten as Eslingen crossed into the New Fair. At this hour, Dreams was barely stirring, actors and musicians and dancers—and fencing masters, all too often—just dragging themselves out of bed to face a meal and early rehearsals. Here it seemed the dog trainers had been up since first sunrise, and the women gathered at the cook-stands scattered across the open grounds were buying the thick pease soup that served carters and farm workers as a mid-mor
ning meal There were a good dozen broadsheet sellers as well, most hawking sheets that were tinted a pale new-leaf green. When he stopped to examine one, it proved to be a tip sheet, complete with certified horoscopes for the first week’s races. They were still some days off, but he bought one anyway, and took the opportunity to ask the way to Maewes DeVoss’s kennels.
She proved to have one of the larger buildings on the eastern end of the New Fair, not far from the chute-like tracks that had been erected in the center of the Fair. Eslingen winced at the noise from the back, but the front courtyard was well-swept and a brightly-painted awning had been spread to shade most of the area. DeVoss herself was not entirely delighted by his presence, but Rathe’s name brought her to the courtyard gate, and Eslingen doffed his hat as he offered a quick explanation for his presence.
“And here I’d hoped you had word on Jero,” DeVoss said.
“That would be Rathe’s business. I’m sorry.” Eslingen couldn’t help wishing it was his right, that the Guard was formed and him a part of it: it was hard to be known as Rathe’s leman and yet have no place in the most important part of his life.
DeVoss waved away the apology. “I shouldn’t have expected it,” she said. “So you’ve got one of de Calior’s dogs? Which one?”
“Sunflower,” Eslingen said. He felt a little foolish saying it, but to his surprise she nodded.
“Nice little dog. Some potential there. So what do you want to do with him?”
“I’d like to see him race,” Eslingen answered. “But that has to be this year. I can’t really afford to keep him in training for another year.”
“I don’t race maidens,” DeVoss said. “But some of my assistants do. Besetje Naimi has space in her kennel right now, and so does Felis Tibeë. If you’ll bring the dog by, Lieutenant—tomorrow, say, at eleven o’clock?—they’ll look him over and see if either of them wants to take him on.” She paused. “They’ll expect you to stand them lunch for their pains, regardless.”
“I’d be delighted,” Eslingen said
Fairs' Point Page 5
