“Or never,” LaSier countered. “It’s not that his health has failed, it’s this Dis-damned repudiation.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the other women in the room, and Rathe thought LaSier had won her point. Idomey thought so, too, from the look of annoyance that flickered across her face.
“Very well,” she said, “but it doesn’t change the core of the matter. She owes her father support, and she won’t give it.”
“I can’t,” Besetje said.
“You could come back to the family,” Idomey said. “There’s work here that pays better than training dogs.”
“She’s the worst pickpocket we ever had in training,” Estel said. “Her stars are against it, and she hates the work—Rathe can speak to that.”
“Well?” Idomey turned to look at him for the first time, and Rathe spread his hands.
“It’s true, mistress. She was too easy to spot, and easier to catch.”
Beside him, Besetje made a soft noise of complaint, like a dog whining, but managed not to speak.
“Very well,” Idomey said, “but now that she’s grown, there are other jobs—”
“Why take her away from something she’s good at?” one of Estel’s supporters asked. “She’s with DeVoss, that’s a damn good place.”
“Her father requires support,” Idomey said, stubbornly, and LaSier lifted her head.
“Actually, Besetje and I have worked out a bargain, Estel, if you’ll agree.”
Idomey rolled her eyes at that, and Rathe bit back a smile. Anything LaSier proposed tonight was hardly going to come as a surprise to Estel.
“I’ll loan her the money—at interest, of course, but a very decent rate—to get her through the Dog Moon, and then she’ll take over Bertal’s support and pay me back over the summer.”
“And what if she loses her shift on the races?” Faar demanded.
“How stupid do you think I am?” Besetje demanded.
“Don’t talk back.” Faar glared at her across the tavern, and she scowled back, looking more than a bit like one of her own terriers. To Rathe’s surprise, however, she took a breath and turned to face Estel.
“I’ve not risked more than I can afford to lose. Even if nothing comes home well, I’ll be able to take care of him before Midsummer. It’s just that all my free cash is tied up in entries and box fees. DeVoss will certify that, if you ask her.”
There was a silence, almost of surprise, and then a murmur of approval. Idomey bit her lip, recognizing defeat when she heard it, and Estel looked at Faar.
“You heard Cassia. Does that suit you?”
Faar nodded slowly. “Yes. And thank you.”
“It’s our duty,” Estel said. She pushed herself to her feet. “That settles it, then. Cassia, you’ll make the loan. Besetje, you’ll take over the maintenance payments—when?”
“No later than midday of the Horse,” Besetje answered promptly.
“Agreed,” Estel said. “Idomey, unless you have anything more to say—”
The other woman shook her head.
“Then you can leave us to our suppers and not trouble honest women further. Nelis, Rathe, thank you for being here.”
It was clear dismissal, and Rathe made a sketchy bow. “No trouble, Estel.”
Rathe made his way back through the emptying streets in a skeptical frame of mind. Estel had stage-managed the affair very cleverly, but he doubted she had done more than defer the problem. Idomey was bound to try again. That meant he owed Monteia a warning letter, since Hopes currently had jurisdiction over the ’Serry, and he should also ask Claes to keep an eye on Besetje, for her own sake—though probably it would be better not to involve Fairs’ Point if he could help it. Claes had too much on his book with the races, and Voillemin would be glad to cause the girl trouble if he knew Rathe stood patron to her. A quick note to Monteia, then, he thought, and let himself in the courtyard gate.
Sunflower was asleep in his basket and Eslingen was sitting at the table, a sheaf of broadsheets discarded beside him, studying a thick pamphlet by the light of Rathe’s best lamp. They both looked up as the door opened; Sunflower dropped his head with a sigh, but Eslingen tipped his to one side, the movement so dog-like that Rathe couldn’t help a grin.
“Went well, did it?” Eslingen closed the pamphlet before Rathe could get a good look at the title page, turned it upside down. He could see the broadsheets, though, headlines proclaiming the advent of the new Guard, and in spite of himself his mouth tightened. But that was only to be expected, the broadsheet writers weren’t going to ignore such a promising topic even in race season. It was not something he wanted to discuss tonight.
“I suppose.” There was the end of a loaf on the shelf beside a well-wrapped wedge of cheese. Rathe cut himself some of each and came to join his leman, who pushed the wine jug across the table to him. A second cup stood ready, and Rathe poured himself some, topping up Eslingen’s cup as well. “I don’t think it’s settled, not by a long shot, but at least there’s something of a truce.”
“I’d count that progress,” Eslingen said.
“Yes, well. Depends how long it lasts.” Rathe drained his cup faster than he’d meant. “And you?”
“DeVoss doesn’t run maidens,” Eslingen answered, “but she says her assistants do. I’m to take Sunflower to them tomorrow to see if any of them will take him on.”
“So that’s why you’re studying.”
Eslingen looked confused, and Rathe reached across to tap the pamphlet.
“DeVoss is honest, she won’t let her people cheat you.”
“It’s not that,” Eslingen said. “I just—I wanted to learn the language.”
Rathe nodded, his mouth full of bread and cheese, and Eslingen looked thoughtfully at the pamphlet.
“This is your missing man, isn’t it? This Beier.”
Rathe nodded again.
“The printers at the Pantheon were in a bit of a taking about it,” Eslingen said. “Apparently someone tried to put out a sheet in his style under his name, but it was spotted right away.”
“He has a unique talent,” Rathe said.
Eslingen turned over the pamphlet. “An Explanation of the Simplest Points of Veterinary and Non-Veterinary Horoscopes, Written for the Ignorant and Vicious, in Vain Hope of Amendment. He didn’t pander to his readers, did he?”
Rathe grinned in spite of himself. “Not much, no.”
“Seems to me the real mystery is why he didn’t turn up missing before this.”
“He’s more pleasant in person,” Rathe said. Beier’s image rose before him, a big man, barrel-bellied, standing hand on hips in an inn yard deciphering horoscopes for free just to annoy that year’s Patent Administrator. He’d done it with a wink and a grin, a kiss on the hand and a pat on the cheek, and all other payment virtuously declined until Rathe had thought the Patent Administrator would fall into an apoplexy. And then Beier had winked at him and taken himself off, professing a dinner engagement. It was infuriating, but done with style.
“One would hope,” Eslingen said.
“What were the printers saying?” Rathe asked, after a moment.
“Pointing fingers at each other, mostly,” Eslingen answered. “Or at the women who fee them, though I did not hear Caiazzo’s name bandied about in that regard.”
“He was backing Beier, I think,” Rathe said. “And anyway, would you take Hanse’s name in vain?”
“Not I, thank you.” Eslingen’s smile faded. “Is it true that Beier’s a Fellow of the University? Used to hold a chair or some such?”
“Oh, yes, it’s true, all right,” Rathe said. “The University hates him, too. Istre says every few years the Senior Astrologer tries to find a way to disrobe him, but once you’re a Fellow, you’re a Fellow for life. They didn’t get the chair back either when they kicked him out.”
“They give you an actual chair?” Eslingen’s eyebrows rose.
“It’s symbolic, but, yes. It’s a chair. Istre
says it’s not the only feudal hangover at the University, but it’s one of the odder.” Something flickered across Eslingen’s face at the necromancer’s name, and Rathe wished he’d kept his mouth shut. It definitely would have been better not to mention Istre, for all that b’Estorr and he were merely friends. “Very fancy cabinetry, I understand, inlaid and gilded and worth a petty-crown at least. So it matters if you have to have another one made—the donor’s not likely to pay twice, after all.”
“Couldn’t they chase it through the courts?” Eslingen asked.
“Not without explaining how he came to have it, and allowing Beier to wash some very dirty linen in public,” Rathe said. “I gather they’ve been reduced to watching to see if he pawns it in the off-season, but so far it hasn’t happened.”
“And here I thought scholars were supposed to be unworldly dreamers, their eyes on the stars and their feet not quite touching the ground. I’m shattered.”
“You’ve been here a year, and you haven’t noticed how very many, and how very political, the pies are that they get their fingers into?”
“I wasn’t here six weeks when I got good proof of that,” Eslingen answered. “Not that I minded.”
Rathe grinned, remembering a shared evening spent watching for members of the University, and Eslingen went on more thoughtfully.
“But this would be why the printers were saying the Patent Administrator hated Beier? Opinion is about evenly divided as to whether he’s had him murdered or if he’s bought him off.”
“Beier wouldn’t take the money,” Rathe said. “Not from Solveert.”
“What I heard was that he’d been offered his Fellowship again,” Eslingen said. “A man might do a great deal he wouldn’t otherwise, to get his living back.”
Rathe shook his head. “Solveert’s not important enough to make it happen, and Beier knows it as well as I do. What are they saying at the Fairs?”
“I didn’t hear,” Eslingen said. “I wasn’t there that long.”
There was something odd in his tone, and Rathe gave him a sharp glance. Eslingen had his eyes firmly fixed on the pamphlet again, and Rathe decided not to pursue it. “Do me a favor,” he said, and Eslingen looked up at once, smiling.
“Of course.”
“Keep your ears open, and if you do hear anything—”
“I’ll let you know,” Eslingen answered.
Chapter Four
At least he was not the only person carrying a noisy basket, Eslingen thought as he made his way to the New Fair. There were any number of otherwise entirely respectable people heading in the same direction with baskets tucked under their arms, and the air was filled with the sounds of canine excitement. Children wielded rakes along the edge of every path, collecting scattered straw and refuse for the jakesmen and their cart, but the air still smelled strongly of dog and stable.
To his surprise, however, there were three people waiting at the tavern door, a young woman and a young man, both in the sturdy leather aprons that seemed to mark the trainers, and the third in a threadbare astrologer’s robe. The woman trainer stepped forward, seeing him.
“Lieutenant vaan Esling? I’m Besetje Naimi.”
Eslingen shifted the basket to his other hip and accepted her extended hand. “A pleasure, dame.”
“Felis Tibeë,” Naimi said, with a nod to the other trainer, “and Dame Herridey. She’s our astrologer.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Eslingen said, clasping hands with each of them in turn. “I appreciate your willingness to consider taking on my dog.”
“Why don’t you come round the back, and we can have a look at him and his horoscope?” Naimi said. The words had a rote quality, a formula learned but not fully understood, and Eslingen nodded.
“Lead on.”
The tavern’s yard was even louder, with temporary kennels stacked along three of the four walls, and a good dozen woven-withy pens set up on the bare ground. The smell of dog was even stronger. Naimi led them to one of the pens, and Tibeë slipped inside, carefully securing the gate behind him.
“If you’ll hand me the dog, Lieutenant?”
Eslingen handed him the basket, and Tibeë set it carefully on the ground, bracing it between his feet as he worked the cords loose. Sunflower sprang out before the lid was fully undone, knocking it askew, and Naimi grinned.
“Well, he’s got spirit.”
Sunflower raced in circles, barking, and Tibeë gave a judicious nod. “No obvious faults there. Though the barking wastes energy.”
“It doesn’t matter so much,” Naimi said. “Did you bring all his papers, Lieutenant?”
Eslingen produced them from the cuff of his coat. “I did.”
Naimi took them, handing the horoscope off to Herridey, and unfolded the pedigree herself. Tibeë came to look over her shoulder, while Herridey studied the horoscope. After a moment, the astrologer refolded the paper, then fumbled in the pocket beneath her skirts to come up with a small, well-worn astrolabe. She adjusted it, checked the settings against the horoscope, and made several more adjustments before she finally nodded.
“I don’t see any obvious flaws in his stars, dame, sieur. I’d warrant him sound to run.”
Eslingen took back the horoscope, and Tibeë caught the dog, turned him squirming onto his back. Sunflower barked and twisted, but made no attempt to bite, and Tibeë set him down again.
“Good boy.” He straightened. “He’s a nice one, Besetje. If you don’t want him—”
“But I do,” Naimi answered. “I like the look of him. These black brindles generally do well for me.”
Tibeë sighed. “All right, then. But if he doesn’t suit—or if Besetje doesn’t suit you, Lieutenant—I’d like a chance at him.”
“Thank you,” Eslingen said. Tibeë let himself out of the pen, expertly keeping the dog back when he would have followed, and Eslingen held out two seillings. “At least let me buy you dinner for your trouble. And you, too, Mistress Herridey.”
They both accepted the coins—Eslingen suppressed a wince, suspecting that dog ownership might become as expensive as Rathe had warned—and Eslingen looked over the fence at the dog now sprawled panting in the dust. “I’m interested in your training him, dame, but I haven’t a lot of coin to spare.”
“Call me Besetje,” Naimi said, absently. Her eyes were on the dog. “I’d be interested in running him in one or two maiden races, and the step-ups if he qualifies. If you wanted to share out the prize money, I’d be willing to adjust my fees accordingly, but you’ll understand I’ll have to have something.”
“Of course,” Eslingen answered.
They haggled for a bit, and settled on three seillings a week through the end of the meet, with the rate to be renegotiated before the twelfth day of the Horse Moon.
“By then,” Naimi said cheerfully, “you’ll have an idea of whether he’s a racer, and you can plan accordingly.”
“And what if he doesn’t race?” Eslingen asked.
The trainer shrugged. “They make good ratters, of course, and nice companions, if you don’t mind a dog with personality. Or this one’s well bred enough that someone might want him for side-stud—that’s a less expensive way of bringing certain characteristics back into a bloodline, breeding with a lesser member of a good line.”
Eslingen nodded, unaccountably reassured, and Naimi slipped into the pen to scoop Sunflower into his basket. He made no more than a cursory if vocal protest, and she lashed the lid down tight.
“I’ll get him settled with the others. I’d like not to run him for a few days yet, until he’s had a chance to settle in and get the scent of everyone, but I’ll send word when I do. If you’d like.”
“That would be kind.”
“Oh, and there’s this.” Naimi rummaged in the pocket beneath her skirt, came out with a wooden disk about the size of a baby’s hand. Eslingen took it, turning it over to see DeVoss’s monogram on one side and her racing seal on the other. “You’re always welcome in the kenne
ls, or at the practice runs. If anyone says anything, show them that and tell them you’re one of DeVoss’s owners.” She gave him a fleeting smile. “But I doubt anyone will ask. Most people know who you are.”
And that was another reason DeVoss was willing to take him on this late in the season, Eslingen knew: he was one of the Sights of Astreiant, a good draw for her dogs and her kennel. He was willing to oblige, not least because it gave him an excuse to hang about in Fairs’ Point, where he might hear something useful about Beier. “If I wanted to see other dogs running?” he began, and Naimi pointed toward the yard’s side entrance.
“The practice yard’s through there. Someone’s bound to be working.”
“Thank you,” Eslingen said, but she’d already turned away, the shaking basket balanced easily on her hip.
Eslingen ducked through the narrow gate, and found himself on the edge of an even busier space. The dogs were at least no louder—he doubted it was physically possible for them to make any more noise than they did already—but there were far more people, trainers in their leathers mixed promiscuously with gorgeously dressed spectators. One of the practice runs was clearly in use, and Eslingen drifted toward it, leaning against the fence of wooden rails that stood outside the woven walls of the run itself. From there, he could see behind the stacked hay bales, where a knot of men and women in sturdy leathers milled about, waiting for the next race. On a platform above and behind them, a pair of apprentice-aged boys were winding a crank—it must be the one that powered the dogs’ lure, Eslingen guessed, remembering the drawings in Beier’s pamphlet. One of the boys stopped winding, and the other snapped on a brake, then both of them raised their arms in signal. The milling trainers straightened, their attention focusing down the length of the course, and Eslingen leaned on the rails to see a trio of dogs being loaded into the central compartments of the row of boxes that stretched across the far end of the course. There were half a dozen low jumps between the boxes and the bales, perhaps ankle height, no real impediment to a running dog.
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