Fairs' Point

by Melissa Scott

The portly man nodded judiciously. “And one might wonder who funded Beier all these years.”

  Caiazzo, Eslingen thought. Hanselin Caiazzo had his fingers in most illegal businesses south of the river, and especially in unlicensed printing. Rathe would definitely want to hear that, if he hadn’t already.

  “We’re done with this hand, Lieutenant,” his assistant said cheerfully, and lifted his left hand from the dye. She arranged it on another of the leather pillows, adjusting it so that his hand was in the sun, and set the other into a fresh bowl of dye. It felt oddly slippery beneath his fingers, and he looked thoughtfully at his finished hand. The woman with the dyed fingers had moved away, and the conversation was turning to other subjects. Still, he thought, it was worth the sacrifice—and it was, after all, the latest fashion.

  The assistant finished her work by rubbing his hands with a sweet-smelling oil that she swore would help preserve the color and incidentally took away the slight acrid scent of the dye. Eslingen paid her, and glanced toward the nearest tower clock. It was the middle of the afternoon, time he headed back toward Point of Dreams—not that he had any lessons to give, but he thought Rathe would be glad to hear these latest rumors.

  “Lieutenant!”

  Eslingen glanced over his shoulder, wondering what he’d forgotten at the barber’s, but to his surprise it was Naimi hurrying up after him.

  “I’m glad I caught you—oh.”

  She was looking at his hands, and Eslingen sighed. “You don’t like the fashion?”

  “I think it’s stupid,” Naimi answered, “but on you it doesn’t look as bad as most.”

  “Fair enough,” Eslingen said, with a smile, and hoped Rathe liked the look better.

  “Sorry,” she said. “DeVoss says my tongue runs away with me.”

  “It’s all right,” Eslingen said. “I don’t mind knowing where I stand.”

  “And in any case, that wasn’t my business with you.” Naimi shook herself, looking much like one of her dogs. “I’ve just got the most recent list from the Racing Secretary, and they’ve added another half dozen maiden races. There’s one I’d like to point Sunflower toward. The entry’s a little higher than the others, but it’s a ladder.”

  “Ladder,” Eslingen repeated.

  “Yes, a ladder—oh. It’s the first in a series of four races for new dogs. The first two finishers of four maiden races are eligible for the next rung of the ladder, and then the top two finishers from that and three other comparable races are eligible for the next race, and so on, until in theory the eight best youngsters of the meet are matched against each other. And you can compound the prize—put your share of the prize money into a side bet on the next race. Plus the final race is the Plat’Avian, and you really do win a silver plate for that one. With a bird on it.”

  Eslingen grinned in spite of himself. “Does Sunflower stand a chance?”

  Naimi shrugged. “As much as any maiden. We won’t know until he’s racing—there are just too many factors, from the crowds to the other dogs to the weather on the day. But I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it was worth the investment.”

  “How much of an investment?”

  “A pillar to enter the first two, and then another pillar for each of the next levels if you enter them together. It’s only a snake for the third race if you just pay that entry fee, but it’s a pillar and a half for the fourth if you qualify.”

  Eslingen took a breath, running through his mental account book. He could do it, just—well, he could certainly pay the fee for the first two rungs, and then he would see. If he didn’t compound the prize, presumably that would cover the entry as well. “All right,” he said. “Why not?”

  “Oh, good.” Naimi gave him a brilliant smile. “I’ll put his name in, then. The first fee will be due at the end of the week.”

  “I’ll bring it,” Eslingen said.

  “He has a decent chance,” Naimi said. “As good as many.”

  And what Rathe would say to his staking a pillar of good money on “as good as many” Eslingen didn’t really want to know. Before he could say anything, however, a voice called from behind him.

  “You! Naimi, or whatever you call yourself! I want a word with you.”

  For a second, Eslingen thought Naimi was going to turn and flee, but she gathered herself with an effort. “What do you want?” Her voice was high and thin with nerves.

  Eslingen turned, glad of the weight of his knife at his hip, and blinked as he recognized first the speaker’s uniform and then the speaker: Voillemin again. “Here, now,” he began, and Voillemin pointed his truncheon at him.

  “This is none of your affair, vaan Esling. Keep your nose out of it.”

  “She’s my trainer,” Eslingen said, and kept his voice mild only with an effort.

  Voillemin ignored him, focussing his attention on Naimi. “I’ve just found out who you are, and I won’t have it. Tell your kinswomen from me, leave the Fair, or you’ll all face the consequences.”

  Naimi’s face crumpled. “I don’t—”

  “You’re a Quentier, Besetje Quentier, a born pickpocket and thief.”

  “I’m a trainer. My family renounced me, that’s why I changed my name. Ask DeVoss!”

  “Your family has targeted the Fair,” Voillemin said. “I have proof of that, and I have proof that you are working for them—”

  “I am not!”

  “And if you do not tell them to leave the Fair, I will call points on the lot of you, and I will see your kinswomen hang. And you, Quentier, or whatever you call yourself, you will never work with another dog again.”

  “My family is not involved!” Naimi turned on her heel and ran, as fast as any of her dogs.

  Voillemin swore and started after her, but Eslingen stepped in front of him.

  “I take it very ill that you’re upsetting my trainer.”

  Voillemin lifted his hands to shove Eslingen out of the way, and stopped himself with an effort that made him shudder. “This is points’ business, vaan Esling—Fairs’ Point’s business. Stay out of it, or I’ll have you for interference.”

  Eslingen lifted his hands and stepped aside. As he’d expected, Naimi was out of sight, vanished into the maze of kennels and temporary buildings. Voillemin swore under his breath, and started after her. Eslingen watched him until he was sure the pointsman had lost the trail, then turned away, frowning. This was something else Rathe needed to know.

  Eslingen arranged his route to pass by Wicked’s on his way back to Point of Dreams, both in the hope that Rathe might be there, and in the certainty that a bottle of Wicked’s better wine could only sweeten the news he had to share. It was busy, at the end of the working day; he didn’t see Rathe in the main room, and elbowed his way to the serving bar, intending to buy wine and perhaps a pie to take home. To his surprise, however, it was Wicked herself who greeted him, pointing her chin toward the side room.

  “Your leman’s here already, and you’d save me some work if you’d take him his bottle. The same for you?”

  Eslingen nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Tell him I’ll bring his dinner when I can, and a plate for you as well.”

  Eslingen took the pint bottles and the stack of glazed cups and went where she’d pointed, hoping he wasn’t interrupting anything. Not that he distrusted Rathe, but the man did business at all hours, and the last thing he wanted was to interfere with points work.

  Rathe was alone at a corner table, so deep in the shadows that it took a moment for Eslingen to find him, but his smile was genuinely welcoming.

  “What, you’re serving tables now?”

  “Wicked thought you might like your wine while it was cold.” Eslingen set the bottles on the table. “I hoped I might find you here—if you’re not working.”

  Rathe shook his head. “I’m done, or at least until they find me, which I hope isn’t until tomorrow. I ordered enough for two, thought I’d bring it home for you.”

  “Thanks.” Eslingen poured h
imself a glass of his own wine, and they touched glasses. “Hard day?”

  “Not the best. I’ve been warned off Fairs’ Point—Claes told me explicitly that I’m not welcome there.”

  “Damn.”

  Rathe sighed and took another drink of his wine. “To be fair, he told me I didn’t have his permission to look into a case that is properly Fairs’ Point’s business—”

  “I thought Corsten killed himself.”

  “This is another matter—DeVoss has lost a boxholder.”

  “I heard.”

  “Right, of course you have.” Rathe gave a wry smile. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard anything that would change Claes’s mind.”

  Eslingen shook his head. “Sadly, no. Just more talk about Beier, and then that ass Voillemin accused Besetje of being in league with her family, who he claimed are the pickpockets plaguing the meet.”

  Rathe swore. “How did Besetje handle it? Is she all right?”

  “She denied it and ran off,” Eslingen said. “I’d have gone after her, but I was busy obstructing justice. For which you can call the point on me, if you’d like.”

  A quick, tired smile flickered across Rathe’s face. “I’ll hold that for later. He wasn’t serious.”

  “Promises, promises. And yes, he was.”

  “Ass.” Rathe shook his head. “Voillemin, I mean.”

  “I did assume.”

  Rathe gave another wry smile. “So he really thinks the Quentiers are the pickpockets?”

  “So he says.”

  “Gods. I’ll have to warn Estel. Though she probably wouldn’t mind seeing the point called on Idomey…”

  “There’s more,” Eslingen said, and broke off as one of the potboys appeared with a tray piled with dishes. Fried noodles with garlic and onions and shreds of chicken and pickled lemon, a dish of olives and another of cheese, and a pile of crispbread to go with it: he was hungrier than he had realized, and swallowed hard. “That all looks good.”

  “I was going to bring half of it home,” Rathe said again. He filled plates for both of them, and Eslingen broke off a piece of the crispbread.

  “That is good.” He gave Rathe a quick glance. “And that’s not all I heard.”

  “Right, you said—Beier?”

  “Yes. I heard a couple more stories while I was having my hands done.” Eslingen held up his free hand, the blue-black dye a stark contrast with his fair skin.

  “Very fashionable,” Rathe said. “Go on.”

  “Some of the other customers were talking.” Eslingen recounted the various theories, saw Rathe’s eyebrows rise as his finished.

  “That’s an interesting tale about a knife and a magist.”

  “I thought so. Though the trainer swore she’d spoken to Fairs’ Point.”

  “I don’t suppose you know her name?”

  Eslingen shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “She probably did, though.” Rathe sighed. “And that makes it Fairs’ Point’s business again, not mine. Still—it’s so definite, that’s the thing. A knife and a magist. Why would you need both?”

  “Beier was University-trained,” Eslingen said. “Presumably he has some skills.”

  “He’s an astrologer,” Rathe answered. “That doesn’t necessarily help much if you’re set upon in the streets.”

  Eslingen grinned. “Presumably it helps you know when not to be in the streets?”

  “One would hope.” Rathe shook his head. “I suppose it might pay me to have a word with Caiazzo, too. Assuming I can find an excuse that isn’t poaching on Fairs’ cases. I know I’ve asked you before, but—keep your ears open, will you? I don’t much like the sound of any of this.”

  “Of course I will,” Eslingen answered, and tried not to think that it might make Rathe think more kindly of Coindarel’s offer.

  Chapter Six

  “I think this one’s yours,” Trijn said.

  Rathe looked up warily, and she dropped a half-sheet of paper on top of the pile already awaiting his review. He recognized Falasca’s cramped hand, and looked back at Trijn. “Surely it goes to the person who took the complaint.”

  “Not this time.” Trijn pulled over the nearest stool and settled herself opposite him, resting her elbows on the tabletop. “You know the man.”

  Rathe glanced at the paper, and shook his head. “I don’t know anyone named Guittard—”

  Trijn made an impatient noise, and tapped the paper. “Here.”

  The name seemed to jump out at him, and Rathe swore. Caiazzo. Of course it would be Caiazzo, especially after he’d been talking about him with Eslingen the night before. “I’m not exactly on terms with him, boss.”

  Trijn snorted. “Since you stole his knife? I’m sure he’s forgiven you by now.”

  “What does Caiazzo have to do with this Guittard?”

  “It’s about Beier,” Trijn said. “Guittard says he’s the father of her child—”

  “Surely not,” Rathe said, in spite of himself.

  “Well, I wouldn’t claim him,” Trijn said. “But she does. Some of Beier’s friends came to her, seeing as Fairs’ Point hasn’t done much bar sending out a circular, and she feels she has an obligation.”

  Rathe skimmed through Falasca’s notes, biting back an oath. “And she lives in Point of Dreams, so she quite properly comes to us.”

  “And she’s named Caiazzo as a man who might know something,” Trijn said.

  “Lovely,” Rathe said.

  “Has to be looked into,” Trijn said. “Take a low-flyer if you need.”

  Rathe chose to walk instead, a petty act of defiance that he was regretting by the time he reached Customs Point. It was cloudy, the air sticky with unfallen rain, and the sweat was crawling down his back by the time he reached Caiazzo’s door. The house was neither the best on the street nor the worst; it had a quiet elegance and sturdy locks, though it would take a brazen thief indeed to invade Caiazzo’s property.

  The doormaid admitted him with a sort of reproachful dignity, an attitude echoed by the young woman with the dyed fingers who escorted him to Caiazzo’s workroom at the end of the second-floor gallery. It showed signs of a hasty tidying, ledgers slammed shut along the broad counter and papers tucked away, but Caiazzo himself seemed largely undisturbed.

  “What in Tyrseis’s name are you doing here?” he asked. “I’ve nothing to do with Dreams.”

  At the moment it was true, at least as far as Rathe knew, and he couldn’t help feeling a touch of sympathy. “I’m not strictly here for you,” he said. “Or at least only by way of needing your testimony.”

  Caiazzo’s black eyebrows rose at that. “You should know me better.”

  “I’ve a missing man,” Rathe said. It seemed as though he was saying that far too often these days. “And the woman who says he’s father to her daughter says you were his last employer.”

  “Beier?”

  Rathe nodded.

  “I thought that was Fairs’ Point’s business.”

  Rathe shrugged. “Dame Guittard has made it ours.”

  “Hard to believe anyone would choose him for a sire,” Caiazzo said.

  Rathe grinned in spite of himself. “Well, no, but that’s not our business, is it?”

  “It’s your business if you want to cross Fairs’ Point, not mine.” Caiazzo’s smile showed teeth.

  “Dame Guittard says it was your coin that backed him these last few seasons,” Rathe said, “and that Beier told her you were backing him again.”

  “I did, and I was,” Caiazzo answered promptly. “It’s always been a good investment, not to mention perfectly legal and aboveboard. But he’s not filled his part of the bargain, and my people can’t find him, either.”

  Rathe looked up at that. “You told Claes, I assume?”

  “I told the man he sent,” Caiazzo answered. “I rather assumed they didn’t want him found.”

  That was possible, Rathe thought, and even from an innocent motive. Beier was a known troublemaker, and if he
wanted to absent himself, no one at Fairs’ Point was likely to grieve. But if Caiazzo couldn’t find him, that was another matter entirely. “Why would he miss the meet?”

  “I was assuming it was spite,” Caiazzo said. “Unlike the dogs, he doesn’t have the sense not to bite the hand that feeds him.”

  “And now?”

  Caiazzo shrugged. “If I had known anyone claimed him, I’d have looked there. He’s not in his usual haunts. I even made inquiries at the University.”

  “What was he supposed to do for you?” Rathe asked

  “The usual. Same as the last three years. Write a series of pamphlet commentaries on the upcoming and ongoing race meeting.”

  “Horoscopes?”

  “No horoscopes, not of dogs, or trainers, or Mama Moon herself,” Caiazzo said virtuously. “That would be illegal. I’m surprised you don’t know that, Adjunct Point.”

  Rathe grinned. “And yet last year Beier published three horoscopes—that we know of—and paid the fines on all of them.”

  “But I didn’t pay him for that,” Caiazzo answered. “He did that on his own. It’s not worth my time.”

  “But it was worth his.”

  “His wants are simpler,” Caiazzo said, in dulcet tones.

  Rathe noted the present tense. Caiazzo seemed to be operating on the assumption that Beier was still alive—unless, of course, he was using it deliberately to make them think he believed Beier wasn’t dead. It was always hard to tell Caiazzo’s real intentions. “You said spite. What did he have to be spiteful about?”

  “This is Beier we’re talking about,” Caiazzo answered. “He bites for the fun of it.”

  That was true enough, but, watching him, Rathe thought he’d missed something. “And he hasn’t contacted you at all this race season?”

  Caiazzo hesitated, just for an instant, and Rathe shook his head.

  “Come on, Hanse. As you said, it’s not your problem.”

  “Not that you or the good Surintendant wouldn’t like to make it mine,” Caiazzo said.

  “You know me better than that,” Rathe said. He couldn’t promise that the Surintendant wouldn’t try to make this Caiazzo’s business, and the merchant knew better than to push the question.