Fairs' Point (12 page)

He heard footsteps on the stairs, and looked up, unsurprised to see Trijn scowling at him.

“You’ve read it, then? Good. I’d like a word with you.”

“
Of course.” Rathe followed her into her workroom, and settled himself at her gesture on the visitor’s chair. “It’s an odd business.”

Trijn nodded, busy refilling her pipe.
“It is that.”

“
They haven’t taken a single pickpocket?”

“
So Claes says.”

Rathe eyed her warily, wondering exactly what she was tr
ying to imply. “It’s odd they’re going for strongboxes, too.”

“
A bit.” Trijn sucked noisily on her pipe, then released a cloud of smoke and a satisfied sigh. “And before you ask, I think Guillen Claes is an honest man, and, more to the point, not such a fool as to take fees that would lower his standing with the businesswomen of his district. There are others at Fairs’ Point, however…”

“
Voillemin,” Rathe said.

“
I didn’t say it, and I can’t say it.”

But we both know who you mean
.
Rathe nodded. “Understood, Chief.”

“
But before I say there’s nothing in it for us to worry about, I want you to have a chat with your friends the Quentiers. Since you’re close enough to be called to their councils.”

Rathe sighed.
“That’s a somewhat different matter. There was a daughter of the family, with the worst possible stars for a pickpocket and no taste for the trade. I was one of three or four who spoke for her.”

“
And you’re still speaking for her,” Trijn said.

“
Only to certify she’s still no pickpocket.”

“
What does she do?”

Rathe winced.
“She’s a dog trainer. Maewes DeVoss’s assistant.”

“
Is she, now?” Trijn’s eyes brightened, and Rathe shook his head.

“
She’s an honest woman—they both are, she and DeVoss.”

“
I know DeVoss.” Trijn shook her head. “All right, we’ll leave that, then. But I do want you to talk to the Quentiers. Unofficially, of course.”

Not that there was anything official that he could say, nor the slightest chance that any of the Quentiers would be rece
ptive to an official approach. And if there was anything going on, he’d put his money on Voillemin’s being involved. “Yes, Chief.”

Rathe took himself out of the station as the clock stuck ten, ignoring Sohier’s wistful stare and the look of reproach from the junior adjunct. It was a clear day, and warm; by the time he’d reached the Pantheon, the winter-sun was well up, and he’d walked off the worst of his discontent. The square surrounding the temple was already busy, printers crying their wares from shopfronts and carts, and a fiddler scraped an accompaniment for a pair of singers between two of the larger shops while a leather-aproned apprentice hawked copies of their song. A good dozen horses were being walked in the shade of the square’s far side, sturdy beasts with travel-stained harness, journeymen chatting while their mistresses visited the money-changers in the Aretoneia. Within the Pantheon itself, the air was rich with incense, thin trails of smoke rising up through the central oculus from the banks of sand before the statues of the various gods. City merchants strolled in the gallery, skirts held up fastidiously against the dust that blew in from the square in spite of the best efforts of the apprentices; their journeymen and secretaries trailed them, tablets half-hidden in their hands, waiting to record the eventual agreements. In the shadowed center, a few well-dressed women strolled between the dedication pillars and the tall All-gods stele in its bed of sand. Offering-sellers circulated quietly, baskets of tapers and fingerling sticks of incense tucked under their arms. Rathe beckoned the closest, exchanged a demming for a stick of plain musk, and lit it at the nearest taper. He settled it in the sand around the central stele, its smoke winding up to join the others’, and stood for a moment as though in meditation, surveying the walking women.

He knew all of them by sight, though most of them were either clever enough or rich enough—or both—to avoid the points’ atte
ntion: this was where Astreiant’s receivers of stolen goods did most of their business, and today was no different from the usual. There was Barbe Millin, leaning gently on a cane that Rathe knew from bitter experience was weighted with lead, her gray hair tucked up beneath a respectable cap and her apple-cheeks pink from the heat. She dealt primarily in linens and laces, while her man handled metal braid. Fery Jolivet was dancing attendance on Agne Ostalas, severe in summer gray—a conjunction he would add to the daybook once he returned to the station. If those two were working together, it didn’t bode well for the law; if they didn’t generally deal in soft goods, Rathe thought, he’d look to them to have funded Claes’s pickpockets. Hillier Dorat’s oldest daughter, Amiel, wove her way between the pillars, brighter than a Silklands bird in azure silk and a flame-colored busk and cuffs. She saw him, though, and changed her course, crossing back out into the gallery where the respectable brokers did their business. Jolivet looked up at the sudden movement, as did Millin, and Rathe tipped his cap generally and took himself off again. The Quentiers generally handled their own receiving, in any case, but sometimes they dealt with Millin when they had something more valuable than usual to sell.

He worked his way through a series of taverns along the border of the Temple Fair and the University quarter where he knew var
ious of the Quentiers to gather, letting himself be seen on the theory that most of the women were clever enough to hear he was looking for them, and want to know why. Still, the University’s clock was striking half-past two by the time he stopped on the University’s southern edge to buy a pie and a pint of ale. He took it into the empty tavern garden and settled himself in the shade opposite a climbing rose that was already spreading flowers and perfume across the narrow space, and stretched his legs into the sunlight. If he didn’t find one of them soon, he’d need to head back to Dreams, and try again another day.

Something moved in the tavern door, and he looked up to see LaSier come squinting out into the sunlight. She was dressed to her own taste today, a scarlet skirt topped with a block-printed bodice embroidered in black and gold, her hair done in clubbed coils b
eneath last summer’s fashionable cap, and he nodded a greeting.

“
Not working today?”

LaSier smiled, and seated herself next to him on the bench. One of the tavern runners appeared with a mug for her, and she took it with a nod of thanks. The tips of her fingers were dyed a rich red-brown, the latest fashion in Dreams, emphasizing the strength and elegance of her long hands.
“I heard you were looking for—me, or just any of us?”

“
I was hoping to find you,” Rathe answered honestly, and was rewarded by a wider grin.

“
Well, here I am. Is it Besetje?”

Rathe shook his head.
“She’s well, I hope?”

“
So far. I think we’ve solved that problem.”

And scotched Idomey’s attempt to take over, Rathe thought, reading the look of satisfaction on her face.
“We’ve had a circular at Point of Dreams.”

“
I imagine you get a few of those.”

“
This one might be a bit more interesting to you than the usual.”

“
I’m listening.” LaSier took a long pull of her drink, but Rathe thought her eyes were wary.

“
Guillen Claes in Fairs’ Point says he has a new gang of pickpockets troubling the meet—pickpockets and cutpurses both, not to mention someone who’s putting her hands in the shopkeepers’ strongboxes.”

“
That’s none of mine,” LaSier said. “We don’t do indoor work.”

She didn’t deny the other, Rathe noted, but he let that pass for the moment.
“Someone is.”

“
You can’t expect I’d tell you, even if I knew. Which I don’t.”

“
But it’s not your lot.”

LaSier shook her head.
“Too much chance of getting caught, no matter how good you are. And what sort of shopkeeper doesn’t lock her box, I ask you?”

“
I gather the coin was taken during working hours,” Rathe said.

“
Then question the clerks and prentices,” LaSier retorted. “Honestly, Nico, a woman would have to be mad to try to snatch coin like that during working hours. Too many people in and out of the shop, or you’d need too many eyes to warn you, helpers to carry the coin away.”

“
What about a distraction?” Rathe asked. He thought he knew the answer, and wasn’t surprised when she gave him a scornful look.

“
Oh, you could do that once and get away with it. Maybe. More likely the shopkeeper would guess what you were about, and even if you got away, she’d realize afterward and give your likeness to the points.” She tipped her head to one side. “Unless your woman’s fee’d the points.”

“
Claes is an honest man,” Rathe said, unhappily aware that he was quoting Trijn. “He wouldn’t take a fee for that.”

“
It’s not the chief I’d give a fee to,” LaSier said.

No, you’d fee the adjunct, or at worst one of the seniors
.
Rathe shook his head. Voillemin was incompetent, but he wasn’t actively dishonest; he might wink at misbehavior by his betters, but he wouldn’t take a fee to let a gang walk free in his district. “Fairs is no worse than most.”

“
If you say so.” LaSier shrugged, the sunlight gleaming on the gilding that patterned her scarlet shoes. “Very well, then, if they’ve not been fee’d to look the other way, then look to the prentices and the clerks. They’re the ones best placed to steal from a strongbox.”

Rathe nodded.
“What about the rest?”

LaSier hesitated.
“Generally we don’t work the races, or most of us don’t, because of Besetje. Or at least not this early in the meet. I won’t deny, it’s a hard thing to walk away from the finals, with all those crowds and all those people with money—but there’s not so much profit to be earned in the early days to make it worthwhile.”

“
Apparently there’s enough to make it worth it for someone.” Rathe drained the last of his ale and brushed the crumbs from his lap.

“
Time are—uncertain,” LaSier said. “With all this talk of the new Guard and all. There’s those who think it’s better to take what we can when we can, and not worry about the long term.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Which you know isn’t Estel’s way.”

“
I do,” Rathe said. “So if there are Quentiers at the New Fair they’re not there with Estel’s blessing?”

“
Not at this time of year.” LaSier took another long drink and set her mug down with a satisfied sigh.

Which meant they would be members of Idomey’s faction, and LaSier and her kin wouldn’t be sorry to see them arrested. It was about what he expected, and Rathe nodded.

“I’m glad to have had this chat,” LaSier said. “I think it’s clarified matters a bit for both of us. And I’m very grateful for the drink.”

She rose in a flurry of skirts, leaving Rathe biting his tongue to keep from calling after her. Trijn would pay—and it was worth the minor expense regardless—but he couldn’t help swearing as he made his way into the tavern.

Eslingen leaned on the railing beside the training track, watching as the boxholders lifted shaking baskets over the wicker fence. Su
nflower was in one of them, ready for a first attempt at starting from a box. Besetje had run him over the jumps already, pronounced him sound and in good form, and now it was a matter of teaching him how to run from the boxes. The other four dogs were all experienced veterans—one was DeVoss’s old favorite, Besetje had said, retired now but still good as a trainer; the others were on the verge of retirement, focused professionals unlikely to savage a young dog even if it tried to start a fight. Still, Eslingen couldn’t help being a little nervous. Suppose Sunflower proved intransigent, unable to handle the boxes? He’d seen that happen a few days before, an otherwise promising young dog washed out because it couldn’t bear the confinement even for the few moments it took to ready the other dogs.

The boxholders were beginning their work, scooping the dogs from their baskets and into the boxes with quick, efficient mov
ements. The barking redoubled, and more than a few patrons drifted toward the track, alerted of the impending run. Besetje herself slipped Sunflower from his basket, changing holds as he twisted and barked, and tucked him neatly into the last of the starting boxes. He was on the end, as she had promised—the easiest place to start for a new dog, with only one neighbor to distract him. She closed the lid and lifted her hand, joining the other boxholders, and the starter dropped her handkerchief. The boxes’ fronts flipped up, and the lure bounced temptingly across the dusty track, flipped up and over the first jump. Sunflower burst out of the box, and checked, startled, only to catch sight of the other dogs. He scrambled after them, short legs churning, and caught the pack just as they reached the hay bales at the end of the track. Behind the bales, more boxholders scrambled to corral the dogs, and Eslingen allowed himself a sigh. It was hard to tell, but he couldn’t find last place very encouraging.

Besetje hurried past him, basket in hand, and retrieved the dog from the grinning holder. She let him lick her face between barks, then tucked him back into the basket and came to join Eslingen, the basket balanced easily on her hip in spite of its wiggling.

“Not bad,” she said.

“
Not good, either?” Eslingen cocked his head.

“
Oh, no, that was good for a first time. He’s not afraid of the box, and he didn’t want to fight the other dogs, that’s all good.”

“
He didn’t catch them.”

“
He had a slow start,” Besetje said. “Only to be expected, his first time.”

“
And he didn’t seem all that eager to push his way through at the end.”

“
Too early to tell that,” Besetje said briskly. “Here, walk with me, I’d like to get him back to his kennel so he can get his treats.”

Eslingen fell into step obediently, following her through the alley between a tavern and a battered lodging-house, then into the sha
dows of DeVoss’s kennel. Besetje let herself in to the straw-covered cool-down pen, and opened the basket. Sunflower popped out, looking none the worse for his adventures, and ran in barking circles for a moment before he skidded to a stop at her ankles. He sat, tongue unfurling from his muzzle, and looked up expectantly.

“
Good boy,” she said, and produced a leather sausage from a pocket of her apron. She dangled it over him, and he rose instantly to his hind feet, dancing and yipping, before she tossed it to the corner of the pen. He darted after it, dug frantically in the straw, then returned to drop it at her feet. Besetje tossed it again, then came to lean against the wall of the pen at Eslingen’s side. “I’ll try him again tomorrow, probably a couple of times, and see how he reacts. Once he’s used to starting, then I’ll worry about his finish. Though most dogs figure that out on their own.”

Eslingen nodded, reassured, but before he could say anything, DeVoss’s voice rose from the feed room at the end of the row of kennels.

“Hare and Hound, what do you mean, you can’t do anything? What do we pay our fees for, then, hey? What bloody use are you?”

Someone answered, a man’s voice, too low to make out the words, and Besetje ducked her head as though she was the one b
eing yelled at. DeVoss answered, more quietly, but the feed-room door opened just in time for Eslingen to catch her last words.

“
— prove it in court, I will.”

Eslingen glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a stranger walking away—no, not a stranger, a man in a pointsman’s jerkin and an expensive hat, and he knew that walk from somewhere. DeVoss stood glaring after him for a moment, then retreated to the feed room, slamming the door loudly enough to set all the dogs barking.

“What in Seidos’s name?” Eslingen began, and Besetje gave him a wincing look.

“
We’ve lost a boxholder. Well, I mean, that’s not so odd, they leave without notice all the time, but Poirel has money owed him. A week’s wages! He’s been gone three days, and the points won’t do anything.”

“
He’s not gone drinking, I suppose,” Eslingen said cautiously. One thing he’d noticed about the boxholders was that most of them smelled of beer and strong liquor at all hours of the day. Not precisely a job for a sober man: that was the comment he’d heard more than once, though he had to admit that none of DeVoss’s people seemed to be drunk on the job.

“
He’d need his pay for that, wouldn’t he?” Besetje answered. “And Poirel’s always been reliable. I’d have had him starting Sunflower if he was here.” As if hearing his name, Sunflower skidded to a stop at her feet, and she stooped to collect him. “Best get him watered and back to his kennel.”

Eslingen held the gate for her as she slipped Sunflower neatly i
nto his space. They waited while the dog drank, then Besetje fetched a can from the butt at the end of the row and refilled the low trough.

“
I’ll feed him in a bit,” she said thoughtfully. “He’s done well.”

Eslingen glanced back at the feed room.
“Why won’t the points do anything?”

Besetje looked away.
“I don’t know.”

“
If DeVoss fee’d them—”

“
They say they don’t have time to deal with boxholders who can’t be bothered to give notice,” Besetje said, with sudden bitterness. “Not with all their other important business. But Poirel wouldn’t leave during the meet—it’s the best money of the year—and he certainly wouldn’t leave his pay behind.”

“
That doesn’t make sense,” Eslingen agreed.

“
And Voillemin, he’s the adjunct here, he thinks we’re all dirt anyway.”

Voillemin. Eslingen closed his mouth over an automatic curse. He remembered Voillemin from the Midwinter masque, the man who’d very nearly destroyed the entire investigation through his unwillingness to see beyond the marks of class and status. The R
egents had demoted him to Fairs’ Point in the aftermath, and it seemed as though it hadn’t taught him anything.

“
I wish we could bring Nico in,” Besetje went on, “but DeVoss says he hasn’t any jurisdiction. But at least he’d listen.”

Eslingen sighed.
“If you’d like,” he offered, “I’ll have a quiet word with him. Not that he’ll be able to take the case, but just so that someone knows.”

“
I’d like that,” Besetje said. “Poirel was good with the dogs.”

The case clock in the main room was striking two by the time Rathe was able to convince the last of the would-be book-writers that the bond was non-negotiable and out of his hands. It had involved much repetition of bot
h
I kno
w
an
d
It’s not aimed at you, dame
,
accompanied by pointing to the Regents’ seal on the decree, still pinned prominently to the wall. He had managed only a hunk of bread and cheese for his breakfast, too, and had been uncomfortably aware of his stomach growling all through the last conversation. In the privacy of his workroom, he poured himself a cup of tea, downed it quickly while he debated whether to send a runner for the day’s ordinary or if he should make his escape while he could. Before he could make up his mind, however, Sohier tapped at the door.

“
If you have a moment, boss?”

Rathe suppressed a groan.
“Of course.”

Sohier came in, closing the door behind her, and Rathe said.

“What’s the problem?”

Sohier shifted her feet like a schoolgirl caught without her books.
“It’s about this bond.”

Rathe waited.
“Yes?”

“
How much are we expected to enforce this? I mean, yes, it’s the law, but…”

“
Why are you asking?” Rathe could guess, but he thought it was better to have it spelled out.

“
Well, see…” Sohier tugged her ribboned lovelock, looking more than ever like a schoolgirl. “There are a lot of women in Dreams who run a book for the races and have for years. Only this year, most of them don’t have the money for the bond, but they need to write the book regardless. So they’ve been asking, woman-to-woman, are we going to enforce this?”

“
We have to,” Rathe said, when she didn’t seem inclined to continue.

“
You know what I mean. Are we going to be looking for unlicensed book-writers, or can they just be discreet.”

Rathe poured them each a cup of tea, marshaling his thoughts.
“They’re not at the top of my list,” he said at last, “nor I imagine are they for anyone. Except maybe Fairs’ Point, but I can’t speak for them. But you know that if someone does make a complaint, we’ll have to do something about it.”

“
That’s—that leaves the door open for anyone with a grudge,” Sohier said.

Rathe gave a sour smile.
“And if I was a woman with enemies, I wouldn’t write a book this season.”

Sohier swore under her breath, and Rathe nodded in agreement.

“Mind you, the chief hasn’t ruled on the matter, and I doubt she will. It’s the last thing she wants to have to notice. But the fact remains, we’ll have to enforce it if someone brings a violation to our attention.”

“
Right, boss, I understand.”

“
No one wants to be asked,” Rathe said. “But if we are—”

He let the words hang, and Sohier sighed.
“I know. It’s the law we have.” She hesitated. “You don’t suppose this is supposed to make this City Guard look good?”

Rathe blinked. It wasn’t something he’d considered, but there was a nasty sneakiness to it that spoke of the Regents. He shook his head, as much to convince himself as Sohier.
“They’re not that subtle.”

“
If you say so, boss.” She let herself out of the workroom, and Rathe drained the last of his tea. He’d take his lunch out, he decided, and see if he couldn’t achieve a few moments’ peace and quiet. He made his way down to the main room, stopping only long enough to be sure that the daybook contained nothing urgent, then ducked out before anyone could think of anything more to ask him. He glanced over his shoulder as he reached the courtyard gate, and nearly ran into the woman coming the other way. He caught the gate by reflex, and just managed to keep it from bouncing back into her.

“
Beg pardon, dame,” he began, and only then recognized DeVoss.

She gave him a bitter look.
“On your way someplace important, I make no doubt.”

“
You were looking for me,” Rathe said, with resignation, and she nodded. “And it’s important, or you’d be at Fairs’ Point, not here. Dame, I’ve no wish to put you off, but I’m dying for my lunch. If you’d join me and talk there, I’d be in your debt.”