Fairs' Point (39 page)

“
Looks like a cow,” Eslingen said, at Rathe’s lifted eyebrows, and the pointsman nodded.

“
And then there’s Sieur Sasha,” Naimi went on. “I don’t know if you’ve seen him? Big black dog, heavy shoulders? He’s old for the class, born at the start of Serpens. He’s the one I’m worried about, truth be told.”

Eslingen frowned, trying to remember. Yes, there had been a black dog in one of the other heats; a bruiser of a dog that bulled his way over two smaller dogs to take the prize.
“I think I know him.”

“
But our boy has a chance.” Naimi looked down at him with a fond smile. “Don’t you, clever puppy?”

Sunflower’s head snapped up and he raced across to her, going up on his hind legs in hopes of a treat. When none was forthco
ming, he barked sharply and wheeled away again, quartering the pen in search of crumbs. Naimi looked over her shoulder, and beckoned to the waiting boxholder.

“
It’s time. Let’s go.”

Eslingen obligingly dangled the toy for Sunflower to leap at, and when he was sufficiently excited, Naimi scooped him up and tucked him into his basket. The dogs around them were louder than ever, and she had to raise her voice to be heard over the comm
otion.

“
There’s no point in coming to the start with me. I’ve got the token, and you’ll never get a decent spot on the fence if you do.”

“
If you’re sure,” Eslingen said, and she nodded.

“
Good luck, then,” Rathe said, and Eslingen reached out to pet the basket.

“
Run well,” he said, and felt himself blush. Naimi merely nodded, the words perfectly reasonable to her, and he and Rathe turned toward the kennel doors.

As Naimi had predicted, the track was already crowded, and it took a certain effort combined with a few discreet elbows to win them a place at the fence. He was reasonably sure that Rathe wouldn’t approve, but he had some hope that the other hadn’t n
oticed, and planted himself against the wooden rails in the stance of a man who didn’t intend to be moved. Rathe edged in at his shoulder, shaking his head.

“
You got good odds. The best I’m hearing now it three-to-two, and the woman over there’s crying two-to-one.”

“
I think he’s good.” Eslingen had lost count of the amount of money he had riding on the race, between the turned-back prize money and his own bets, and that was far from a comfortable feeling. “Now let’s hope he’s lucky.”

The trainers were all present, and the steward raised the pennant for a pending race. Sunflower had drawn the second box, Eslingen saw with a grimace. The outer boxes tended to be slower, offered less of a direct line over the jumps and into the finish. Worse luck, Moo and Sieur Sasha had drawn the middle boxes, the spotted dog wriggling and yelping as he was lowered into place, Sieur Sasha bunching up like a guard dog, the muscles heavy under his sleek coat. It took a bit longer than usual to get them all settled, and E
slingen swore under his breath. It did no one any good to wait, and least of all an inexperienced dog. But then at last the boxes were all closed and the steward raised her handkerchief.

It fell, and the boxes dropped open, the dogs leaping out in an u
ntidy pack. Moo lurched sideways at the first jump, knocking Sunflower momentarily off his stride, and Rathe swore as a red bitch grabbed the lead. Sunflower recovered quickly, though, and by the third jump he was shoulder to shoulder again with Moo. The red bitch was tiring, and Sieur Sasha surged past her, thrusting to a half-body lead over the other dogs. But he’d misjudged the next jump by a hair, had to take a short step to go over it cleanly, and Moo and Sunflower passed him in the air. Sunflower shoved a nose in front, lost it at the next jump, but landed better than Moo, putting the spotted dog half a length behind.

“
Come on,” Eslingen said. “Come on—”

Sunflower lengthened his stride, caught up with Sieur Sasha at the finish and shouldered through it with him. The crowd cheered, but Eslingen fixed his eye on the board above the finish.

“I can’t tell,” Rathe said. “They went through together—”

“
Nose and nose,” someone else said, and a woman shook her head.

“
I don’t envy the stewards calling that one.”

Moo’s name appeared in the third place slot, no surprise and no controversy, but no other names appeared. Eslingen looked at Rathe, who shrugged.

“I’ve no idea.”

“
We need to get back to the start. If there’s any question—I need to be there.” He pushed his way through the surging crowd, most of them arguing now whether there would be a decision or a run-off, and fought his way to the rail by the starting pen. Naimi came to join him, her arms folded tight across her chest.

“
The stewards are calling it,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise. “If it’s too close, they’ll run them again, and there will be an extra prize for that—”

Her words were drowned in a sudden roar, and Eslingen craned his neck to see. The names were on the board at last: Sieur Sasha the winner, Sunflower in second.

“I don’t believe it,” Rathe said. “How could anyone tell?”

For a brief moment, Naimi looked as though she was going to cry, and then she shook herself like one of her own dogs.
“Second is good money, especially with the turn-back. And it’s a strong year for maidens. We’ll do well with him.”

Second. She was right about the money, and about the prestige, but still
…he did hate losing. Eslingen forced a smile of his own. “You did well by him, especially getting him so late. If you’ll keep him—well, I can’t wait to see what he does the next meet.”

“
There should have been a run-off,” someone said behind him. Eslingen glanced back, saw DeVoss shouldering her way through the crowd. “Nadisse, why no run-off?”

The steward gave her a guarded look.
“The stewards’ decision is final, you know that, Maewes.”

“
No one could see clearly which dog finished first,” DeVoss said. “I was there, I saw it myself. Hare and Hound, I’ve seen you grant a second race when everyone could see who’d won.”

“
The decision is final,” the steward repeated. She lowered her voice. “Maewes, we’re under orders to keep the races running on schedule. There’s no time for run-offs, not today. And it was clear. If it weren’t your assistant, you’d see it.”

They moved on, and Naimi shook her head.
“That was kind of DeVoss. But it doesn’t matter. Second is still good.”

“
It is,” Eslingen said. “Besetje. I think—there’s a chance there’s going to be trouble when they give out the prizes. Do me a favor: don’t bring Sunflower.”

Naimi caught her breath.
“What kind of trouble?”

“
I don’t know,” Eslingen said, with a guilty blush, “but I don’t think it’s going to be safe.”

“
All right.” Naimi gave him a challenging look. “But—I’m going to tell the other trainers.”

“
Go ahead,” Eslingen answered. “It’s better for everyone that way.”

She nodded and hurried away. Eslingen watched her and the dog disappear into the crowd, and Rathe caught his sleeve.
“Did you hear that?”

“
DeVoss?” Eslingen nodded. “But it’s the Racing Secretary who gives those orders—”

“
At the Patent Administrator’s behest, no doubt,” Rathe said. “But either way, it confirms it.”

Eslingen nodded again. Solveert, or the Secretary—or both of them; that was always a possibility—they had to have the attempt timed to the twelfth of the hour. Whether it was to get a favorable conjunction or because there was someone expecting to receive the silver, it didn’t matter: it was proof that something was planned.
“What do we do?”

“
I need to find the rest of our people.” Rathe looked over his shoulder as though he might find someone standing there, and Eslingen grabbed his arm.

“
Wait. We’ll go together. If you’re with me, there’s not much Voillemin can do about it.”

The rest of the races passed in a frantic blur. Rathe wove through the crowd, finding most of Dreams’ people—one of them Sohier, to his relief, who could be counted on to do the sensible thing. He gave her the details while Eslingen chatted up a book-writer, his eyes drifting past her to watch for any of Fairs’ men, and she nodded soberly. “I came with friends, boss. I’ll let them know.”

“
Good. Just—be as close as you can to the stage when they start to give the prizes. On the station side if you can manage it. Don’t let Solveert get past you if he tries to bolt.”

She nodded again, and slipped away. Rathe watched her go, but his eyes were drawn to the newly-built platform outside Fairs’ Point, draped with bunting and gilded wooden ovals marked with the city’s seal. It had gone up overnight, as usual, and even at this last minute, workers were fussing with the decorations and the sea
ting. Neither Solveert nor the Racing Secretary was anywhere to be seen.

Finally the last race was over, and he and Eslingen joined the crowds moving toward the platform. Steps led to each end of the platform, watched by pointsmen carrying old-fashioned halberds, and Rathe dragged Eslingen as close to the end away from the Fairs’ Point station as he dared without the points noticing him.

“We won’t be able to see anything,” Eslingen said. “The owners and trainers are supposed to be up front—there where the ropes are.”

“
It doesn’t matter. When it happens, I want to be able to get up there right away.”

“
I’m with you, then,” Eslingen said.

“
You have to track it,” Rathe said. “That’s the main thing. If you don’t do that—” He broke off, not wanting to put it into words

Eslingen nodded soberly.
“I know.”

Trumpets sounded, a ragged chorus from beside the station’s gate, and there was a cheer from the crowd. The dignitaries emerged from the station: two of the Regents, splendid in black skirts and bodices edged with snow-white lace, their caps trimmed with gold and pearls. Solveert followed them, his dove-gray ac
ademic gown open over a suit of expensive burgundy velvet, and the Racing Secretary and her chief stewards followed him, all of them in their best dresses, heavy satins and velvets in spite of the spring warmth, jewels pinned to their bodices and glinting in high-piled hair. Behind them came three more pairs of stewards, each carrying a brassbound chest between them—not gracefully, the weight bowed them inward. The prize money, Rathe knew, and took a breath.

Eslingen nudged him.
“Coindarel.”

“
That’s a mercy.”

The Prince-Marshal was resplendent in deep blue satin, with a paler blue vest beneath it; he wore a royal collar across his shou
lders, the queen’s monogram on a medallion the size of a man’s hand. At least there would be no arguing with that authority, Rathe thought. Behind Coindarel came nearly a dozen other notables, some from the University, by their gowns, the rest nobles or merchants-resident, though it was hard to tell the difference by their clothes. Was the woman in green Malfiliatre? There was a murmur of disapproval from the crowd, but she seemed not to hear it, pacing with dignity among her fellows.

Behind the cluster of important women came the delegation from Fairs’ Point, and Rathe caught his breath to see Claes among them, limping on crutches, with two sturdy young men to provide support if it was needed. Voillemin was there, too, of course, and from the rolled papers in his hand it looked as though he was going to be performing the station’s part of the ceremony, but it was reassuring to see Claes present.

The crowd cheered as the Regents took their places, handed to their seats by Solveert himself, and another for Coindarel as he exchanged bows with the Patent Administrator. Hearing them, Coindarel bowed to the crowd as well, flourishing his plumed hat, and took his place beside the Regents and the Racing Secretary. The rest of the procession made their way onto the stage—Rathe winced to see Claes’s awkward progress—and the delegation from the University took their place at the end of the stage. From their gowns and wreaths of fresh flowers, it was a student choir, and, sure enough, their leader bowed deeply to Solveert. Solveert gave a gracious nod in return, and the choir-master lifted his hand.

“
In the Queen’s name we gather, in her name we sing.” The familiar words rose in delicate harmony, and the crowd joined in ragged harmony on the next lines. “The people of our city, our loving hearts we bring.”

It was now, Rathe thought, his muscles knotting. He could feel the crowd focusing as more and more people joined the singing, everyone in the square picking up the familiar words. On the tower of Fairs’ Point, the clock’s hands stood at twenty past four. Istre would know what that meant, what stars it indicated and therefore when it would happen, but he didn’t, and he hadn’t thought to ask. He could only wait, bracing himself for the disaster.

“In the Queen’s name we gather,” the chorus began again, the crowd with them in ragged harmony, “in her name we sing.”

Rathe glanced sideways, saw Eslingen’s fist clenched around the compass. It had to work, they had nothing else, but in that moment it seemed horribly inadequate. Eslingen’s face was pale, all his a
ttention focussed on the stage.

“
The people of our city, our loving hearts we bring.”

A bell struck, sweet and heavy, drowning the last word. The sound swelled, a single note as oppressive as thunder, drowning out the cries of the crowd. Rathe staggered, and beside him a woman fell to her knees, her hands pressed to her ears. A man stumbled against him, mouth open as though he were shouting, but his words were drowned in the overwhelming noise. He was bleeding from his nose, Rathe saw, and in the same instant realized his own nose was bleeding. Eslingen staggered, holding the compass above his head as though that would better catch the sound, and as abruptly as it had begun it vanished.

For a stricken heartbeat, there was nothing, and then the screams began. Rathe glanced wildly around, but saw no one more hurt than a bloodied nose or lip, and leaped for the stage stair.

“
Don’t let anyone leave!”

The pointsmen crossed their halberds and Rathe ducked past them, taking the stairs two at a time. On the stage, all the dignita
ries were on their feet, Claes and Voillemin shouting contradictory orders to their men, Coindarel with his hand to his hip as though reaching for the sword he wasn’t wearing. One of the Regents collapsed back into her chair, clasping her handkerchief to her bleeding nose, and Malfiliatre bent over her helplessly.

“
The silver,” the Racing Secretary said. “Sweet Tyrseis, the silver.”

“
What is the meaning of this?” the other Regent demanded, her voice shrill. “What is all this?”

Solveert, Rathe thought. For an instant, he thought he was too late, but then he saw the man, moving quickly toward the other stairs. Rathe leaped after him, caught him by the shoulder.

“Oh, no, you’re not going anywhere.”

“
Rathe?” Voillemin spun around, furious. “Baeder, arrest that man.”

The pointsman gaped at him, and Rathe said,
“Don’t be a fool. Here’s the one you want.”

“
That’s the Patent Administrator,” one of the stewards said, as though she was sure he’d made a mistake.

“
Check the silver,” Rathe said, over her shoulder, aiming the words at Coindarel and the Racing Secretary. “Check the prize money.”

The Racing Secretary went to her knees beside the nearest strongbox, fishing under her skirts for the keys. She flung back the lid, and fell back on her heels, swearing. Even from where he stood, his hand still on Solveert’s shoulder, Rathe could see a pile of empty velvet purses, the prize money utterly vanished away. Someone screamed, and there was a rising murmur from the crowd as they began to realize what was wrong.

“Send to the station,” Claes began, but a young woman came running up the stairs, her eyes wide.

“
Chief! Chief, it’s all gone, all of it—”

“
It can’t be.” Claes swayed on his crutches.

“
The strongroom’s empty!” The woman was on the verge of tears. “Sweet Astree, it’s all gone.”

There were more shouts from the crowd below the stage, a knot of women gathered around a pregnant woman who clutched her belly as though her pains had come. Beyond them women and men wiped at bleeding noses, staring angrily at the stage. The trainers had pulled together in a tight knot, and Rathe could see their short clubs drawn, concealed for the moment against skirts and coats.

“Give us our prizes,” someone shouted, and Solveert tried to pull himself free.

“
For Astree’s sake, man, they’ll riot if we don’t speak to them.”

“
Should have thought of that before you stole the silver,” Rathe said.

“
But I never—” Solveert looked past him to the other pointsmen. “The man’s run mad.”

“
That’s entirely enough,” Voillemin said. “Rathe, this is my district. You’ve no rights here. Let him go.”

“
No.” Rathe shook his head, though he knew how thin the ice was beneath his feet. “That sound, that was the silver being stolen, and he’s the man responsible.”

“
Let him go,” Voillemin said again. “Or I’ll call the point on you myself.”

“
Where are the prizes?” The shout came from the knot of trainers, was picked up by more voices. “Give us our money!”

“
For Heira’s sake, let him speak to the crowd.” That was Malfiliatre, coming forward to join Voillemin. “There’ll be a riot else.”

“
There will be a riot if he does speak,” Rathe said. He looked past Voillemin at Claes, swaying gray-faced on his crutches. “Chief, you know me. I swear to you, he’s the man, and I can prove it—”

“
Do it, then,” Claes snapped, and Voillemin echoed him.

“
Yes, if there’s any proof, let’s have it.”

Rathe took a breath. Everything he had was weak; he was sure, but that wasn’t enough to bring a point, not even in this extremity.
“He’s the one who’s made sure all the silver was brought here, kept here, including the bond. And he’s the one who refused to move it even after he was warned that this was going to happen.”

“
I’m a Fellow of the University,” Solveert protested. “I don’t need advice to know how to handle silver.”

“
Except evidently you do.” Coindarel stepped forward. “Dames, my masters, this is out of hand. Madame Secretary, speak to the crowd.”

“
Yes.” She pushed herself up from the boards, still visibly shaken. “Yes, at once.”

“
The rest of you, with me.” Coindarel drew them back toward the row of chairs as the Secretary began to speak, her voice high and strained. “He’s right about one thing, we need to settle this quickly. Rathe, that’s all the proof you have?”

“
It’s no proof at all,” Solveert protested. “It’s nothing.”

“
He has a mad grudge against our station,” Voillemin said. “And he’s been at feud with me for years.”

The noise of the crowd rose behind them, drowning the Secr
etary’s attempts to calm them, developed into a steady chant. “Prizes, prizes, we want prizes.”

“
We can get it back,” Rathe said, desperately.

“
You stole it,” Voillemin said. “You’re behind this.”

“
No. But we knew it was going to happen—and you were warned, Voillemin, the Sur himself warned you—” Rathe bit back the rest of the accusation, fixed his eyes on Claes, still leaning heavily on his crutches. “We took precautions. We can find it and get it back. Tell them that.”