Fairs' Point (14 page)

“
Heard the latest about Beier?”

Eslingen froze. The speaker was a portly man in a wine-colored coat, leaning close to talk to a woman in summer-green who was having her hands painted.

“I’ve heard a lunar dozen different things,” she answered. “Where in the Great Hound’s name is the man?”

Eslingen edged closer, pretending to study the array of wooden hands nailed to the awning’s nearest support. Each one bore a di
fferent pattern, ready for clients to choose among the designs.

“
Solveert’s paid him off,” the portly man said. “I heard that from a friend at the University. Beier’s in Altheim at the observatory there.”

“
I don’t believe it.” That was a second woman, one hand poised over a bowl of red-black dye. The barber’s assistant, fair and generously curved in a low-cut bodice, eased it down until each finger was immersed just to the first knuckle. Her other hand was already finished, resting on a leather pillow while the dye cured.

“
I have it on excellent authority,” the portly man said.

“
Can I help you, Lieutenant?” Another of the barber’s assistants smiled at him from the last open paint-table, and Eslingen returned the smile. He’d shaved that morning, and paint would just flake off his hands, but he’d been thinking about getting his fingers dyed anyway. And it would give him an excuse to listen in, perhaps even to join the conversation.

“
Yes, actually. I’d like to get my hands dyed, depending on what it would cost.”

“
Two seillings, unless you want the gold flakes. That’s another seilling.”

“
Just indigo,” Eslingen said firmly, and the woman nodded.

“
An excellent choice, with your coloring. Sit here.”

Eslingen let her make him comfortable in the folding chair, then sat sipping a cup of fruit tea while she mixed the dye and arranged his left hand in the shallow dish. The others were still talking about Beier, the portly man holding to his friend from the University’s story, while the woman in spring-green set her freshly painted hands in the sun to cure. Another woman—a trainer, Eslingen thought, someone he’d seen around DeVoss’s kennels—leaned on the back of her chair.

“I can’t see Beier giving up the chance to work the races,” she said. “Not even for a chance at Altheim’s orrery.”

“
There was talk he had some new system in mind last fall at the lesser meeting,” the woman with the dyed fingers said. “And I can’t see the University letting him use their instruments.”

There was a murmur of laughter from the others, and the portly man said,
“No, indeed.”

“
So maybe he’s taking the year off to refine his new ideas.” The woman let the assistant arrange her freshly-dyed hand on another pillow, and begin massaging oil into her other hand.

“
Beier tends to test his ideas on his clients,” the woman in green said. That had the sound of a genuine grudge, and Eslingen glanced curiously at her, but he could read nothing more than annoyance in her face.

“
Well, I’ve heard a tale,” the trainer said. “I’ve no idea whether it’s to be believed or not, but…”

“
Tell,” the woman in green said, and the trainer gave a gratified smile.

“
Bear in mind I heard this from someone else’s boxholder, so I’ve no idea if there’s even a shred of truth in it. But the story I heard is that a consortium of printers raised the fee to pay for a proper knife. And that knife hired a magist and they lay in wait for him by Mama Moon’s and killed him there. The body went in the Sier, from a spot where it won’t be found again, and the fee went into the knife’s pockets.”

“
Surely that would be a matter for the points, if it were even likely,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself, and the woman with the dyed fingers nodded.

“
I’d think so. That’s a little specific for the average rumor.”

The trainer spread her hands.
“You may say so. And I put a word in at Fairs’ Point, I’m an honest woman. But if you ask me, they’re not that interested in Beier. He’ll turn up before the meet starts, Tiesheld told me, though where he gets that idea I don’t know.”

“
Claes would know,” the woman in green said.

“
There’s another whose name begins with C that might bear questioning,” the woman with the dyed fingers said, darkly. The assistant had finished with her other hand, and she rose to her feet, reaching into her purse for a handful of silver.

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 unl
icensed 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 forgo
tten 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 te
mporary 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.