Fairs' Point (15 page)

“
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 himself 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.

“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 stu
rdy 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 hi
mself 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 m
otive. 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.

“
So I do.” Caiazzo sighed. “I talked to him last back in the Rose Moon—the first or second day, I think. I agreed to fund him at our usual rates, and he agreed. I made one payment at the full of the Rat Moon, but he’s not delivered the goods.”

“
And that would be the last contact you had with him?”

Again there was that flicker of unease, and Rathe sighed.

“Give.”

“
He sent a note,” Caiazzo said. “After I’d sent the payment. He said he’d been working on another project and it was taking longer than anticipated. He asked for another week before he had to deliver his first pamphlet, and I—reluctantly—agreed.”

“
And nothing since then?” Rathe couldn’t help but sound skeptical. One did not take Caiazzo’s money and fail to deliver, at least not if one wanted to live. “What was this other project?”

“
I didn’t ask,” Caiazzo said promptly. “It wasn’t my business, and he assured me it would only be a few days, no more than a week. But then—nothing.”

“
And you didn’t do anything about it?”

“
I didn’t say that,” Caiazzo answered. “I sent my people looking for him, of course, and any printer who works under my coin knows better than to take anything from him. I’d do more, but it’s a busy time of year for me.”

That was undeniably true, Rathe knew. Caiazzo was a merchant-venturer as well as having his fingers in dozens of illegal trades, and he would be gathering as much coin as possible to fund his caravans. He ran at least one every year, Rathe knew from the pr
evious Midsummer, and that didn’t come cheap. “And besides, you’re hoping the points will find him for you.”

It was a shot at a venture, but Caiazzo grinned.
“Well, it’s what we pay you for.”

“
For such taxes as you pay,” Rathe answered, and took himself off. There was a low-flyer trawling for custom at the end of the Exemption Docks, and he waved it down, settling himself among the cracked cushions. That Beier had worked for Caiazzo was hardly a surprise—Caiazzo made something of a specialty of funding unlicensed printers—and it wasn’t any more surprising that he’d planned to fund him again this year. So why had Beier delayed? Rathe shook his head, unable to imagine anything that interested Beier more than the Dog Moon races. And was Caiazzo telling the truth when he said he had no idea what Beier’s project had been? Too many questions, Rathe thought, and not any likely ways to get answers. At least not without interfering in Fairs’ Point, and he wasn’t ready yet to take that chance. Perhaps the University would have a new perspective on their least favorite Fellow.

The Racing Secretaries had rented a merchant’s wayhouse at the end of the Edge Road between the New Fair and the old. A steady stream of trainers and owners and astrologers made their way in and out of the narrow front door under the watchful eyes of a pair of hired knives. Eslingen joined the crowd at the stairs, and maneuvered his way inside and through a sea of clerks in severe black livery, one of whom pointed to the smaller salon as the place to register for races. It was as crowded as the other rooms, and the windows were closed, leaving the room smelling of dogs in spite of the bundles of sweet broom that hung from the beams. He could feel more herbs crunching beneath the sturdy cords of the carpet, but they only added a musky sweetness to the smells of sweat and dogs and leather.

A junior secretary presided over the entry table, studying each packet of papers and then passing them on to whichever of the four clerks had the relevant ledger. Eslingen touched his cuff, reassuring himself that the entrance bill and copies of Sunflower’s pedigree and horoscope were still there, and an elegant gray-haired man caught his eye.

“Lieutenant vaan Esling, isn’t it? Our hero at Midsummer and Midwinter.”

“
That’s me,” Eslingen answered, lightly, and then saw the badge on the stranger’s coat: the Patent Administrator himself, Gaeten Solveert, who by all accounts didn’t deign to speak to many mere mortals. He gave a half-bow of acknowledgement and recognition and Solveert smiled.

“
It’s unusual to see owners enrolling their own dogs,” he said. “Or am I behind the times and you’ve turned trainer?”

“
No, you had it right,” Eslingen said. “But I like to see how things work.”

“
Commendable,” Solveert said. “Still, it is a business for the professionals, unless you can afford to pay handsomely for your education.”

The joke was harmless enough on the surface, but something in Solveert’s expression gave it an unpleasant edge. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, ready to remark on their varying fortunes in the redistr
ibution, but remembered in time that he, Sunflower, and his trainer were all dependent on Solveert’s good will. “One generally does,” he said, with a smile that felt forced. “My greatest ambition it to break even.”