Fairs' Point (35 page)

“
Very well. The matter is now closed, and in your hands, Acting Chief.”

Not that it would do the slightest good if the money vanished on the day of the races, Rathe thought, watching Voillemin preen as though he’d won instead of been given a particularly tricky a
ssignment, but closed his mouth tight over any words he might have spoken.

He said it all to Eslingen instead, over a bottle of wine that might as well have been vinegar and an overspiced pie, and the Leaguer listened with admirable patience until at last he’d run down.

“Well, I have some better news for you,” Eslingen said, and fetched the stone bottle of distilled spirit from its shelf in the cupboard. He poured them each a small glass, the sharp flavor of mint filling the air, and set one in front of Rathe. “Istre says he may have something for you in the morning.”

“
Something?” Rathe took a sip of the menthe, letting it burn its way down his throat. There were nights when he was glad of its scouring fire.

“
He thinks he’s worked out a device to track the stolen silver.”

“
That’s lovely—no, I mean it, it truly it, but—I’m not allowed back in Fairs’ Point. This is absolutely and completely off Dreams’ books.”

“
You’re not,” Eslingen said, and reached across the table to take his hand. “But I’m going to the races. Sunflower is running tomorrow. And then it’s Finals.”

“
That’s not enough time,” Rathe said.

For a moment, he thought Eslingen would protest, but then the Leaguer sighed.
“It may not be,” he said, “but it’s all we have.”

The message arrived before they’d finished breakfast: if they’d come to the deadhouse, b’Estorr had a version of the compass ready for them.

“
Why the deadhouse?” Eslingen asked, winding his stock into place, and in the mirror saw Rathe shrug.

“
Because the walls are thicker than at the University? Come on, I don’t want to be too late to Dreams. Trijn doesn’t need any more trouble from me.”

“
That bodes well,” Eslingen muttered, and followed him down the stairs.

To his surprise, there was a basket of cakes in the deadhouse lo
bby, a note beside it proclaiming them free to all. Eslingen grabbed one and then an extra and followed the necromancer to the workroom where they’d experimented on the coins. Fanier was there ahead of them, tending to a teapot set on the back of the stove, and Eslingen heard Rathe’s sigh of relief as he accepted a cup. But there was something else, too, a faint, high whine just at the edge of hearing, sweet in tone, but insistent. He frowned, and b’Estorr said, “You can hear that?”

“
I can hear something,” Eslingen said, cautiously.

“
That’s a help,” Fanier said.

“
Not everyone can hear it at this level,” b’Estorr said. He pointed to an object on the worktable, so small that Eslingen hadn’t noticed it: a silver hemisphere a little smaller than a baby’s fist. The surface was pierced like a pomander—in fact, that was what it looked like, a woman’s fancy pomander. The sound seemed to be coming from it, though, now that he looked at it, as though it was a bell still quivering in the aftermath of being struck.

“
I don’t hear anything,” Rathe said.

Fanier set the teapot back on the hob and picked up a coin that was lying on the shelf above it. He brought it over to the table, and the sound strengthened, became a soft faint chiming, like the stri
king of a far-off clock.

“
All right, I hear that,” Rathe said. “Why—?”

“
It’s our compass,” b’Estorr said. “Or at least the best I could come up with on short notice. It reflects the vibrations left behind when the silver is moved—like in Beier’s rooms, Philip.”

Eslingen nodded.

“So why couldn’t I hear it before?” Rathe asked. Eslingen offered him the extra cake he’d picked up on the way in, and Rathe took it gratefully.

“
I can’t hear it either,” Fanier said. “Not at that pitch. The lasting note is higher than most people can pick out.” He looked at Eslingen. “I imagine you could hear bats squeaking when you were a boy.”

Eslingen’s eyebrows rose in spite of himself.
“I could, though by the time I was thirteen or so I couldn’t seem to make it out any more. I’d forgotten.”

“
The closer you get to the silver, the louder the sound,” b’Estorr said.

Rathe lifted his head, and said, through a mouthful of cake,
“That could be a bit awkward, Istre.”

“
I’d thought of that, yes. But it’s the best I could do on short notice. If I had another week, and it wasn’t the ghost tide, I might be able to come up with something that points like an actual compass, but it’s easiest to make something that responds to the lingering vibrations by chiming. Essentially, I’ve just imbued the bell with the same cantrip I used in Beier’s rooms.”

Rathe nodded.
“No, I’m not complaining, truly. It’s just—if everyone can hear it, well, what are the odds that the woman behind this won’t recognize the note?”

“
I know,” b’Estorr said. “I’d thought, maybe you could muffle it. It won’t affect it to have felt or something like it placed inside the opening. Or maybe we could use to find where the conjuration was done?”

“
Where the sound stops?” Rathe said, his expression dubious.

“
I think so.” b’Estorr spread his hands. “I’m sorry, Nico. I’ll keep trying, but this is what I could do overnight.”

“
I know,” Rathe said. “And I do appreciate it, truly.”

Eslingen rested a hand on his shoulder, recognizing the real pro
blem. If Rathe himself could go into Fairs’ Point, he wouldn’t care about the risk; he’d be in a position to judge just how much of a danger the sound could be, or whether, as Eslingen suspected, it would be lost in the general hubbub of the New Fair on a race day. Rathe gave him a wincing smile, and Eslingen tightened his hold for just a moment.

“
The Fair’s a pretty noisy place. I’m more worried about hearing it at all,” he said. b’Estorr gave him a martyred glance, and Eslingen hurried on. “But it’s the best chance we have. I’ll go to the races today with it in my purse, but the odds are it won’t make a sound.”

“
Sadly true,” Fanier said.

Rathe relaxed slightly under his touch, but shook his head.
“But if you do stumble across a trail—”

“
I’ll be exceedingly careful,” Eslingen said. “You know me better than that.”

“
I know you, all right,” Rathe said. “That’s what worries me. But—I mean it, Philip. If you do find something, make sure you’re not seen. We can come back together after dark, track it from there.”

Eslingen nodded, though he was less sure that was a good plan. Still, that was a bridge to be crossed later.

“And you could wrap it in a yard or so of linen and keep it in your purse if you’re that worried about the noise,” Fanier said. “Your stock would about do it, Lieutenant.”

“
I’m not sacrificing that until it’s absolutely necessary,” Eslingen answered, and was glad to see Rathe grin. “We can try that later if we have to go in after dark, but today I’m going blamelessly to the races, and hope my dog wins.”

“
I’ll hold you to that,” Rathe said, not quite lightly, and Eslingen let himself out of the workroom. The compass fell silent as he closed the door behind him.

After a bit of thought, Eslingen bought a length of indigo ribbon and hung the compass from the buttonhole of his vest, on the the
ory that no one would be surprised to see him displaying a pretty decorative toy. It had been silent since he left the deadhouse, and it was only the extra weight that reminded him of its presence. In Point of Sighs, he stopped at an apothecary and bought a bit of bagged scent, then tucked the packet into the crevices of the bell. If anyone asked, it was a pomander, picked up Seidos knew where in his travels. Naimi would disapprove—who could dislike the scent of dogs?—but he thought it would be an entirely plausible excuse.

Naimi did wrinkle her nose at the sight of the pomander, but made no direct comment.
“You’re late. You said you’d be here to see him fed.”

“
Something came up,” Eslingen said. “I’m sorry. It was unavoidable.”

Naimi sniffed.
“It matters when he sees you. I don’t want him worked up too soon, and now there’s not time to calm him down before he goes into the box.”

“
I’ll stay out of sight, then,” Eslingen offered.

She nodded.
“That would be best.”

And it gave him a chance to make a circuit of the New Fair, E
slingen thought, see if there was any reaction from the compass. “I’ll go get breakfast then,” he said. “And maybe place a bet or two. Anyone you’d tip? In the other races, I mean,” he added hastily, and saw her relax.

“
My owners always bet their own dogs. But Firebrand in the third should do well, and get good odds—lots of people don’t like a red dog at this time of the month, though that’s pure superstition. And Little Moon should do quite nicely in the main event.”

They were both DeVoss’s dogs, Eslingen noted: Naimi was loyal as well as practical. He thanked her, promised again to stay clear of the kennels until it was time to box the dogs, and returned to the Fair. After a moment’s thought, he decided to try breakfast at M
ama Moon’s, and see if he could pick up the reverberations he had heard in Beier’s room. There was no response at his table or in the bower, and it wasn’t until he managed to creep halfway up the back stair that he got any reaction at all. It was little more than the whine of an insect, and he retreated, frowning. It would certainly be hard to hear that over the noise of the crowds.

He crisscrossed the fairground, stopping now and then to chat with other owners and gamblers he’d come to know over the last weeks. With both, he smiled and deflected all questions as to Su
nflower’s condition, and made sure that he’d gotten well out of sight of the last one before he went in search of a book-writer.

He didn’t know the names of any of the ones who had been robbed, bar Calaon’s daughter, and he already knew they didn’t know where the money had vanished. However, the writers tended to congregate, a group in a tavern on the north side of the Fair, a
nother group by the practice track, a third by the barber’s, where they had pooled their funds to rent an awning. He put a few seillings on Sunflower with someone in each group, and about the same on the other dogs Naimi had mentioned, as well as on a long shot called Pointsman. The book-writer who took that bet knew him, and shook her head, laughing.

“
And here I’d thought owners learned better than to bet on names alone. He’s not nearly as good a bet as your leman, Lieutenant, take it from me.”

“
I’d feel disloyal if I didn’t,” Eslingen answered lightly, hoping he wasn’t blushing too badly.

“
And I’d be dishonest if I didn’t warn you,” she said. “But if you insist…”

“
I do,” Eslingen said, and she wrote up the bet, still chuckling to herself.

Eslingen lowered his voice.
“Speaking of Rathe‚ you’re not one of the women who’s suffered a mysterious loss?”

“
Not I,” she said, though her hand moved in a quick, propitiating gesture. “That’s a sore subject, Lieutenant.”

“
I’m not surprised.”

“
And I heard Dreams was warned off it.”

“
Do I belong to Point of Dreams?” Eslingen asked.