Fairs' Point Read Free

on,” Rathe said.
    “So we go through the house in a pattern, top to bottom, stage to doors, with the notion that we’d drive anyone ahead of us, if you see my meaning. And of course I lock up everything that can be locked as we go.” He flourished his keys again. “And that’s exactly what we did last night. There really wasn’t a thing out of the ordinary, bar a very nice cloak left in the expensive boxes opposite, which I’m sure someone will send round for this morning. Except Mielle would have it she heard someone, or felt someone, or something, and, give her her due, she said she thought it was first or second gallery. But, as I said, we swept through a final time, top to bottom, and no one saw anything.”
    “She said it wouldn’t be hard to get behind you,” Rathe said.
    Alemendes bridled. “It certainly wouldn’t be easy! But—not impossible, I’ll grant you that. Still, I say we should have seen him.”
    “Could he have gotten in after you left?” Sohier asked.
    “Not unless he’s clever as a climbing thief,” Alemendes answered. “There’s magelocks on all the doors, and I defy you to break them without leaving signs.”
    “We’ll look for that,” Rathe said, and Sohier nodded. He heard footsteps outside then, and the woman Mielle pushed open the door.
    “The alchemists are here,” she announced, and stood back to let them enter.
    Rathe nodded in recognition, but the strapping young wo man who was the leader of the team had eyes only for the body. The other journeymen hovered outside the box, not willing to push past two pointsmen to get in.
    “Dis Aidones, not another one.” She stooped over the body, long-fingered hands busy at neck and chest, then reached for the bottle only to put it aside with a grimace.
    “Another one?” Rathe asked.
    The journeyman nodded, folding back her sleeves to reveal a stylized version of the Starsmith’s badge tattooed on her forearm. “We’ve had two suicides already this month. Fanier blames Malfi liatre.”
    Rathe grimaced. The Matter of Malfiliatre had been grin ding through Astreiant’s courts for close to a decade, after the last soueraine died childless. The de Caliors and the t’Anthiames—both some sort of cousin—had claimed the title, and finally the Royal Armiger had ruled for de Calior. Far too many merchants, and not just merchants-venturer but merchants-resident, had advanced credit to both sides; it was no real surprise that some of them had overreached themselves. “Surely this one’s not a creditor.”
    The journeyman shrugged. “It’s never-wake, all right, though I expect you didn’t have much doubt. Been dead since midnight or a little past—it looks to me as though he sat hi mself down here and drank off a few glasses, then drifted off to death. Smells like he used a decent vintage to mix with it, too.”
    “Why not?” Rathe said. “What about papers? I’d like to put a name to him before you take him off.”
    The journeyman flourished a pocketbook that she’d removed from the dead man’s coat. “Here you are, Adjunct Point.”
    Rathe loosened the string that held it closed and unfolded the worn leather. It held a small brass key and a single sheet of paper, not worn, and he unfolded that as well, already knowing what he would find.
    I, Jero Corsten, trainer and veterinary, presently of the Yellow Dog by the New Fair, commend my body to the points and my debts to my creditors. My papers are in my lodging in the box that matches this key.
    He had signed his name in a firm hand, and then added b eneath it , See that the dogs are fed.
    Rathe swore under his breath. Why would a dog trainer kill hi mself before the year’s great races? After, yes, if his losses were big enough, but before? It made no sense. “Sohier, stay here and talk to the rest of the doorkeepers. I’d like to be very sure this is what it looks like.” Sohier nodded, and he turned to the journeyman. “And if you’d tell Fanier the same, I’d