Fairs' Point Read Free Page A

be grateful. The man was a dog trainer, I’d have thought he had everything to live for just now.”
    The journeyman lifted her eyebrows. “You would, wouldn’t you? I’ll tell Fanier.”
    Rathe folded the note and slipped in into his own purse. “I’m to Fairs’ Point, to see what his friends can tell me.”
     
    Rathe was tempted to go straight to the Yellow Dog to take possession of whatever was in Corsten’s strongbox, but the man had lived in Fairs’ Point and the station there had a claim on the case. Though whether they’d want it or not was another matter entirely. Still, Guillen Claes, the chief at Fairs, was less than fond of him for being the reason that Claes had been saddled with a new and less than competent adjunct at midwinter, so it behooved him to keep on the right side of the station. With any luck, though, he could make it a matter of closing his own books, and be in and out before either Claes or Voillemin was the wiser.
    That hope died as he reached the station’s dooryard. Half the st ation’s runners were gathered on the stoop, peering in, and he could hear voices raised in anger from across the yard. The runners scattered like gargoyles as he stepped through the open door, and he blinked in spite of himself. Six or seven people, men and women in about equal number, were clustered in front of the duty point’s table, robust, leather-jerkined and -aproned souls in sturdy boots and battered working clothes. Most of them carried a trainer’s short stick—Rathe had never seen one used on a dog, but in his apprentice days he’d seen them used with devastating effect to start or finish fights—and the young woman who had the daywatch was looking distinctly wary. Voillemin, however, seemed entirely unaware of the potential threat, and was shaking his head at the group’s leader.
    “Dame, there is no reason to think anything is wrong.”
    The woman in the lead opened her mouth, and Voillemin held up his hand.
    “Anything more than carelessness, then. For the man to have forgotten to feed his dogs is hardly a matter for the points.”
    “Jero wouldn’t forget to feed them,” the leader said, through clenched teeth. “Any more than he’d forget to bank his fire or to take a piss. These are his livelihood, man! You don’t just abandon them.”
    “But he hasn’t abandoned them,” Voillemin said. “He’s been gone, what, three hours? If he’s gone at all.”
    Rathe swore again. He didn’t need to make any more of any enemy of Voillemin, but it seemed to be unavoidable. “Excuse me, Adjunct Point. A word, if I might?”
    Voillemin had the look of a man trying to pretend he didn’t smell something unpleasant. “As you can see, Adjunct Point, I’m busy.”
    “It’s relevant.”
    Voillemin spread his hands. “If you must.”
    Rathe managed not to shake his head. Sometimes it seemed as though Voillemin made an effort to lay himself open to charges of incompetence. “As I said, I think it’s relevant. We’ve a dead man in Point of Dreams, and I have reason to believe he’s a dog trainer. A man called Jero Corsten.”
    From the gasps and curses, that was clearly the missing man, and Voillemin’s face went pink. “Nonsense!”
    “Hare and Hounds, what more does it take?” The group’s leader had her hand on her stick. “We told you something was wrong—”
    “What in Astree’s name is going on here?” And that was Guillen Claes, arriving punctually as the clock in the square stuck nine. “Dames, I’ll thank you not to brawl in my station house—”
    “A man is dead,” the leader said, and Claes’s attention sharpened.
    “We don’t know that for sure,” Voillemin began, and Rathe took a step forward.
    “Actually, I’m afraid we do, or at least we have good cause to think it. A man was found dead in the Bells, by his own hand, it looks like, and I’ve a note found on him that says he’s your missing man.”
    “Rathe.” Claes held out his hand, and Rathe