Fairs' Point by Melissa Scott Page A

be twenty years I’ve been doing it.” Zedey looked more hurt than offended.
    “ I know,” Rathe said.
    “ And I’ve made good other women’s ill luck. Two years ago—well, you weren’t here, but Trijn can tell you. Anyone can.”
    “ I do know that,” Rathe said. “But we don’t have any leeway. The Regents have been very clear.”
    “ Here, now.” That was another of them, a short, sharp-faced woman in a skirt and bodice that had been made over from the wardrobe of a larger woman. She had the badge of the Maternité on her collar: probably from the Foundling House on the border of Dreams and Hearts, Rathe guessed. They usually ran a betting book as well, and made a tidy profit on it for the benefit of the house. “If anyone’s going to get an exception—”
    “ Demis have mercy,” Zedey said.
    “ No exceptions are being made,” Rathe said firmly. “As I understand it, dames, it’s not possible for us to make any exceptions.”
    “ There are always ways,” the woman from the Foundling House said darkly.
    “ This is Rathe you’re talking about,” Zedey said.
    “ Well, yes, but he’s not Chief Point, either—”
    “ And you’ll have to talk to her about it,” Rathe said hastily. Trijn wouldn’t be happy, but it was better to nip this in the bud. “If you’d like, I’ll tell her you want a word.”
    “ I’d take that kindly,” Zedey answered, and the woman from the Foundling House nodded sharply.
    “ Right, then.” Rathe retreated up the stairs, and tapped on the door of Trijn’s workroom. “Sorry to bother you, Chief.”
    “ No, you’re not.” Trijn’s voice was only slightly muffled by the door. “Come in if you must.”
    Rathe pushed open the door. “Sorry,” he said again. “Dame Zedey and a woman from the Maternité and I’d guess three more are downstairs asking about the bond. There’s been some discussion of whether there can be exceptions made.”
    “ Astree’s tits.” Trijn laid her pipe on its pewter plate with an expression that suggested she would have liked to throw it instead. “No, there are no exceptions. We’re not permitted to admit exceptions, and you can tell them that from me.”
    Rathe said nothing, and she sighed.
    “Very well, I’ll talk to them. In the meantime—” She rummaged among the papers on her table, came up with a half-sheet. “You can take a look at this.”
    “ Yes, Chief,” Rathe said, meekly, and retreated to his own workroom. As he closed his door, he could hear Trijn’s voice raised in hearty greeting, and hoped she’d be able to smooth things over properly.
    The paper proved to be another circular from Fairs’ Point, neatly copied in a familiar secretarial hand. Taken out of the familiar fo rmal phrases, it was a warning about a new gang of pickpockets working the races, and Rathe suppressed a sigh. The races were as big a target as the Midsummer Fairs, or the theaters at Midwinter; every year saw the emergence of another gang, banding together to make a profit from the crowds and disappearing afterwards. It was generally a race to see whether the points would catch someone who could be persuaded to name either the ringleader or the primary receiver before the meet ended, and Rathe skimmed to the bottom, curious to see what kind of success Claes had had so far.
    The answer brought him up short. Claes’s people had taken no one, called no points at all. He went back to the beginning, reading more carefully this time, and when he’d finished, poured himself a cup of tea from the cold pot. It made no sense. Claes listed nearly two dozen thefts already, most from around the training tracks, but some from the shops and te mporary stalls that had sprung up to serve the fair-goers. Most of them had lost coin from strongboxes, tricky but not impossible in the press of business, though Rathe would have expected to see more of that as the races got fully underway and the crowds grew even larger. More striking, though, was the