Free Fairs' Point by Melissa Scott

with the last of his tea, and when the clock struck the half hour, he exchanged his leather jerkin and truncheon for a shapeless coat and a knife that was exactly at the legal limit, and started for the ’Serry.
    It was not yet second sundown, but torches were lit on either side of the courtyard gate, sending a stream of smoke and sparks into the purpling sky. A couple of the Quentiers’ men were lounging apparently idly by them, a pitcher and cups and dice in the dirt beside them. They also carried short clubs, half-hidden under the skirts of their short coats, and Rathe spread his hands as he approached.
    “ Estel expects me.”
    One of them, tall and broad as a bull, waved a hand politely enough. Not Estel’s man, Rathe thought, but he couldn’t r emember which of the women claimed him. “Go on in, Adjunct Point.”
    Rathe nodded his thanks, and pushed through the shrieking gate. The courtyard itself was unusually empty, the usual hordes of Quentier children and unofficial apprentices all di spatched elsewhere for the evening; no one sat on the edge of the old horse-pool, and the doors were closed all along the row of converted stables. Only the tavern showed more than a candle’s light, more torches lit at the door to drive off night-flying insects, and lantern-light spilling out of the open door onto the beaten dirt.
    Rathe made his way to the door, nodding to yet another Quentier man, who stepped smoothly out of his way.
    “Adjunct Point,” he said, not loudly, but enough to carry to Estel, who sat in a single chair placed before the serving bar. She looked up sharply, not quite disturbing the baby at her breast, and said something to the woman at her side. Cassia Quentier, known as LaSier for the length of her river-black hair, nodded and detached herself from her sister, crossing the room to smile up at Rathe.
    “ Evening, Nico.”
    “ Evening,” Rathe answered, and suppressed the instinct to protect his purse. “I don’t see Besetje?”
    “ She’s in the back,” LaSier answered. “You know crowds take her badly. In the meantime, would you like a glass of wine?”
    “ It’s like that, is it?” Rathe cocked his head.
    “ We’re planning to make this as peaceful as possible,” LaSier answered, and beckoned to a girl of fifteen or so, who scurried over with a tray of cups and a pitcher of what proved to be quite decent wine.
    “ I’m relieved to hear it,” Rathe said, sipping cautiously, and let his eyes rove around the room. He knew most of the women there by sight if not by name, though he certainly recognized most of the Quentier siblings and their lemen. Annet was there, along with Maurina Tauçon—Annet was Estel’s third sister, next after the dead Tievet—and the golden-haired ballad singer who was Annet’s favorite decoy. An older, gray-haired woman sat placidly knitting a stocking—Estel’s aunt Rostanha—and a medium-sized man in spectacles was fussing with the tap of the wine barrel. He was another Quentier, a brother or a cousin, though Rathe thought he was primarily a receiver rather than a pickpocket himself. The last man in the room was seated in a chair by the side door, sitting very upright in his fine coat and lace-trimmed shirt, and Rathe wasn’t surprised to see the twin sticks leaning close at hand. Bertal Faar was still a handsome man, though there was more gray in his hair and harsher lines bracketing his mouth, but at the moment he looked tired and old. Besetje looked nothing like him, Rathe thought idly. She must have gotten all her looks from her mother.
    Another knot of women had gathered on his side of the room, near but not too close, and Rathe couldn’t help frow ning as he looked at them. That was where the trouble was going to come, and he wondered which of them was Besetje’s Aunt Idomey.
    “ You see it, then?” LaSier asked quietly, and Rathe slanted a glance in her direction.
    “ Besetje said something about an aunt wanting a bigger share of the