Point of Dreams

“What’s up, Graeten?”

“Just Bonfortune smiling on the corm‑sellers again,” the woman answered. “A ship came in yesterday evening, and Wymar–that’s his–managed to get his hands on some of the damned corms.”

“Sweet Sofia, it’s started already,” Rathe said, and out of the corner of his eye saw b’Estorr’s wry smile of agreement. “Silklands, I assume?”

Graeten nodded. “Just the ones. He’s one of the worst, always has whatever the latest madness is. And I wouldn’t mind, Nico, except he’s stupid.” She squinted against the sunlight, judging the crowd, and pulled the pot that held her morning’s brew to a more stable central position on the counter. “He’s going to have a riot on his hands one of these days, and sooner rather than later, the way he’s selling them, and not bothered to hire a knife or anyone to keep order.”

Rathe looked at b’Estorr, an unwilling smile on his face. “Fourie always calls it, doesn’t he?”

“He seems to,” the Chadroni answered. “What would this be, insufficient… ?”

“Inadequate attention to the queen’s peace and public safety,” Rathe quoted, and Graeten gri

The woman shook her head, still smiling. “No idea. There’s a dozen venturers and the same number of residents he could be buying from.”

Maybe half that number, Rathe amended silently. If Wymar was as much of a fool as Graeten said, there would be those who wouldn’t want to deal with him–a stallholder who failed to keep order was dangerous for business. Still, it was a moot point. There was nothing in law, as Fourie had pointed out, to prevent the merchants from selling what was a common commodity at this time of year, and certainly no law would keep them from taking what the market would bear. And it was Wymar who was the immediate problem. He swore under his breath, seeing a woman’s head and shoulders rise above the crowd–stepped up onto a box, most likely–face flushed under her neat linen coif.

“Come along, my ladies, there’s plenty to buy, but don’t damage the goods, we’ve corms here worth a week’s housekeeping, all for your pleasure.”

“No knife, and he hires a shill,” Graeten said, with disgust, and Rathe nodded, already taking a step toward the stall. Wymar’s clientele didn’t look like the sort who could afford to spend a week’s house money on corms, not by the look of their clothes, but that was a folly he couldn’t mend. And then he saw it, the movement he’d been dreading, bodies swirling aside from two potential combatants, and this time he swore aloud.

“Excuse me, Istre,” he said, and the magist leaned back against Graeten’s counter as the woman reached to sweep her better goods out of sight and reach.

“You’re not on watch,” b’Estorr said.

“See any other pointsmen around?” Rathe called over his shoulder, but b’Estorr’s words followed him.

“Never do, when you need one.”

Rathe grimaced, drawing his truncheon, and flourished it to clear a path through the crowd, the less‑involved bystanders falling back as they recognized a point’s presence. Wymar himself was sprawled across his front counter in an effort to protect his goods, and his head from the two women, householders both, by the look of them, grappling and sparring over a corm, their market baskets spilled and the contents already half‑trampled against the worn cobbles. The shill, of course, was nowhere in sight, her stand empty, and Rathe caught the eye of a thin woman who was starting to reach across the undefended space. She ducked back out of sight, but another, bolder, grabbed anyway, and he brought his truncheon down just short of her fingers, the blow loud against the wood. She shrieked as though he’d hit her, and Wymar turned, still flat on the counter, trying to drag the rest of his goods under his body. Rathe grabbed the nearer of the two combatants by the collar of her short coat and hauled her bodily back, wailing as her fingers finally left the corm. She was smaller than the other, but seemed to have a keener sense of how to succeed in a close‑quarters fight: the other woman already had a split lip. Bloody mouth or not, she crowed in triumph, holding up the corm, and Rathe lifted his truncheon at her.

“Leave off, mistress.” He released the other woman, careful to stay between them. “Brawling in the market, and without the excuse of drink?” He saw other, avid faces behind them, the thought that Wymar’s goods were all but unguarded vivid in their eyes, and raised his truncheon again. “The rest of you, stand back unless you want me to call points on all of you for a mob.”

“She cheated me,” the taller woman said.

“No!” The other stiffened indignantly in his grip. “I had my hand on it first, had drawn out my money to pay Master Wymar–”

“Sweet Sofia, dames, it’s one corm,” Rathe said, and knew it was pointless even as he spoke.

“It is rather spectacular, pointsman,” Wymar offered, almost apologetically, and Rathe saw to his relief that the merchant had managed to tidy most of his goods away out of reach. “It’s in the rose style, but doubled, and yellow with the faintest of pink tracings–”

“That’s the flower,” Rathe said. “The corm–” He broke off, knowing it was pointless from the look in the women’s eyes. The corm was only the flower in potential; each one had to be treated properly, allowed to winter over in its own time, or kept cold and then warm to force an early bloom, if the variety allowed it. His own mother was an herbalist, had taught him to keep his own small garden even though his stars had taken him a long way from her profession; she grew some of the corms as well, and he knew how tricky the showier varieties could be to coax to full majesty. But these–none of them were buying with that in mind, wanting only to have and to hold the source of the possible beauty. The thought was suddenly painful, a vision of wasted corms, misplanted, blooming blind, or left drying and neglected once the folly was past, sharpening his tongue.

“I can’t tell you not to buy it, that’s your own folly, and so be it. But brawling in the market, that is a points matter, and I’m inclined to call the point next time. Master Wymar.” He took a breath. “I leave the judgment to you, master, as to which of these women is the rightful purchaser, and, frankly, I don’t envy you. But give judgment now.”

Wymar blinked, his face going even paler than before, flung out his arm to indicate the shorter woman. Her face split in a ferocious grin, and the other woman flung back her head.

“No! Gods above, he lies–”

“Shall I call the point?” Rathe demanded, and the woman faltered.

“You can’t–it would be a disgrace. Unless you call it against this fool, this blind calf’s‑head, who only gives it to her because her son’s in his guild–”

“Mistress,” Rathe said, sharply, and the woman fell silent, controlling herself with an effort. “I didn’t intend to call the point, I think you’re both well paid for it, but if you insist, I will.”

The smaller woman, he was pleased to see, had had the sense to get her money out smartly, and was already fading into the crowd, the corm clutched close beneath her skirt. The taller woman took another breath, shaking her head, but by her expression, she was far from appeased.

“If there’s any more trouble,” Rathe said, raising his voice to be sure he was heard, “if I or any other from the points sees another disturbance, I will call a point, and close this stall down. Is that understood?”

There was a murmur, ambiguous at best, but Wymar bobbed his head in rapid agreement. “Yes, pointsman–forgive me, Adjunct Point, anything you say.”

I hope so. “And my warning to you is to keep order at your business,” Rathe said. “That’s one of the conditions of your bond, as you very well know, one of the terms of the license you hold for this spot. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of that, or check your license, do I?”