Rahl nodded as he took it and slipped it on his left wrist. “Is that all? Do I have to do anything else?”
“As an outlander, you are forbidden to use active order or chaos skills outside your dwelling or place of work, except in self-defense. Any claim of self-defense will be tried by the justicers of mages. If you choose to leave your employer and do not work for another outlander, you must reregister and be tested and instructed like any mage born in Hamor. That costs a gold, but if you don’t have the funds, just say so, and the funds will come out of whatever you get paid in the future. Don’t let the lack of coin stop you. Failure to reregister could get you a flogging or worse.”
That was another bit of information that chilled Rahl. “Thank you.” He nodded again, then stopped. “Are there any special days… ?”
“No. Someone’s here all the time. You might have to wait a while on end-days, though. We’re usually shorthanded.”
Obviously, the mage-guards worked harder than the magisters did. ‘That’s all, Rahl.“
“Oh… I’m sorry. I was just thinking.” Rahl turned and left.
“… that one won’t last…”
“… might…”
Guylmor was glancing from side to side as Rahl neared the trap. Rahl kept his left arm out of sight.
“There you are. I was getting worried, Rahl.”
“They had questions and some papers to sign. Let’s get back.” Rahl climbed back up into the seat he had been in and out of more times than he’d wanted. (
“Good by me.”
As Guylmor drove back along the lane, and waited for the patroller to stop other wagons so that they could get back on the harbor boulevard, Rahl sat, thinking. He couldn’t stay more than a season with the Association, and once he left, he’d either have to find a way out of Swartheld or effectively put himself in the hands of the mage-guards. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He wasn’t just in exile, but perilously close to being in worse danger than he’d ever faced.
If he could have at that moment, he would have put a falchiona into Puvort without the slightest remorse. The magistras in Nylan weren’t much better, either. Anyone they sent to Hamor was almost certainly doomed to slavery or worse. And they talked about their kindness in “preparing” people for exile!
Rahl’s lips tightened. What could he do? He didn’t really have that much time… or coins.
“Rahl… we’re here.”
“Oh… I’m sorry. I was thinking.” Rahl didn’t need to be angry at Guylmor. The teamster certainly wasn’t at fault.
Rahl gathered himself together and eased off the seat. His feet were still warning him not to jump down. Before he stepped into the Merchant Association building, he slipped the shimmering copper bracelet off his wrist and into his belt wallet. At the moment, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to think he was a mage, especially Daelyt or Shyret, since they were not supposed to know—if what the board members in Nylan had said happened to be true. He had to wonder at that, but he wasn’t about to bring it up.
Shyret was pacing up and down the space behind the wide desk. At Rahl’s entry, he turned. “Rahl, what took so long? I need Guylmor to take the wagon and the dyes to Ebsolam.”
“Something must have happened in” the harbor. The mage-guards were stopping everyone. They wanted to know who I was, why I was there, and who I worked for.“
“Did they take the envelope?”
“No, ser. They let me deliver it to the enumerators‘. Here is the receipt they gave me.” Rahl extended the envelope with the sealed square of parchment.
Shyret as much as grabbed the envelope as accepted it and immediately opened it. Rahl could feel the relief from the director as soon as Shyret saw the receipt.
“Sometimes that happens. It’s most disconcerting,” said the director.
Rahl could tell he was lying—and that he’d been worried about that draft getting to the enumerators, worried more than just a little.
Shyret forced a smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry it took so long. Maybe they just stopped me because I was new. The mage-guard wanted to know where Daelyt was. It seemed better when I explained, but that took time.”
The director smiled wanly. “I need to make sure Chenaryl’s loaded the wagon for Ebsolam.” He turned.
Rahl took a slow deep breath, then moved toward his stool. “Do you know what that draft was for?” He kept his voice low.
“No. Not exactly,” replied Daelyt. “I imagine it’s one of the seasonal tariff payments to the enumerators. Everyone who handles declarations and manifests is assessed tariffs four times a year. The amount is based on how much cargo passes through our warehouses. I work up the figures and give them to the director. He writes the draft and sends it. I’ve been taking it… until you got here.”
“He seemed worried,” Rahl ventured.
“Things have been a little slow… he probably waited until the last moment to write the draft—or he could have forgotten it was due. Anyway,” Daelyt said with a shrug, “it’s done, and I’ve got the declarations for the Legacy of Westwind. We might as well get on with it before the enumerators show up.”
Rahl climbed into his stool.
At that moment, he realized where he’d heard the name Doramyl before—from Alamyrt on the Diev. But why had Alamyrt been traveling on a Reduce vessel when he or his family owned their own fleet? Or had the trader just been pretending to be Alamyrt? Yet he’d owned bales of wool in his own name, and black wool didn’t come cheap.
“Rahl? We need to get started.” -»
“Oh… I’m sorry.” Rahl jerked alert. He must have dozed off. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Too much sun yesterday. Your skin is’ still red. It’s hotter here than in Recluce.”
“That could be.” Rahl cleaned his pen and dipped it in the inkwell. “I’m ready.”
“Cargo declaration of sevenday, eleventh eightday of summer…”
Rahl began to write.
XLVI
Thankfully, the next several days were uneventful for Rahl, and he did not have to go anywhere there might be a mage-guard. Even with the registry bracelet, he didn’t want anything to do with them. He kept the bracelet in his belt wallet, although at first it clinked loudly and gave the impression he had more coins than he did. He solved that problem by wrapping it in an old square of cloth he took from the rags in the storeroom.
The Legacy of the Founders ported ahead of schedule on fourday, but Chenaryl did not finish the “corrected” cargo declarations until midafternoon on sixday. Daelyt had delegated the drafting of the clean Hamorian copies of the cargo declaration to Rahl and checked each page of the first copy of the declaration as Rahl finished it.
Rahl was completing the last page of the third copy when Daelyt looked up from the cargo consignment form he had been writing up.
“The declaration shows that two kegs of madder were spoiled. What happens to all the spoiled goods?” asked Rahl.
“Chenaryl will sell them for what he can get on the sevenday auctions at the Exchange Plaza,” replied Daelyt.
“Just like all the other spoilage. The coins go back into the accounts here, except Chenaryl gets one part in fifty for his trouble.”
“I can see that it’s better for everyone to get some coins,” Rahl said, “but how does it work out for the traders? Or the growers or whoever made the goods?”
“Oh, they don’t have to worry,” explained Daelyt. “The Association buys the goods outright, except for cargoes carried under consignment. Then we resell them to factors and merchants here—or anyone else who pays the price. The spoilage and the costs of carrying goods are why they cost more here than they would in Nylan or wherever they come from.”
Rahl thought about that for a moment. “So the price that the director charges others here in Swartheld has to be high enough to cover the losses and the spoilage… and what it costs to keep the Association going? That’s why he wouldn’t
back down to Ebsolam the other day. Or Escoryl.”
“Exactly.”
“So, if spoilage gets too high, prices have to go up, or the Association loses coins.”
“Both, sometimes,” replied Daelyt, “and for some things he can’t raise prices. The director doesn’t like it when that happens.”
Rahl could see why.
“Are you finished with that last copy?” asked Daelyt.
“Yes.” Rahl handed it to the older clerk, thinking over what Daelyt had said… and what he had not, and how uneasy the other had been. “What else do you need?”
“You can make the copy of this when I’m finished. While you’re doing that, I need to find out something from the director.”
“I’ll work on copying the new schedule until you’re done,” Rahl said, “now that we have dates for the Guards and Black Holding.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Rahl actually finished a complete copy of the Association ship arrivals scheduled for the next three eightdays before Daelyt wiped his pen and set it aside.
“Here you are.” Daelyt did not look at Rahl as he handed him the cargo consignment form.
“I’ll get to work on it.”
“Good.” Daelyt’s voice was a trace flat as he eased off his stool.
Rahl only waited until Daelyt was beyond the archway before following the older clerk. He just sensed that he needed to know what he had said that had upset Daelyt. He stopped just before the arch and tried to use his order-skills to pick up what Daelyt was saying.
“Ser… worry about Rahl… sounds dumb with that Atlan accent. He’s not… lot of attention to the spoilage…” Daelyt’s voice was low, and hard for Rahl to pick up.
“Is that so? Just watch him.”
“… see if he says more?”
“We have time, and he does good work, doesn’t he?”
“… much better… Wynreed…”
“No reason not to use him while we can. If it looks bad, well… he can disappear.”
“… not like… Wynreed…”
“It doesn’t matter. Who would he tell? We’re within the laws here, and no one in Nylan will really care. No one wants to come here so long as we return profits on the golds they’ve invested.”
Rahl turned and slipped back to his stool so that he was writing out the copy of the consignment form when Daelyt returned. He did not look up, but kept working, trying to keep himself composed, and concentrating on not putting too much pressure on the pen. He had a tendency to do that when he was upset.
Somehow, Rahl managed to get through the end of the day. He was glad that he and Daelyt had to eat their evening meal at differing times. It would have been hard not to reveal his worry—and his anger.
Once Shyret and Daelyt had left the Association, Rahl stepped out and locked the front door behind him. He made his way eastward, trying to ignore the faintly acrid odors of too many people in too small an area cooking too much unfamiliar food. He kept walking along the avenue with the tree-lined median until he found an empty bench under the trees. There he sat in the hot evening, occasionally wiping his forehead, watching a few riders and carriages go past, trying to think, to sort things out.
While he couldn’t prove it, he was certain that most of the “spoiled” goods were not. He knew scarletine was even more expensive than indigo, and it had been valued on the manifest at something like fifty golds a keg. If Chenaryl reported a sale at ten golds, but really had sold it at fifty, and the wool at a similar difference, Shyret was making as much as forty to eighty golds off so-called spoilage on every ship. Chenaryl was making more than a few golds on the reported salvage sales. But what about Daelyt?
Yasnela had to be the key. Daelyt had as much as said that she could not walk—or not far—and that the two had rooms above the warehouse. Was the lodging and some healer support what Daelyt got? With what clerks made, Daelyt would be hard-pressed to support and quarter a consort without some accommodation by Shyret. Was that because Daelyt helped Shyret in his manipulations? It had to be, or he wouldn’t have talked to Shyret that way.
Rahl looked blankly at the tree across the stone sidewalk from him. What could he do? He couldn’t prove the goods hadn’t been spoiled. Everything that had been declared spoiled had already been sold except for the items on the Founders. Shyret was the only representative of Nylan in Swartheld, and he was the one stealing from the Association, and Rahl had sensed clearly the truth of the statement about what was being done was within the laws of Hamor.
In a way, he supposed it was. The growers got paid. The ships or their captains and crews got paid. But the Association was getting cheated. The question was… who was the Association? What was it? How did it work? Did it matter? It had to matter to someone.
Rahl found his fists clenching and his jaw tightening. He was in Hamor, working for a thieving director, yet where could he go and what could he do? If he left the Association, unless he immediately turned himself over to the mage-guards for testing, he’d be breaking the law, and after his experiences with mages, he wasn’t ready to go running to them, especially since, under Hamorian law, apparently, what Shyret was doing wasn’t illegal. And Rahl would either need a gold he didn’t have or have to be indentured… or something… if… when he left the Association.
What about seeing the factors at… what had it been… Doramyl and Sons?
He shook his head. He’d still have to register with the mage-guards.
Everything was so wrong, and so unfair! All because that arrogant sow’s ass Puvort hadn’t wanted to be honest or fair, and the magisters in Nylan were so worried that he might damage something. None of them gave a demon’s fart about Rahl or what might happen to him.
He stood up and began to walk. He had to do something.
XLVII
On sevenday morning, before anyone else showed up, Rahl polished the brasswork on all the lamps—except those in Shyret’s locked study—as well as on the doors and cabinet pulls. Then he swept the tile floor and mopped the entry area. He had just finished getting cleaned up and settling into place at the wide desk when Daelyt walked through the front door.
“So… feel guilty about getting paid, and you decided to do more of the brasswork?” Daelyt laughed.
Rahl had gotten a silver the evening before, but that was only for one eightday’s pay, rather than two. While it was more than twice what he’d received at the training center, everything he had to spend coins on was far more costly in Swartheld than it had been in Nylan. “I appreciate the pay. Having coins is much better than not, but”—Rahl offered a grin before going on—“I only feel a little guilty.” He really wanted to tell the older clerk that he didn’t feel guilty at all, but that wouldn’t have been wise.
“A little guilt is good.” Daelyt set out his pen and inkwell, then lifted a folder. “The director asked for a copy of this, and we’ve been so busy, I never got to it. With the Montgren more than an eightday out, now’s a good time for you to work on it.”
“Ah… what is it?”
“Oh… it’s the final inventory of what was in the warehouses on the last day of spring. The director has to send the Association’s chief managing director an inventory at the end of each season. It includes both what was left at the end of the season, with an estimated value, as well as what was sold during the season and for what, as well as losses through spoilage and pilfering. There’s also an addendum that lists what we hold in storage for others and what we receive for the storage fees. I’ve let it drag, but it will have to be done and sent to Nylan on the Legacy of Montgren. The chief managing director gets upset if the reports get more than a season behind.” Daelyt extended the folder. “Director Shyret will need two copies, but just do one first, and I’ll check it as you do.”
Rahl took the heavy folder. “There are a lot of pages here.”
Daelyt grinned. “There are. It will give you a better idea of all that we handle here.”
After setting the folder
in front of him, slightly to his left, Rahl began to turn the first few pages, filled with changes scrawled in the margins and smudges everywhere.
With such entries going on for what looked to be almost twenty pages, he could definitely see why Daelyt would like someone else to do the fair copying.
He extracted the blank ledger sheets from his side of the desk and began to copy, taking his time, because he needed to check the figures as well as copy them neatly. Even so, it was certainly no worse than Natural Arithmetics and not nearly so impenetrable as Philosophies of Candar.
Daelyt looked over his efforts several times, then straightened as a trader came in the front entry. “Might I be of assistance, noble trader?”
“When’s your next vessel bound for Nylan?”
“That would be the Legacy of Montgren, and it will be porting sometime after an eightday from oneday.”
“I’m looking for cubage for amphorae—needlewasp honey.”
“How many stones’ worth?”
“Less than a hundred.”
“That will not be a problem.”
The trader nodded, turned, and left.
Rahl looked at Daelyt quizzically.
“You’ve never heard of needlewasp honey?” asked the older clerk.
“I didn’t know it came from Hamor. Don’t the vintners use it to sweeten and stabilize bitter wines?”
“More trades use it than you’d think. Apothecaries, vintners, brewers, even dyers.” Daelyt snorted. “Working for a wasp-keeper… almost as bad as the quarries or the ironworks. Worse if you’re the kind that swells up when you get stung.”
“Where do they keep the wasps?”
“Most of the wasp-keepers are in the low marshy valleys south of Cigoerne. That’s where the blue lilies grow.”
“Daelyt!” called Shyret from the archway leading to his study.
The older clerk slipped off his stool and hurried away.
Rahl kept working on the seasonal inventory through the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon, before Daelyt sent him over to Eneld’s for his midday repast. Then Daelyt went.
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