Natural Ordermage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Why didn’t the older trader get involved? Is there something about that I should know?” asked Rahl.

  “Oh, he never does. Hassynat is the one who makes the consignments. He’s the one who has to find space for the cargoes that their ships can’t carry—either because they’re overcommitted or because it’s not worth their while to send a ship to a particular port at that time.”

  Rahl laughed. “You’re acting as if I know who they are.”

  Daelyt frowned for a moment. “The way Alamyrt was looking at you, I thought you did.”

  “I saw him on board the Diev, and he said he was a wool trader. I didn’t realize he was part of something larger, not when he was traveling on one of our ships.”

  “Doramyl and Sons is one of the largest.” Daelyt laughed. “They’ve got almost a score of vessels. Alamyrt is one of the family. He doesn’t always come, and he never talks when he does. I think he just wants to know what we’re charging.”

  “Oh…” Rahl paused, then added, “He must want to get a feeling for it, too. He’d get the quotes from Hassynat.”

  “It doesn’t matter to us, so long as they pay.” Daelyt paused. “You heard it all. Why don’t you write it up, and I’ll check it?”

  “I can do that. Is the shipper Hassynat of Doramyl and Sons, or just Doramyl and Sons?”

  “Hassynat of Doramyl.”

  Rahl took a consignment form from his second drawer and set it directly before him. As he settled in to fill out the form, Daelyt slipped from his stool and headed back toward the archway, doubtless to tell Shyret that Alamyrt had recognized Rahl.

  Rahl wanted to shake his head. No matter what he did, it seemed like something came up to create problems. Even when he went for a walk or out to find a meal.

  He picked up the pen, and another thought struck him, something so obvious that he hadn’t really noticed it at first. For all that Daelyt had said about Klerchyn trying to trick him into offering a lower price for the wool, Rahl had not sensed more than the faintest trace of chaos-mist around the trader—far, far less than what surrounded Shyret, Daelyt, and Chenaryl. Nor had Alamyrt or Hassynat shown any more chaos than Klerchyn.

  Rahl forced himself to concentrate on the details of the consignment form.

  LI

  A people cannot survive in chaos, nor can a land. For this reason, the first duty of any who would rule is to maintain order. Too much order, and a land becomes a prison where nothing is accomplished, save keeping order. Before long in such a land, there will be neither food nor clothing, and order itself will vanish as each person struggles to find nourishment and shelter for himself and those he holds dear. Too little order, and no one respects anyone else, neither his neighbor nor his ruler, and that land, too, will fall into ruin and anarchy.

  The lessons of history have illustrated all too clearly that, despite what people say about the need to do good and to respect the persons and property of others, most beings will only do good and respect others either when it costs them nothing or when they fear a greater power will cause them suffering should they not respect others. Using power to instill order and respect, without turning a land into a prison, that is the task of a ruler.

  Power is not respected or feared when it is never exercised. Yet, if it is exercised excessively and in an arbitrary fashion, people will become unhappy and unproductive, and that will cause the order of a land to decline. People also become unhappy when power is always used harshly and disproportionately to an offense against order. Likewise, they become confused when the laws governing the use of power are complex and difficult to explain or understand.

  Thus, the laws of a land must be both fair and simple. Sometimes, this is not possible, and if it is not, a ruler should err on the side of simplicity, because, no matter how hard administrators, mage-guards, and rulers attempt to assure fairness, absolute fairness is by nature impossible, and attempts to create it always lead to a wider and more complex set of rules and laws, which seem unfair because of their very complexity. In the end, attempting to create absolute fairness will create a greater impression of unfairness than maintaining a firmer and simpler set of rules.

  The last precept about laws is this: Create no law that is not absolutely necessary to maintain simple order. Beyond the minimum for maintaining order, laws are like fleas or leeches. The more of them that exist, the more they vex a land and bleed it into chaos and anarchy.

  Manual of the Mage-Guards

  Cigoerne, Hamor

  1551 A.F.

  LII

  The mist that had cloaked Swartheld on eightday had given way by oneday morning to high clouds that in Recluce would have promised rain. Rahl had doubts that they would and went to work sweeping and mopping the floors. The brasswork could wait a few days, but he did oil and polish the woodwork and furniture. When he finished, he washed up and dressed. He replaced the registry bracelet in his belt wallet, wrapped in cloth once more, rather than wearing it. Then he went and bought some bread from Gostof that he ate in his own cubby, before returning to the front and waiting for Daelyt to arrive.

  The older clerk came in whistling, but Rahl thought the melody was a bit off.

  “Good morning, Rahl.”

  “Good morning. How was your end-day?”

  “Quiet. We slept late and went and saw friends. What about yours?”

  “I explored a little and had a meal at Hakky.” Rahl laughed. “I won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

  “I can see why. I took Yasnela there once for her birthday. She told me she wouldn’t stand for my spending that many coins on food ever again.”

  Rahl chuckled politely, even though he knew the older clerk was lying. “I suppose once will have to be enough. At least, the Association pays for our meals at Eneld’s.”

  “In a way,” replied Daelyt. “We probably get paid less, but Shyret can get the meals for us cheaper than we can.”

  Rahl hadn’t thought of it quite that way.

  The day went quickly, with traders coming in and seeking consignment space on the Montgren—and even on the Black Holding, which wasn’t scheduled back until an eightday or more after the Montgren, or the Diev, which would arrive in Swartheld even later. Others came in looking to purchase various goods in the warehouse, or to see if they were available.

  “We’re in the last eightday of summer, getting on toward fall,” Daelyt pointed out in one lull. “It gets busier then.”

  “And winter?”

  “That’s busy, too. Late summer is the slowest.”

  As the sun dropped lower in the west,- and the shadows lengthened outside the Association, a slender man-wearing a pale blue fharong hurried into the Association. “I’ve got a remittance for the director.”

  “I can take it,” offered Daelyt.

  “No. It has to go to him personally. The trader wouldn’t be happy otherwise:”

  Daelyt nodded at Rahl, and the younger clerk jumped off his stool and hurried back through the archway.

  Shyret looked up from the ledger open before him. “What is it, Rahl?”

  “Ser… there’s a man here with a remittance. He won’t give it to anyone but you. Daelyt sent me to tell you.”

  The director rose, shaking his head, then ran his fingers through his short iron gray hair. “Because none of them trust their own clerks, they don’t trust mine.”

  Rahl stepped aside and followed the director.

  As Shyret approached the wide desk, Rahl could sense two kinds of chaos from the remittance man—that of a hidden blade and that of evil or corruption. His hand went to his truncheon.

  The man stepped toward Shyret extending a large envelope. “Ser director, this is the remittance from Waolsyn.”

  Rahl’s truncheon was out, and he was moving even faster than the attacker. The black wood slammed across the man’s wrist, and the dagger in the hand not holding the envelope dropped to the floor.

  The man whirled, dropping the envelope, and sprinted toward the front door.
Rahl couldn’t move around Shyret fast enough to stop him.

  The director glanced around, then shuddered ever so slightly. His hand touched his midsection, his fingers lingering there for a moment as his eyes dropped to the weapon on the floor. He looked up and moistened his lips. “Have either of. you seen him before?”

  “No, ser.” Daelyt’s and Rahl’s words were almost simultaneous.

  “He’s not one of Waolsyn’s men that I’ve ever seen.”

  Daelyt bent down and picked up the envelope, then straightened and handed it to Shyret. “It’s light, but there’s something in it.”

  Shyret did not take the envelope, instead looking at Rahl. “How did you know he had a blade?”

  “I didn’t, ser, not until I saw that he had something in his other hand. It just felt wrong.”

  “It was indeed.” Shyret’s laugh was hollow. His eyes dropped to the dagger on the floor. “Since you were the one who stopped him, Rahl, the blade is yours.”

  “Thank you, ser. Ah… is it all right to sell it?”

  “Whatever you wish.” Shyret opened the heavy envelope. He looked anything but happy, and he manifested a tenseness as he extracted a short sheet of heavy paper, which he read quickly and thrust inside his beige fharong. He handed the empty envelope to Daelyt. “Burn it.”

  Then he turned and strode back toward his study.

  Rahl looked at Daelyt. “Why would anyone do something like that?”

  “This is Swartheld. You can pay for anything here.”

  “Even here, there has to be a reason,” Rahl pointed out. “Is. he undercutting other traders? Or did he do something to anger someone?”

  Daelyt shrugged. “He doesn’t say much about things like that.”

  The older clerk was lying. That Rahl could tell.

  “Still smells like something got burned,” mused Daelyt.

  Although Daelyt was changing the subject, Rahl realized that there was the faint stench of burned hair hanging in the air.

  “Watch things,” Daelyt added. “I need to burn this.” He held up the envelope, then glanced at the weapon still lying on the floor. “That’s yours, remember.”

  “Oh…‘’Rahl shook his head. ‘There’s something on it. I’ll get a rag from the storeroom.” Before Daelyt could protest, he dashed to the back and returned almost immediately.

  As soon as he did, Daelyt headed toward the rear door.

  Rahl could sense that the substance on the edge of the blade held something like chaos. Poison? He was careful to wrap the entire dagger in rags and slip it into his lower drawer. Later, after he was alone, he’d clean it, and study it.

  LIII

  On twoday, Rahl ate his midday meal quickly and hurried out from Eneld’s to Chalyn’s—the weapons shop just to the east of the cantina. As he stepped inside, he noted that the shutters were iron-backed.

  A muscular balding man moved from the counter toward him. “You must be the new clerk at the Association.”

  “You’re Chalyn?”

  “The very same.” The proprietor made a sweeping gesture that was clearly a mockery of a formal bow. “And you?”

  “I’m Rahl. I heard your name but I’ve never met you. Daelyt said that you often bought weapons as well as sold them.”

  “It depends. They have to be usable, and salable. Especially salable. I’m not a collector the way Eklar is.”

  Rahl brought out the cloth-covered dagger,‘ unwrapped it, and set it on the counter. The dark blade was a span and. a half long, dark oiled iron, with narrow gutters on each side of the blade. The hilt looked to be bone, cut in a -cross-edged pattern to make it easier to grip. “What about this one?”

  Chalyn moved behind the counter.

  Rahl stepped to one side to avoid blocking the light from the high side window.

  The proprietor lowered his head slightly and studied the dagger, then lifted it and balanced it on the side of his hand, before turning it in the light. Finally, he laid it gently on the oiled wood countertop.

  “It’s not a new blade. Not a real old one, either. It’s a copy of a Cyadoran dagger. Assassin’s weapon. Sharp edges and points, and strong enough to cut a silk vest in a direct thrust. Tang is almost as wide as the blade, but a touch thinner. It could be used as parry blade for use with a rapier or a falchiona, but this one hasn’t been. Might be threescore years old, might not. Good condition.”

  “Who would carry this?”

  “Is it not yours?”

  “Only because I knocked it out of the hand of a ruffian who was assaulting the director.”

  Chalyn’s eyes flicked to Rahl’s belt. Then he nodded. “Ironbound lorken. Recluce weapon, but not the kind that gets the mage-guards upset.”

  Rahl waited.

  “Footpad wouldn’t carry this. Not that good for anything but killing… or showing off. It’s not that decorated. No inlays on the hilt and not a hint of scrollwork or engraving on the blade or guard. Either a bravo who wants to be an assassin ,pr an assassin apprentice, that would be my judgment. Might be a tough who was given the weapon.”

  “What would you offer for it?”

  Chalyn laughed. “Blades are always worth something, but there’d only be a few who’d be interested in this. Sometimes, Vadoryn comes by looking for decent blades for apprentices. He’d be the only one I’d be able to count on say… a silver and a half.”

  “You could get three and a half from him,” replied Rahl.

  “And you’re just the clerk?”

  “The newest one,” replied Rahl with a smile. “But I listen and watch.”

  “I still have the carrying costs, and the tariffs on inventory, and Vadoryn won’t pay near what it’s worth, and there might not be anyone else for seasons,” countered Chalyn. “A silver and eight.”

  “You don’t have ”another like it in the case or the display window,“ Rahl pointed out. ”If Vadoryn came by tomorrow and you didn’t have it, it might be eightdays, or seasons, before he returned.“

  “I still have to pay tariffs to the mage-guards and the patrollers, and the local enumerators. A silver and nine.”

  “Two and two,” suggested Rahl.

  “Two silvers and one. That’s the best I can do.”

  Rahl sensed that was close to what Chalyn could—or would—pay. “Done at two silvers and one.”

  Chalyn left the blade on the counter, but two silvers and a copper appeared next to it, almost instantly.

  “Thank you.” Rahl swept up the coins.

  “Young fellow…”

  “Yes, ser?”

  “I’d be watching your back. Even apprentice assassins don’t like having to go back to their masters without their blades. You’ll probably be having an eightday or so while he recovers from the whipping, but after that…”

  That was something else Rahl hadn’t considered. He nodded, then slipped the coins quickly into his belt wallet. “I’m always learning something new about Swartheld. Thank you.”

  Chalyn laughed. “If you stay alive longer, you might find me some even better blades.” By the time Rahl left Chalyn’s, the clouds had lowered, and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. He hurried across the street, ducking behind a heavy-laden lumber wagon pulled by four drays, and scurried into the Association.

  “It’s wet out there,” Rahl said as he took his place behind the wide desk. “I thought it didn’t rain much here.”

  “It doesn’t, most of the year,” replied Daelyt: “We often get more rain in the last eightday or so of summer and the first two eightdays of fall than in the whole rest of the year.” The older clerk rose. “I’m headed to Eneld’s. I won’t be long. You can handle consignments, except if they want to pay right now. Then you’ll need to check with the director. Selling goods, you’ll have to fetch him.”

  Rahl nodded and watched as Daelyt hurried out into the light rain.

  After that, Rahl sat alone for a time. Belatedly, he realized the full impact of Chalyn’s warning and last words. Better b
lades suggested more accomplished assassins. As he considered that, he could feel a slow-burning anger rekindle—or perhaps he just recognized it. Because he stopped a killing, he was going to be more of a target? He was likely to be in even greater danger… and it had all started with that sow’s ass Puvort! Just because Puvort hadn’t liked Rahl, he’d made Rahl’s self-defense into a crime. The bastard had twisted the truth and misrepresented what had happened and exiled Rahl to Nylan, and there the magisters hadn’t been much help, either. Everyone wanted to blame, but no one really had wanted to help or explain. And now, Rahl was stuck in Swartheld, and he not only had ‘ to worry about the mage-guards, and what he would do in less than a season, but he also had to worry about assassins, and that didn’t take into account cutpurses, and the schemes of Shyret and Chenaryl.

  The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. No matter what he tried to do, the future was looking grimmer and grimmer, and no one cared. Puvort certainly hadn’t cared, and Kadara hadn’t been much better. The only one who’d tried to explain anything had been Deybri, and she was a healer, not a magister.

  He was still seething when Daelyt returned.

  “Is everything all right, Rahl? You look… disturbed.”

  “Just thinking.” Rahl forced a laugh. “Sometimes, it’s hard to get used to a new place.”

  “That’s true. My first year here was hard.” Daelyt paused at the desk. “I’ll be back in a moment. I need more ink.”

  Before Daelyt returned, two traders walked in, looking for wool and various dyestuffs. From that moment on, both clerks were busy until late in the afternoon.

  When the last of a continuous string of traders had left, Daelyt smiled crookedly. “Didn’t I tell you that it would get busier?”

  “You did.”

  The door opened again, and Rahl turned his head.

  A swarthy young man in a clerk’s summer tunic walked to the desk. “Daelyt!”

  “Hylart, what are you doing here? You walk all the way from the north piers?”

  “Hardly. There’s a wagon outside with Sumyl and a driver. I’ve got what Waolsyn owes your director. With twenty golds in the pouch, no one was going to let me walk.”