The Tally Master

by J. M. Ney-Grimm

  Gael nodded. Now they were getting down to it.

  Keir continued. “And you’ll see that the items listed for the day’s work also add up to twenty-three pounds.” He tapped the bottom of the sheet. “But it makes no sense. And we both know why.”

  “The privy notary is fudging the weights,” said Gael.

  “We knew he was, Secretarius,” said Keir quietly, “but I had no idea how bad it was until I saw him myself this morning. Martell would have grabbed the ingots before his notary got anything at all tallied, and I’m sure he does the same in the evening. I thought there was some estimation going on, but it’s all estimation. You can see it right here!” Keir tapped the parchment again. “Look! We issued four tin, right?”

  Gael nodded.

  “And here are the tin-lined sauce pans that Martell used half an ingot on.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gael.

  “The rest of the list was all poured in the one-nineteen bronze that Martell thought should have been one-twelve bronze.”

  Gael could see the problem. Martell thought he’d used one-and-a-half ingots of tin to make his bronze, but the bronze itself had shown that he’d used only one ingot of tin, maybe less. Since the privy smithy had received four ingots of tin, and Martell had used only one-and-a-half ingots of tin, where were the other two-and-a-half ingots?

  Well, Gael knew where one of them had gone. Arnoll had taken it. And it had not been tin, but merely copper disguised to look like tin. But that still left one-and-a-half ingots utterly unaccounted for.

  Keir had more to say. “Since Martell’s bronze for the day was made from eighteen ingots of copper, one ingot of bronze, and one or less ingots of tin, the most his output could have weighed would have been twenty pounds. Hells!” Keir never swore, but he was swearing now. “There would have to be some wastage. And, yet, here his notary claims twenty-three pounds of bowls, platters, and so on.” Keir poked the parchment savagely.

  “That’s where our tin thief is getting his ingots then,” said Gael.

  “But we’re no further ahead than we were before,” grated Keir. “We knew it had to be the privy smithy supplying the thief.”

  This was a new side to Keir, displaying a touch of heat rather than his customary cool.

  Gael straightened, squinting as the sun caught his eyes. “No, we suspected the privy smithy served as our thief’s source. We did not know it.”

  Keir puffed a breath out. “Do we even know it now? We’re giving the other smiths the benefit of any doubt, based only on our assessments of their natures. We could be wrong. Should we observe them the way I’ve observed Martell?”

  Gael suppressed a smile. Keir was nothing if not logical, and he did have a point. But the boy forgot that Gael had worked with these trolls for much longer than the two years Keir had known them.

  “We’ll follow this lead for now. If it peters out, we’ll consider other possibilities, such as investigating the other smithies. But our lead is going somewhere, wouldn’t you agree?” said Gael.

  Keir’s sudden spurt of energy abruptly congealed.

  “What is it?” Gael asked quietly.

  Keir bit his lip. “It mayn’t be anything.” The boy swallowed. “I hope it’s nothing.”

  Gael frowned. “Yes?”

  “Ravin, one of the tin smeltery scullions, saw Arnoll take an ingot of tin from the privy smithy yesterday morning,” blurted Keir. “He thought Arnoll was correcting a mistake, and I thought so, too, when he told me. But” – Keir shook his head – “Arnoll hasn’t told you or turned the tin ingot in, so it can’t be that, can it? Arnoll was stealing. Arnoll.” A slight flush colored Keir’s cheeks.

  Gael relaxed. He’d been wondering how to keep Arnoll’s secret, while yet explaining the returned copper ingot. Keir’s disclosure meant Arnoll’s secret was already out – part of it – which meant Gael need not choose his words quite so painstakingly.

  “Arnoll was following the directive of a higher authority when he took the ingot,” said Gael.

  Relief chased across Keir’s features. “You knew?”

  “He told me himself,” said Gael.

  “But who? And why?” asked Keir.

  That was something Gael still needed to conceal.

  Keir’s brows drew down as he cogitated. “The regenen?” he guessed.

  Gael had to stop that line of reasoning. Keir would unravel far too much if permitted to continue.

  “I’m not free to speak,” Gael stated.

  Keir’s eyebrows flew upward. “The regenen,” he said.

  “Keir, Arnoll returned the ingot to me, because it was not tin. It merely looked like tin.”

  Keir’s face went white.

  Gael started to reach for the boy, but stayed the impulse. What ailed the lad? Gael hadn’t yet revealed the most troubling fact about that disguised ingot – that it had been disguised through the manipulation of energea. Something strange here, just as little strangenesses had emerged all through Gael’s initial probing into his two mysteries.

  “Keir?”

  Keir swallowed. “How – how could it look like tin, but not be tin?” he choked out.

  “I think you already know what I was going to say,” answered Gael.

  “Someone broke the regenen’s ban?” asked Keir.

  “It was a copper ingot energetically disguised as tin,” confirmed Gael.

  Keir swallowed again. “That’s – that’s bad,” he whispered.

  Gael nodded. “Our thief is likely powerful, willing to defy Carbraes, and a practicing magus.”

  Keir straightened his hunched shoulders. “So the copper ingot you left on my desk –”

  “– was the ‘tin’ ingot Arnoll removed from the privy smithy,” said Gael.

  Keir’s chin lifted. “But the bronze ingots! Where did those come from? And we were missing only one, not two.”

  Gal cleared his throat. “I suspect that if you were to tally the bronze vault at this moment, you would discover that the return of the two ingots brings us to exactly the right number.”

  Keir’s eyes widened and his lips parted. He seemed to be looking a long ways away.

  Gael took the opportunity to recount his and Arnoll’s chase after a fugitive in the Cliff Stair and the finding of the bronze ingots in the bucket niche of the latrine.

  Keir’s attention came back from whatever distant place his thoughts had carried him. He narrowed his eyes. “So Arnoll had one ‘tin’ ingot, but he’s not the troll we’re looking for. Someone else took two bronze ingots and hid them in the latrine. And someone else took one-and-a-half tin ingots –” the boy tilted his head “– how do you steal half an ingot anyway? But we don’t know where they are. And none of this hangs together.”

  “It doesn’t,” agreed Gael.

  Keir’s hand reached out to grip Gael’s wrist. “Secretarius, there’s one thing more.”

  “Only one?” joked Gael. He felt immune to startlement at this point.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you it first.”

  “I suspect the matter of Arnoll and the fudged privy smithy tallies distracted you.”

  “They shouldn’t have,” said Keir. The boy seemed to be regaining his balance. “One of the porters or scullions on the Regenen Stair stole an ingot of tin this morning right out of the carry sack of the privy scullion.”

  “Surely not,” said Gael.

  “I tallied every last thing that went into his sack from the vaults,” declared Keir. “And I watched the privy notary tally each thing as it came out in the smithy. One ingot of tin was gone.”

  A feeling of cold crept into Gael’s stomach, dousing the nibblings of hunger arising there. He usually broke his fast properly in the morning, eating much more than the snack he’d cadged from Barris on his way to the yard. “But you did not see the theft as it occurred?” he questioned Keir.

  “I did not.”

  Gael really did not like where this might be leading. In his mind’s eye, he could see
Barris’ hand moving underneath that tray of smoked fish. Wasn’t it enough that one friend had betrayed him? Was a second to prove equally . . . fallible? Or had Barris merely been steadying that tray?

  Keir was looking down at his lap. “But what would a mere scullion do with an ingot of tin anyway?” he asked.

  Gael gripped his feeling of incipient loss – hard – and stuffed it down.

  “A scullion might steal at the behest of another, and that is what I think has happened,” answered Gael. “I learned from the mine teamsters that the magus has been poking around both the copper mine and the tinworks where he has no business. And . . .” Was it wise to disclose this to Keir? Gael firmed his lips. Yes. Keir needed to know to be on his guard. “. . . the castellanum has always disliked me, as you know. Last night I discovered that he felt you should have come to him as notary rather than to me. And his resentment is the stronger thereby.”

  Keir’s face went blank, and then he chuckled. “You think the castellanum might have bribed a kitchen scullion to steal tin, just because he hates you?”

  “I did not say that Theron hated me,” chided Gael.

  “He does, though,” said Keir.

  “No doubt. But you should be wary of him, Keir,” said Gael.

  Keir’s lips quirked.

  Gael abruptly remembered other words spoken at the high table. Words spoken by Nathiar. “I’m serious, Keir.”

  “Yes, Secretarius.”

  “Be even more wary of the magus,” Gael added.

  Keir’s chuckles evaporated. It seemed he took the magus at least more seriously.

  * * *

  Keir looked around the oxhide vault, relieved to be tallying there instead of in the more cramped ingot vaults on the level above. The oxhide vault possessed two casements, and she’d opened both. Shouts from the artisan yard below arrowed in, along with the strengthening sunlight of the advancing morning, shining on the weighty copper oxhides leaning in stacks against the walls.

  Keir sniffed the air. Before her sojourn at Belzetarn she wouldn’t have guessed that metal possessed any scent. Indeed, were she to hold one of Martell’s ladles up to her nose, she would smell nothing. But large stores of metal gathered together generated . . . something close to an aroma. Maybe it was the energea which produced it, but the tin vault and the pebble vault possessed that characteristic flat, dry odor which Keir found oppressive. This oxhide vault featured a much more pleasant, warm, and full flavor on the air.

  She opened the flap of her portfolio to get out her tallying supplies of parchment, quill, and ink.

  Gael had been apologetic that she must tally the oxhide vault and the pebble vault a full deichtain ahead of when they were due. She’d reassured him, saying, “No, we have to know if there’s another leak in the stream of metals besides in the privy smithy. I’m guessing we have more than one thief.”

  Gael had looked down at that. She knew he hated the idea that someone (or more than one) within his acquaintance was stealing from him. She admired his fortitude in not shirking the idea. And she wondered how he felt about Arnoll taking that one ingot. He hadn’t really told her much about exactly what had happened.

  She couldn’t forego disliking herself just a little for her own secrets, the obvious one of her sex, and the other one she had buried, not even letting herself think about it.

  Gael had replied to her mention of the possibility of multiple thieves prosaically enough. “That’s it, of course. And if we have more than one thief, those thieves may pilfer from different sources. We have to know if we have more metal missing than we’re currently aware of.”

  When she’d suggested tallying the bronze vault again, he’d agreed, although he obviously thought it less a priority. And then he’d hurried away without telling her where he was going, what he wanted her to do after she finished her tallies, or anything of his further plans for their day. Which was strange. Gael was ordinarily so punctilious about the work of the tally chamber.

  Was he angry? Dismayed? Or just in a rush? It had something to do with her report of the tin ingot stolen from the privy scullion’s carry sack on the stairs, but it reminded her unnervingly of the last time her pater had hastened away from her.

  * * *

  Standing beside the sea in the cove below her home, with Pater behind her, his hands warm on her shoulders, Keiran had been learning how to herd fishes.

  She’d scarcely felt the brisk wind on her face or the cool sea spray against her shins. Scarcely tasted the salt on her lips. All her attention narrowed to focus on the dark and monstrous presence she’d encountered when she followed her energea out across the waves and then plunged deep beneath them.

  The ominous swimmer turned and glided, lethal in intent, seeking to do violence with an implacable calm.

  She’d caught him with a noose of energea, and now he came to her, surging shoreward with the muscular movements of his colossal body and powerful strokes of his mighty flukes.

  On and on, he came, seeking his captor. Seeking her.

  Keiran became aware of her pater shouting, his fingers gripping hard on her shoulders. “Release him! Release!” he bellowed.

  But she couldn’t. The monster of the deeps that she’d snared had snared her, hooking her energea more strongly than she’d entangled his.

  She began to struggle, flailing like a mackerel in a net and with as little effect. The behemoth of the sea reeled her in, reeling himself in, his aspect gaining distinct traits as he neared: sleek black skin, tall dorsal fin, conical teeth made for tearing, white underbelly.

  On and on he came, cold hunger in his innards, colder rage in his eye.

  Keiran’s pater released his grip on her shoulders to thrust her toward the dunes behind him.

  And then she could see her monstrous captive, a gargantuan fish – shining black on his upper surfaces, gleaming white below – streaking between the two headlands of the cove, launching himself inland with his toothy maw opened wide.

  Pictwhale. Sword of the sea. Hell-sent and wrathful.

  Orca.

  Keiran screamed.

  And then she pulled – hard – on her energea, blasting it out to batter the fearsome creature as it plowed up the beach.

  She felt something within her rip, and her energea flashed gold with black edges.

  At that moment, the orca swerved, his belly grinding against the pebbles and broken shells in the surf before he regained the deeper waters of the cove, heading back out to sea.

  Keiran fell, her backside thudding into the sand. Pater whirled, horror on his face.

  He roared.

  “Pater?” faltered Keiran.

  “Stay here!” ordered Pater. “Stay right here.”

  And then he left, limping, running. Pat, thump, pat, thump, pat, thump.

  * * *

  Legend of the Mark of Gaelan

  Long ago, in the dawn of time, there lived two brothers in the land of Erynis. They studied magery, and each vied with the other to be the most skillful, the most powerful, and the most creative magus in the north. Despite their rivalry, they loved one another as brothers do: strong affection mingled with equally strong jealousy.

  Each boasted that his magery was better. And each laughed, because who was to judge between them?

  The friends of Cayim, the elder brother, would surely say he excelled every other magus in the land, while the students taught by Gaelan, the younger brother, would choose their teacher as the best. And all the people of Erynis were either friends of Cayim or students of Gaelan.

  Now it chanced that the twin gods of Erynis heard the boasts of the two brothers. Thelor, the god of cleverness and intellect, felt sure that his powers of reason could discern which brother was the more masterful magus. And Elunig, the goddess of wisdom, loved her twin and wished him to experience the enjoyment that exercising discernment would give him.

  So, when next the holy hermit of Erynis sat in meditation, Elunig granted him a vision. In his vision, Gaelan and Cayim trave
led to the hermit’s shrine and from there were transported to the heavenly home of the twin gods, where they would be judged. The superior brother would be offered the choice between two wondrous gifts.

  When Cayim heard of the hermit’s vision, he longed for Thelor’s gift: the enchanting of a well such that the one who drank of its waters would always know whether a given fact be false or true.

  And when Gaelan learned of the hermit’s vision, he yearned for Elunig’s gift: the enchanting of a spring such that the one who drank from it would always know whether a proposed action was wise or foolish.

  On the eve of midsummer, the two brothers met and agreed to the trial of mastery. They journeyed to the hermit’s shrine and were brought to the twin gods’ home as the hermit’s vision had promised.

  They received their welcome in a garden of surpassing beauty. Red poppies crowded the borders. White roses, heavy with scent, climbed the trellises. And a fountain splashed.

  Elunig spoke the first words, her voice gentle. “You are safe here, but do not stray into the wilderness beyond the hedge, for it is perilous there.”

  Thelor spoke next, his tone stern. “Nor should you leave the chambers to which we bid you in our house, for dangers lurk in unexpected corners.”

  Gaelan, overwhelmed by the majesty of the twin gods, bowed reverentially. But Cayim delayed, curious to discover if he could understand more of the divine by scrutinizing these magnificent examples of it. While he stared, and while Elunig gazed affectionately upon Gaelan, Thelor laid a finger aside his nose and winked.

  Then a servant brought them goblets of fruit nectar to quaff, and when they had quenched their thirst, led them indoors.

  Gaelan bathed his face and hands in the basin provided and lay down upon the silken couch to sleep. But Cayim waited until his brother’s eyes closed and retraced his steps to the garden. There he found Thelor, seated on the steps below the fountain.

  “Why did you wink?” Cayim asked.

  “I wished to tell you that my sister longs for a babe, despite our great mother declaring that enough divine children have entered the world.”