The Tally Master

by J. M. Ney-Grimm

  When Keir reappeared, the boy said, “Arnoll tapped the gong three times to get a good look. You didn’t feel it, did you?”

  Gael had felt nothing beyond the languor of relaxing in the evening sun, he reassured his diligent notarius-turned-nurse.

  At the door to his chambers, Gael asked, “Will you check with the cook about the supper to be served?”

  “The first course has already arrived,” said Keir.

  “Ah. Good.” Gael was tempted to invite the boy to stay, but that would preclude the frank request Gael wished to make of Arnoll. “Then I shan’t need you further.”

  Keir nodded, but insisted on shepherding Gael to a divan and recommending that his patient avail himself of the slanting end rest, before the boy took his leave.

  Arnoll was reclining on another divan across the tripod table where a tray held an earthenware carafe and two drinking bowls. The smith poured a stream of pale golden liquid into each, lifted his to his lips and swallowed a long draught, then sighed.

  “That’s a nasty instrument you’ve got locked in your storeroom, Gael,” he said. “It’s full clamor produced several visits to the hospital yesterday. Two hammered thumbs, a sliced palm, and – I believe – a burned sergeant.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Gael. “All the strength drained out of my limbs when it sounded.”

  “Why did you wish me to examine it?”

  Gael sipped from his drinking bowl, and a bright, sparkling sweetness burst on his tongue. Ah, knotberry mead. It was delicious, but he’d better ration himself to just one bowl. It was potent.

  “I spoke with Randl, the copper smelter, about melting down the iron boss, and he said it could not be done, that none of Belzetarn’s forges produced sufficient heat.”

  Arnoll nodded. “That is so.”

  “But it occurred to me that a lesser damage might suffice. You saw the living node within the metal and the arcs connected to it, did you not?” said Gael.

  “I did,” replied Arnoll.

  “How if we heated the iron enough to bend it, to warp it? Would that be possible?”

  Arnoll scratched his chin. “I’m nearly certain that could be achieved, but would it serve?”

  “What are you thinking?” asked Gael.

  “I’m not and never have been a magus, Gael,” answered Arnoll, faint annoyance in his voice.

  “But you have an opinion, and I value it,” said Gael.

  Arnoll sighed. “You want to break the energetic lattice, correct?”

  Gael nodded.

  “Then, when the metal bends, will not the lattice merely bend with it?”

  “But if the iron were on the verge of liquidity?” probed Gael.

  “Perhaps so,” said Arnoll, “but it won’t be. Not in our forges.”

  “Hells,” Gael cursed. “I feared it was so. Now I really will need to travel to Olluvarde.”

  “Thus guarding your health?” said Arnoll, his tone ironic.

  “Think it through, Arnoll,” replied Gael. “I doubt Keir has. No blame to the boy,” he added. “He’s been performing his duties as notarius all afternoon, plus mine as secretarius, plus his self-imposed ones as my nurse – for which I am grateful – without much leisure for pursuing tangents.”

  “I thought Keir had a point,” said Arnoll.

  “Keir envisioned me plunging into the wilderness willy nilly and alone,” said Gael acerbically.

  “Ah.” A slight smile on his lips, Arnoll shook his head. “You’ll go with a retinue. Of course.”

  “And amongst my retinue will be a physician, Carbraes willing. And I won’t depart at all until I’m stronger than I appear to be tonight.” Gael’s jaw tightened briefly. “The short climb to where Keir deemed me safe from the gong took it out of me,” he confessed.

  “Keir was imagining himself in your shoes, wasn’t he? Young and eager and on the track of a new and alluring piece of information.”

  Gael laughed. “That’s it.” Arnoll was astute regarding youth. “Although, to be fair, Keir might have wanted to dash off this very night – were he in my shoes – but he wouldn’t have done so.”

  “No?” Arnoll drew another long draught from his mead bowl. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” The smith directed a curious glance at Gael. “The boy has entirely too much sense for his age.”

  “I shouldn’t say that,” Gael started to object, but was interrupted by the arrival of two kitchen scullions entering with the next course. The aroma of herb-crusted fish along with the sweetness of roasted onions lifted from the trays of food. A third scullion brought in a compote of honeyed rhubarb and a platter of fragrant hazelnut scones.

  The boys served the food and departed.

  Gael confined himself to eating for an interval, noticing that Arnoll, too, showed a fine appetite. The flesh of the fish was delicate beneath its crisp crust of herbs, and the onions featured a delicious buttery flavor. Only when he moved on to the tart-but-sweet rhubarb did Gael speak again.

  “Keir can do all the work of the tally chamber, but we both know there is more to my position than the actual labor.”

  Arnoll grimaced. “Holding firm against encroachment by those who seek any advantage in a lapse of authority.”

  “Precisely,” agreed Gael. “Keir will likely be effective there, too, more effective than you might expect, but against certain individuals” – Theron, Dreben, Dreben’s opteons – “he’ll need more age and experience than he possesses.”

  “Or someone behind him, possessing those attributes.” Arnoll nodded.

  “Will you do that for me, Arnoll?”

  “Of course, but you’d better make it official, for it to do the most good.”

  “I’ll mention it to Carbraes, when I explain the necessity for my travel.”

  “That’s all right then,” said Arnoll. “Do you think you’ll be leaving on the morrow?”

  “With a little luck, by afternoon.”

  Arnoll grunted. “You do know you’re pushing yourself?”

  “I know. But prudently.”

  “Eh. Only the old are ever prudent, and even they grow imprudent when something precious lies at stake.”

  Gael’s eyebrow lifted.

  “Never you mind. You’ll understand what I mean in another twenty years or so.”

  Arnoll was in his sixties. Gael suspected that his own thirty-eight years sometimes seemed scarcely more than Keir’s likely sixteen to the older troll.

  * * *

  The rush lights flickered when Gael dipped his frayed birch twig into the water of the small tooth jar, dredged its tassel end in a saucer green powder, and started to scrub his teeth. The bitter flavor of the powder strengthened as he worked his way from the front of his mouth to the back. His initial distaste for the northern method of teeth cleaning had given way to liking once he’d grown accustomed to it. His mouth always felt immaculate and very fresh when he finished.

  He’d wondered, traveling north, how the trolls brushed their teeth or whether they did. Did they fashion small wooden brushes studded with boar bristles like the people of Hadorgol? He knew they would not have access to the cloves and cinnamon that the trade caravans brought and that were crushed to make the tooth powder he’d once used. The idea of never cleaning his teeth again had disgusted him, and he’d been relieved when he discovered that the trolls made a powder from a certain lichen that was even more effective than his old clove and cinnamon mixture. The birch twigs, frayed into a tassel by multiple knife cuts, took a little more care to use than a boar bristle brush, but they worked.

  Gael rinsed his twig in the tooth jar, then rinsed his mouth, spitting into the jar and covering it with its lid. The scullions would remove it in the morning.

  As he removed his suede robe and the thistlesilk shirt beneath, he glanced around his sleeping chamber. It, too, was very different from his room at the court of Hadorgol. Animal hides covered stone flagstones instead of wool carpeting over polished wood boards. The pine chairs were simply car
ved, not ornate, and upholstered in sheepskins, not silk brocade. Hangings of stamped and carved leather covered the walls, instead of embroidered tapestries. And the ceiling was vaulted stone rather than coffered wood.

  All of Belzetarn’s wealth went toward the machinery of war. And there were no women to spin and weave. The trolls who worked with the northern thistlesilk barely kept up with the demand for bandaging for the hospital, toweling for the kitchens, and shirts for the elite to wear under their suede garments.

  For all the differences, Gael liked this chamber, and felt comfortable in it.

  He poured fresh water into his bronze basin from the matching ewer and dipped his washing cloth into it. As he wrung it out, the herbal scent rising from his own skin gave him pause. It might be wise to let the infusion with which Keir had washed him work overnight. Although he hated to skip his ablutions. Going clean to his sleeping couch felt so much better.

  He surveyed the bruises purpling his ribs, his breastbone, and upper abdomen. They had darkened considerably, but they hurt much less than before.

  He dipped and wrung his washing cloth again with sudden decision. He’d avoid most of his torso. The herbal scent of the dried infusion was pleasant. But he’d scrub his arms and armpits, his groin, his legs, and his feet. He could be clean without interfering with Keir’s fine healing work.

  After he’d finished, he reached for his nightshirt and paused again.

  His fight with Dreben had occurred immediately after he’d checked the bronze thief’s hidey-hole in the latrine. His own lattice of energea had rested undisturbed. Then. What of now? The great halls were long empty of their dining trolls, and the Cliff Stair would have seen the last of them retiring to their chambers some time ago. He and Arnoll had lingered late over their meal. Arnoll would not approve of Gael going to check that hidey-hole now.

  But Arnoll was not here. And Gael felt restless. He’d slept the afternoon away, and he was not sleepy. Indeed, with his evening meal had come increasing strength. The idea of a gentle stroll – even though it would involve stairs – held considerable appeal.

  Gael pulled a fresh thistlesilk shirt and caputum out of a chest and put them on, along with hose, shoes, and the evening’s suede robe. From habit he pinned his fibula of keys at his waist.

  He’d take it slow.

  On impulse, he tucked the small suede bag with rose rivets – the one he’d confiscated from the tin teamster – into his sleeve.

  * * *

  Sauntering along the balcony overlooking the lower great hall was just as he’d envisioned it, relaxing and enjoyable. It felt good to move.

  He’d brought a tallow dip, but didn’t need it, as the kitchen scullions were still at work – the torches lit – sweeping the floors after they’d stacked the trestles and benches in the adjacent storerooms. Perhaps it was not so late as he’d thought.

  Descending the Lake Stair required more concentration. His legs were tired, even if his mind was not, and wanted to let him bump from tread to tread. He needed a more controlled progress to avoid jarring his innards.

  Arnoll would definitely not approve of this excursion.

  Supping with his friend had felt just as usual, casual and comfortable. He’d enjoyed Arnoll’s understated sense of humor, his sensible outlook, and his intelligent commentary. Yet underneath his ease had lurked the awareness that Arnoll had stolen from him. That deed had changed things between them. Not on the surface, but down in the foundations of their friendship.

  And still . . . despite the change, they’d lingered companionably after eating. They’d not spoken of the worrisome things, the big things, after Arnoll had agreed to guard the prerogative of the tally room while Gael was gone. It was the little things – a scullion’s innocuous mistake in the armor smithy, Arnoll’s visit to a charcoal burner’s hut in the forest, Gael’s boat trip to the center of the lake in one of the fishing boats – with which they’d beguiled the evening.

  Perhaps the bruise to Gael’s trust in Arnoll would heal in time.

  Gael was glad of his rush light when he crossed the place of arms to the Cliff Stair. The legion’s warriors were done with the scrubbing their opteons required of them at the end of the day when the training sessions were over, and the torches were extinguished. The moon had yet to rise, so the vast space lay in darkness.

  No practice butts or matts arrested Gael’s progress. He reached the Cliff Stair and started down.

  The torch on the landing below the latrine was lit, as it was supposed to be, so Gael was not surprised to discover that his lattice of energea remained undisturbed. Disappointed, yes. He’d hoped to be able to search for a troll marked by it tomorrow morning. Or, better yet, to see that his friend Barris was not marked by it.

  The clog also remained undisturbed, and Gael shut the door on the stench with some relief, retreating from the residual smell.

  It was just here – a few steps above that clogged latrine – that he’d encountered Dreben. Fought Dreben. Been bested by Dreben.

  What was it that Dreben had screeched when he caught sight of Gael? Something about keeping chambers that should go to the magus?

  Gael stopped.

  He’d been on his way to question the magus, when Dreben interrupted him. But maybe . . . what needed investigating were his own official chambers. Why would Dreben – a sycophant of the magus – be so angry about those empty chambers, unless . . . there was something to be angry about? Something more than thwarted pride and prestige.

  Gael rubbed his chin, a bit bristly and in need of shaving.

  He could visit the chambers in the morning, of course. But if he visited them now, with no witnesses, with no warning, what might he discover?

  * * *

  Gael’s legs tottered as he took the last step up to the landing outside the entrance to his official quarters – the quarters of the regenen’s secretarius. He staggered under the archway into the adjacent anteroom and slumped against the wall, panting. Gaelan’s tears. He wasn’t sure he could make it over to unlock the door, let alone search the premises.

  Thirty spirals up the Cliff Stair had required a much more significant effort than the mere eight spirals down to that latrine.

  He’d known that it would, of course. And even now, near collapse, he didn’t regret his choice. It hadn’t been prudent, no. But some whisper of intuition told him he needed to be here, now. He’d hang on the wall, weak and limp. And when that grew too boring, he’d gather the strength from somewhere to go on.

  He straightened, feeling his legs tremble beneath him, and moved forward. If he placed each foot carefully, he could do it. But if Dreben were to spring out of the shadows, aching for a rematch, the brigenen could knock Gael over with a breath. He wouldn’t need to lift a finger.

  At the door – the one straight ahead, not the one to the right, which belonged to the magus – Gael fumbled one-handed for his keys, almost dropping them when he freed the fibula. All the locks on this level of the tower and the one above – with chambers for the secretarius, the magus, the march, the castellanum, and the regenen – were fitted into the wood of the doors. Which was a good thing. If he’d had to place his rush light on the floor, so that he could hold a padlock with one hand, while manipulating the key with the other, he’d have fallen and never gotten up again.

  He inserted the key clumsily and twisted it. The metal clicked, raising the latch inside with a thunk. Gael pushed the door open, retrieved his key, and stepped through. As he closed the door behind him, the latch fell again, shutting him inside. He lifted his rush light.

  He stood in a modest vestibule with a narrow, glassed window ahead, featuring a view of a circular terrace. The moon had risen while he climbed, and its silver light illuminated the generous stretch of flagstones, a cluster of backless chairs, and a massive bronze column at the exact center of the space. This was the flue to Gael’s smithies, looming like a giant of the forest, colossal in girth and rising beyond the ring of apartments. No vapors issued from i
ts high maw while the forges slept. Indeed, in the absence of smoke, Belzetarn seemed to slumber, like a dragon at rest.

  The vestibule itself was utterly empty.

  Were the secretarius in residence – were Gael in residence – benches for petitioners and other visitors would line the stone walls. And the walls themselves would be covered with hangings. But Gael preferred the convenience and simplicity of the chambers right above his tally room, so this space lay bare.

  His legs felt stronger as he passed through the vestibule into the receiving room.

  The receiving room was not empty. Even though it should have been.

  Suede hides reinforced the inner shutters shielding the window casements. A clump of sacks lay against the far wall, and to the left along that wall, on the other side of an open archway, sat a lump like a large upside-down bowl. A scatter of forging tools – tongs, crucibles, quenching bucket – occupied the center of the space. And was that –?

  Gael had moved without realizing it. Yes, the crumple of leather in the corner was a smith’s apron and gauntlets. Tiamar on his throne!

  He strode over to the sacks, bent, and rummaged inside. Tin pebbles! He felt breathless.

  The upside down bowl proved to be a solid biscuit ingot of copper.

  He was beyond cursing now.

  So. Nathiar had inserted his porter into the tinworks and into the job of driving the mule that carried the tin to the tower. Thus allowing that porter to collect the odd pebble here and there into the small suede pouch which he hid behind the mule’s pack straps. Gael would bet anything anyone cared to wager that the magus met the pair – mule and troll – somewhere along the route through the forest to receive his stolen goods, and again later to return the empty pouch.

  Although now that the regular teamster was back on the job, that particular leak was stopped.

  Nathiar’s fix for the clogged oxhide tap at the copper mines? Gael would wager anything more than anyone cared to risk that this fix involved another tap, a secret one, that opened when the innocent furnace operator operated the ‘plunger’ that the magus averred kept clogs at bay.