Daelyt shook his head. “That won’t do. You need to get a loaf of bread or some hard biscuits to- get you through the morning. Run down to the corner, on the side beyond the warehouse. Gostof usually peddles somes You can get a loaf of rye for two coppers, if you press. The director won’t be here for a bit, and he wouldn’t mind on your first morning. It takes a while to get settled.” The clerk’s smile was helpful and friendly.
Rahl didn’t sense any deception or chaos, not beyond the slight whiteness that apparently accompanied Daelyt all the time. “I’ll hurry.”
“That would be good.”
Rahl moved toward the door.
Outside, the sun had lifted over the hills to the east of the harbor and shone through an already hazy greenish blue sky. There were more people on the street, but still not so many as the evening before, and most looked to be older and graying. Rahl hadn’t taken three steps before he began to sweat. He hurried past the still-closed iron gates of the warehouse courtyard. Tyboran was standing inside the heavy iron grillwork. The guard looked at Rahl impassively.
Rahl smiled back and called cheerfully in Hamorian, “Good morning, Tyboran.” He didn’t feel all that cheerful, but that wasn’t the point.
Tyboran just looked at Rahl, but Rahl had the feeling that the guard was at least slightly glad to be recognized.
An older man, weathered and bent, stood in the morning shade of the northernmost warehouse, so close to the corner that Rahl had to come to a halt quickly to avoid running into him.
“Loaves, just a day old, good loaves!”
“How much?” asked Rahl.
“For you, young ser, a mere four coppers. For the rye. Five for the dark.”
“Old bread? Four coppers?” Rahl snorted. A half silver for a loaf of bread? Between his wages from the training center and what Liedra had given him, he had but three silvers. “A half copper is more like it.”
“You’ve been in Ada too long, where bread and women are cheap, young ser.”
Rahl grinned. “You’ve been in Swartheld too long, where even dung is sold as incense. Not more than a half copper.”
“For your fine tongue I might accept three.”
“Flattery is cheaper than coin. No more than one and a half.” .
“My bread may be a day old, but it is far fresher than most loaves, and of better quality.”
“Only the dark bread, and who can afford that?”
In the end, Rahl paid two coppers for a loaf of dark bread, the first he’d had since he’d left Land’s End. He could have gotten the rye for a copper and a half, and doubtless would have to settle for it in the days to come, but he had wanted the dark.
He walked back to the merchant association, only nodding to Tyboran as he passed. The guard did nod back.
“I see Gostof was there,” observed Daelyt, when Rahl walked toward the long desk. “Take the bread to your cubby and eat it there. The director doesn’t like crumbs or food out here.”
As he hurried toward the storeroom and his cubby, Rahl wondered just how much else there was that Shyret demanded or didn’t like. Once in the back, he ate half the loaf and wrapped the rest in one of his cloth squares before wiping his face and hands and returning to the desk.
“We need to check through your forms and make sure that you have everything,” Daelyt said. “Start with the declarations…”
Rahl had not quite finished reorganizing his side of the desk when a slender man with a short black beard and dark eyes stepped through the door and made his way toward the two clerks. He wore the same type of loose-fitting embroidered shirt that Rahl had seen on Shyret the day before, but his was tan with brown embroidery. Despite the intricacy of the stitches, the garment had seen better days.
The newcomer ignored Rahl and looked at Daelyt. “What is the next vessel-bound for Nylan and when might it be expected?” ‘ ’ “
Daelyt slipped several sheets of paper from the drawer to his left and scanned them. “The Legacy of Diev is already in port, but her cargo space is all spoken for, and she’s almost loaded out. The next would be the Legacy of Westwind. She should port here in Swartheld in about three days. Most of her cargo space is taken. The Legacy of the Founders is scheduled in about an eightday, and there’s space for up to two hundred stones or .the equivalent cubage.”
The young trader frowned.
“There’s more space on the Legacy of Montgren, Trader Forisyt,” Daelyt suggested, “but you’re looking at two to three eightdays before she ports. Does it have to be Nylan, or would you consider Land’s End?”
“Nylan. There is little profit and less satisfaction in dealing with those at Land’s End,” replied Forisyt. “I’ll take a hundred stones on the Founders. Brassworks and oils.”
Daelyt began to write on a form that looked vaguely familiar to Rahl. “What is the approximate declared value, Trader Forisyt?”
“It is a cargo of insignificance, so small that it would be an insult to your association to declare a value.”
‘The minimum valuation is fifty golds,“ Daelyt pointed out, ”and the reserve on that is five, and the cartage would be six.“
“Insignificant as it is, it might be of greater worth than the minimum.” I ‘t
“That is often the case, for we will ship goods with little value, except to the shipper, and your goods are usually far beyond that.”
“We might claim a value of ninety golds,” mused the trader.
“The reserve would be nine, and the cartage ten. -Without cargo assurance.”
“As always, you will break me, but what can a small trader do?”
Rahl could sense that the trader wanted to haggle and bargain, but it was clear that the rates were fixed.
“As you may recall,” said Daelyt, “the reserve is due when the consignment order is signed, and the cartage before any cargo can be manifested and loaded.”
“Alas, has it not always been so?” Forisyt shrugged expressively. “I will be back on sixday with the reserve.”
“The consignment order will be ready, honored trader.”
Forisyt smiled wanly, then grinned, before turning and departing.
After the trader had left, Rahl glanced at the older clerk. “Could I look at that schedule? Or should I make a copy for myself ?”
“A copy for you would be a good idea—after we deal with the consignment agreement. Have you ever done any of those?”
“I’ve seen them and had them explained, but I’ve never done one,” Rahl replied.
“All right. I’ve got the rough form here. I’ll tell you what to enter and why. Then you can make two copies. We need three, one for the trader, one for the ship, and one for us.”
“Why don’t they use their own ships?”
“Traders like Forisyt only have small cargoes. He doesn’t own a vessel, and the Hamorian traders charge more per stone the smaller the cargo is. If they don’t have a Hamorian shipper, they’ll always try to get on one of our vessels, because we lose almost nothing to piracy, and less than most others to storms. That means less risk to them, or lower indemnity payments if they wish to pay for cargo assurance.“
Rahl had never even heard of cargo assurance. “How does cargo assurance work?”
“We’ll get to that after we do the consignment forms.” Daelyt handed a form to Rahl. “It’s all in Hamorian. First, you fill in the ship and master.” He handed the sheets he had used earlier to Rahl. “Look for Legacy of the Founders…”
As he proceeded in following the other clerk’s directions, Rahl was again bemused and amazed at the amount of paper required by trading. . He had barely begun when Director Shyret appeared from behind them, suggesting that he had entered through the rear storeroom door. Shyret was cheerful and smiling.
“Good morning to all, and it is a good morning, if a trifle warmish.” The director spoke in Hamorian, clearly, but with an accent. “Have we had any business yet this morning?”
“Trader Forisyt has requested a hundred ston
es on the Founders,” replied Daelyt. “The declarations for the Diev are on your desk, and Rahl will need a key if you don’t want him using the windows to get in and out.”
“Ah, yes, a key. We do have spares, since we had to change the locks after Wynreed’s disappearance. Terribly discommoding, that.” He nodded to Daelyt. “If you’d accompany me, I’ll take care of the key.”
While Daelyt followed the director, Rahl sat at the long desk, thinking. He spoke Hamorian better than either the director or the head clerk, and that seemed strange, although he told himself that was just because of his order-skills, and not because of anything else.
Daelyt returned almost immediately and handed a heavy brass key to Rahl. “Here you are. Keep it safe. If you lose it, you pay for the new locks and keys.”
Rahl nodded as he slipped the key to the bottom of his belt wallet, a‘ wallet he was now wearing inside his trousers rather than in plain view.
“Let’s try to finish those consignment forms before anyone else shows up. Now… the declared value won’t be what the shipper says, and that can mean trouble if he wants cargo assurance. If he does, tell him that, in the event that cargo assurance is paid, it will be limited to the declared value on the consignment sheet or the cargo declaration or ship’s manifest, whichever is the lowest figure…”
Rahl tried to concentrate on what Daelyt said, boring as it was already getting to be.
Once Daelyt guided Rahl though the form, he left the younger clerk to make the additional copies. When Rahl had finished the third copy of the consignment forms, he handed it to Daelyt, who had been working on another form that Rahl did not recognize. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.” The older clerk smiled politely.
“You were going to tell me about cargo assurance.”
“Oh… the assurance is simple enough. Only one ship is lost out of every hundred voyages. It could be even less. So whoever wants to make sure he does not lose value pays five parts of a hundred of the cargo’s value.”
“But…” Rahl paused. “Is that because some don’t want assurance?”
“The Association must also maintain a reserve in the Exchange here in Swartheld in the event that a ship is lost.” Daelyt looked up as the outer door opened. “The tariff enumerators for the Diev declarations. Would you go tell the director they are here?”
Rahl eased off his stool and walked back to the archway and then to the open door into Shyret’s study. For a brief moment, he just looked. Unlike the front of the office, with its plain white-plaster walls and yellow-brick columns, the study had paneled walls, with deep green hangings that seemed heavy for Hamor. The wide table desk was supported by five fruitwood legs carved into a pattern of twined vines and small flowers. The corners of the four head-high file cases were carved in the same fashion, and a circular green rug with a beige border filled the center of the chamber. There were no windows, and the heavy oak door had sturdy iron hinges and twin locks.‘
“Director,” Rahl finally said, “the tariff enumerators are here.”
Shyret looked up from an open ledger. “I’ll be right there, Rahl.”
“Yes, ser.”
Rahl hurried back toward the front of the building, inclining his head to the two enumerators. They wore uniforms similar to the one patroller Rahl had seen on the pier, except the insignia on their collars and sleeves were not the sunburst, but a set of scales. “Honored enumerators, the director is coming.”
“Thank you.” The older enumerator chuckled, then turned to Daelyt. “So you managed to get an Adan to work for you. I suppose that’s the best you outlanders can do. At least, he doesn’t mangle the language.”
“The director does what he can,” replied Daelyt, maintaining a polite smile, although Rahl could sense amusement.
“Greetings!” Shyret’s voice was cheerful and hearty as he walked up to the two Hamorian officials and extended the single copy of the amended and final cargo declarations of the Legacy of Diev.
“And to you,” replied the older enumerator.
“You will find all is as it should be,” offered Shyret.
“It always is, for which you should be thankful, Ser Director.” With a smile, the older enumerator inclined his head slightly, then turned.
The younger followed him out. Both tariff enumerators bore the faintest tinge of chaos, but less than did either Daelyt or Shyret.
Shyret’s smile vanished, and he turned and headed back to his study.
“You’d better start copying that schedule,” suggested Daelyt. “You can add a few more vessels to the end, for both of us. I haven’t had a chance to update it yet.”
Rahl reached for several sheets of blank paper.
XLIII
Rahl looked at the cheese-covered wedge that the cook had set before him. Finally, he looked up and called to Seorya, who had returned to frying something on the iron stove that radiated so much heat that the street outside under the midday summer sun felt cooler. “What is this?”
“Pepper flahyl. Thought you Atlans liked things hot.”
“I like them spicy, but not so hot that I cannot taste them,” Rahl countered.
“You don’t want to taste them.”
Rahl suspected she might have a point. “Any flat bread?”
‘ “Got a copper?”
“No. I haven’t been paid.”
She turned from the stove and tossed something at him. “Other half got overfried when Eneld was chewin‘ wind too much. Be better if he didn’t think he was a cook.”
Rahl caught the ragged chunk of fried flat bread. “Thank you.”
After taking a small bite of the flahyl, Rahl followed it with a small bite of bread. Besides a sauce that tasted like liquid flame, the flahyl contained a mashed and flattened fried grain base with pieces of barely cooked slimy fish, pepper strips, and cheese that tried to stick to the roof of his mouth. He was just as glad he couldn’t taste much of it, but he was hungry enough that he would eat it all.
“Daelyt coming over in a bit?”
“He should be, but that depends on the director and what work has to be done.” He paused: “Have you ever seen his consort, Seorya?”
“No. She doesn’t come here. Folks say that she has a bad leg, can hardly move it. She does needlework for Pasnyr, the fancy stuff on the fharongs.” . It took Rahl a moment before he realized she was talking about the embroidered loose shirts worn by the more well-off men. “I’d wager it doesn’t pay that well.”
“Nothing pays well here, not unless you already got plenty a’golds.”
Rahl nodded and kept eating, trying not to think about what the sauce and cheese concealed. He was successful enough that he managed to eat every last bite of the flahyl, but he had to take few small bites of the flat bread, and small sips of the bitter beer.
Finally, he stood. “As always, Seorya, your cooking was a delight to a famished man.”
“You didn’t say it was good.”
Rahl laughed. “Delight is always good. I’ll see you this evening.”
She just snorted.
After stepping out into the alley behind the cantina, Rahl glanced around quickly, but there were only an old man and a youth on the far side, both in the shade, trying to escape the worst of the heat of early midday. The old man was eating something, shaking his head, and muttering, before spitting something onto the paving stones of the alley.
The youth, leaning against the brick wall of the arms shop, looked away.
Rahl hurried toward the street, belatedly sensing that the youth was following, and whistling. At the edge of the paved sidewalk, Rahl had to stop because a wagon, a coach, and several carriages were moving quickly down the street. He tried to keep his distance from all those on foot, but there were scores of people within fifty cubits.
Then, as he started to cross the street, he felt chaos, and turned, his hand on his truncheon. A youth bounced away from him, sliding onto the stone slab of the sidewalk. His eyes were wide, and fear ra
diated from him. The barefoot, boy scrambled to his knees, and then to his feet, backing away from Rahl.
“Don’t try your thievery on me,” Rahl said quietly, the truncheon in his hand.
The boy turned and sprinted away, ducking behind a heavyset older woman.
“See… not all Atlans are easy marks.”
“… he’s a big one, he is…”
“… just a clerk for someone…”
Feeling another chaos‘-mist, Rahl half turned and slashed with the truncheon. He was not gentle, and an older youth reeled back, grasping his wrist. Like the first cutpurse, he dashed away.
In turn, Rahl hurried across the street, angling between two wagons. Inside, he was more than a little angry. Where were the patrollers and the mage-guards who were supposed to deal with thieves? He could feel his fingers tightening around the truncheon, and once he stepped up to the door of the Merchant Association, he forced himself to relax. He didn’t replace the truncheon in its half sheath until he was inside.
Daelyt looked up from the consignment forms he was studying. “You don’t look happy.”
“Cutpurses. They didn’t get anything…” Rahl paused and checked his belt wallet, concealed as it had been. “No… not this time, anyway.”
“I try not to carry anything I don’t have to,” Daelyt said, shaking his head. “Little bastards will take the belt off your trousers. How did you even feel them?”
“I don’t know. I just did. I hit one of them on the wrist.”
“They’ll either be looking for you or leave you alone.” The other clerk paused. “Mean-looking truncheon you carry.”
“I was told I’d need it.”
“It’s not iron, is it? The mage-guards frown on that.”
“It’s wood.” Rahl decided against mentioning what kind of wood.
“That’s probably all right.”
“Where are the mage-guards? I’ve only seen them on the piers.”
“They’re everywhere. You don’t always see them, but they see you.”
Natural Ordermage Page 26
