Late in the afternoon, when Daelyt had completed the draft cargo consignment form for the honey factor, Rahl cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“Daelyt… I have a question, and it’s going to sound stupid.”
“The only stupid questions are the ones you don’t ask.” The older clerk gave a sardonic laugh.
“What is the Association? I’ve heard of it all the time I was in Nylan, and I’ve filled out forms for a season, but… all I know is that ships from Nylan carry cargoes for the Association, and it has directors and clerks.” Rahl offered an embarrassed shrug.
“You have the general idea, and that’s more than most people do,” replied the older clerk. “Some of the ships are owned by the Association, and some are owned by wealthy factors. But that doesn’t matter to us. The ships have to make golds on their own, and that’s something they worry about in Nylan. The members of the Merchant Association put up golds for shares in the Association. The golds they put up paid for the buildings and the warehouses in the ports like Swartheld or Lydiar or Renklaar or Summerdock. Each director operates his office and warehouses as he sees fit. He also has to obey the laws of the land. And the end of each year, he either makes golds or loses them. Directors who lose golds don’t stay directors. Each director gets a share of the profits he makes after he pays for the cargoes and sells them. The rest goes back to Nylan and gets split up among those with shares, according to how many shares they have. Oh, and directors have fixed terms in a port, and then they get moved to other ports, unless they decide to retire on a stipend. That’s determined by how many years they’ve worked for the Association and what they’ve made over those years.”
“How long has Director Shyret been here?”
“Five years. It’ll be six next fall. That’s when his term expires. Then he’ll go somewhere else.”
“Who was here before him?”
“Varselt. He’s in Nylan now.”
Rahl forbore to say that he knew that. “Do directors have shares?”
Daelyt laughed. “Anyone who has the golds to buy them can have shares. Every director, Director Shyret once told me, has to own at least two shares. Most have more than that, I’d wager, but who knows?”
“You make it sound so clear,” Rahl replied. “Thank you. Our wages come from what the director makes here?”
“That’s correct. So do Chenary and those of the teamsters and guards.”
Rahl just nodded and went back to work on the inventory form.
Daelyt had made it very clear. Shyret was cheating the shareholders and the other directors. And if he used his ill-gotten gains to purchase more shares, he could profit even more from the efforts of honest directors. Rahl wondered whether the other directors were honest—or more honest than Shyret—because the other ports were ones closer to Nylan where traders and factors were less unwelcome.
Yet… what could he do? He had yet to see an account or a cargo declaration—or even the inventory—that would support what he sensed to be true. And he really had no idea as to whether what Shyret was doing was condemned or tacitly accepted. A year ago he would have been sure, but after all he’d been through…
As he thought about it, he also realized that the inventory addendum contained no mention of storing pickles. That nagged at him, but he couldn’t say why. Then, there were more than a few things that bothered him, and most were things that he had to worry about because of Puvort’s dishonesty and pettiness… and because of the arrogance of the board of magisters in Nylan.
XLVIII
Nightday midmorning found Rahl wandering around the warehouse courtyard in a mist that was not quite rain but more like the steam that rose from a boiling kettle, if not quite so warm. He’d discovered that his key also fit the lock to the warehouse gates. That made sense, but he hadn’t thought about it. He glanced up at the upper level of the first warehouse, barely visible through the mist. The shutters were closed, and his order-senses suggested that Daelyt and Yasnela were not there. From what he could tell with his senses, there were more than two rooms— three and a small study or sewing room for Yasnela—and except for the small room they were comparatively spacious, especially for a clerk. Yet, in a way, Rahl suspected, it was almost a prison for Daelyt. How could the other clerk ever say anything or leave Shyret?
Rahl glanced toward the stables, catching sight of a broad-shouldered figure—was it Chenaryl? Was something wrong? Rahl walked toward the south end of the courtyard. As he neared the stables, he realized that the warehouse supervisor was actually cleaning out one of the water troughs.
At the sound of Rahl’s boots on the stone, Chenaryl straightened and brushed a lock of oily black hair back off his forehead. He wore only an old undertunic above equally faded and patched trousers, and his boots were old and scuffed, clearly a different pair from the ones of polished brown leather he wore during the eightday.
“Chenaryl… I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“Didn’t expect to see you, either. Thought you’d be tired of this place, Rahl.”
Rahl shrugged. “I don’t know anyone, and I never see anyone anywhere close to my age. I don’t have many coins. I suppose things will get better in time.”
Chenaryl nodded, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Years back, it was the same with Daelyt. It takes a while when you’re in a new place.”
“Does his consort have trouble walking… or something? He was talking about needing a cart for her?”
“Sweet woman… she had some real trouble… a couple years back. Part of her left leg was crushed… Daelyt helped her, and they fell in love. She can’t walk far.”
“He cares for her a lot,” suggested Rahl. “I can tell that.”
“More than most for their consorts,” agreed Chenaryl. “More ‘n most.”
Rahl nodded. That was true enough from what he’d seen. “What are you doing here?”
“Someone has to feed the horses and check on things. Both drivers have the end-day off today. So it’s my turn.” Chenaryl’s eyes dropped to the truncheon at Rahl’s belt. “You almost look like a bravo. Walk like one, too.”
“My father said I had to learn to defend myself. I was bruised most of the time growing up.”
“Won’t hurt you to know that here, but stay away from the west side south of the naval piers. Gangs there, and good as you might be, one against a half score isn’t a good wager.”
“Thank you. Is there anything you think I should see—that I can walk to?”
“If you’ve got a few coins, you might try Hakkyl’s. Better than Eneld’s. It’s some five blocks west and three south, opposite corner from the Triumph fountain and the square.” Chenaryl frowned, and his forehead crinkled. “Not really much else to see close by. When you’ve got more coins, you could take a coach down to Pharoa. There’s a nice inn there, only costs a half silver a night for a room to yourself…”
Rahl listened for a time, until Chenaryl shook his head. “Zaena have my head if I don’t finish this and get back.”
“I wouldn’t want that.”
“I wouldn’t either.”
“Thank you.” Rahl nodded politely and turned away.
Just like Shyret and Daelyt, the warehouse supervisor carried a faint chaos-mist.
Rahl walked back to the gates and let himself out, but he was careful to lock them behind him. Then he turned and began to walk. Despite the mist that was so fine that it almost drifted around him like fog, Rahl had to get away from the Association buildings, feeling that he could not have spent another moment there, especially after talking to Chenaryl.
He might as well locate Hakkyl’s, if only to know where the place was, but even if it happened to be open so early on eightday, he wouldn’t be eating there until far later in the day. His coins were far too few for more than one modest meal.
Following Chenaryl’s directions, Rahl turned westward, walking easily, but not hurriedly. A young couple walked toward him, the ma
n wearing a white fharong embroidered in red and black, the woman in a filmy blue blouse and scarf over white flowing pants. As soon as they saw him, they immediately crossed the street.
Rahl frowned. He didn’t look that menacing, did he? A clerk with a truncheon?
He crossed the side street behind the warehouses, so narrow that it was almost an alley, and so filled with the foglike mist that he could only see a handful of cubits beyond the edge of the two-story building that held the cotton factorage. Once on the other side of the alley or cross street, he moved away from the shuttered windows. For the next several blocks, he passed shuttered windows and doors with iron gratework—and almost no one on the sidewalks, except two bent old women, and a younger bearded man who tottered along, singing nonsense syllables to himself. At least, what the fellow sang didn’t sound like any language Rahl knew.
Between the dampness of the air and his rapid pace, Rahl could feel sweat beading up everywhere especially under his garments. He couldn’t do much about that, but he did wipe his forehead with his sleeve.
He turned the corner at the fifth cross street and passed a shuttered cooperage, then a cordage shop. He began to feel something or someone lurking in the alleyway ahead to his left. Even as he debated crossing the street or turning back, two figures jumped out of the mist and fog-filled serviceway. Rahl pulled the truncheon out, hoping he didn’t have to use it, but he didn’t want to turn his back on the pair.
“Pretty Boy… you know how to use that toy?” The taller man, still shorter than Rahl, laughed mockingly through a roughly trimmed square-cut beard. He waved a long knife.
The other man grinned broadly, showing sparse and blackened teeth and holding a long walking stick topped with tarnished brass. Both men reeked of chaos, not of the active energy of a mage, but the type that Rahl felt was more decaying and corrupt, almost like wound chaos. He eased away from the alley, moving toward the edge of the street. He could sense another presence in the next alleyway ahead. He needed to keep the three as separate as possible.
“You’re going to hand over your coins, Pretty Boy, one way or another.”
“I think not.”
“Oh… an Atlan pretty boy… no brains at all.”
Having no brains would have been handing over anything. Rahl could sense that they had no intention of leaving him alive.
The first man came in, with his knife held low and to the side.
Rahl stepped back, trying to look tentative.
“Oh, Pretty Boy’s trying to give us the slip.”
Rahl could sense the tension even before the first man darted in low and fast. Quick as the attacker was, Rahl was quicker. The truncheon smashed across the attacker’s wrist, before Rahl reversed it into the man’s jaw, although the second blow was almost glancing.
Eeeiii! With a scream, the man reeled back, then went to his knees, moaning and clutching his broken wrist.
Rahl pivoted, barely in time to deflect the walking stick that was more like a short staff, but instead of moving away, he swung inside, and half rammed, half slammed the truncheon into the spot just below the center of the man’s ribs.
The second assailant crumpled, his stick flying. Rahl could sense that he was dead. Dead, because he held so much chaos?
Whhssst!
A bolt of chaos flew past Rahl and slammed into the still-moaning first attacker.
Rahl blinked. There was nothing left except a scattering of ashes and a few metal items, including a handful of coins, and the faint sound of fleeing footsteps echoed from the alleyway farther to the south.
Whhsstt! With the impact of the second chaos-bolt, the body of the dead man vanished as well, except for similar leavings.
“Very nice, friend,” came a voice from behind Rahl.
He wanted to freeze, but instead he forced a smile and turned, still holding the truncheon.
A mage-guard stood there. Chaos played around her. She was another hard-faced woman, but not the one who had advised him to register. “You used a bit of order there. I do hope you’re registered.”
“I’m registered. The bracelet’s in my wallet.”
“Why don’t you put away the truncheon and get it out… slowly.”
“Yes, ser.” Rahl slipped the truncheon back into its half scabbard, then fumbled his belt wallet out and extracted the bracelet. He started to extend it.
“Just toss it to me. If it’s real, it won’t break.”
Rahl complied, lofting it gently.
The woman caught it easily without taking her eyes or senses off Rahl. Then she looked at the bracelet, and then at Rahl, alternating between the two.
For just a moment, Rahl could sense puzzlement. He also had the feeling that she had a headache and wasn’t in the best of moods. That bothered him, but there wasn’t much that he could do about it.
“You’re an outlander?” The mage-guard’s words were half statement, half question.
“Yes, ser. I work for the Nylan Merchant Association. I’m a clerk there.”
She tossed the bracelet back to him.
This time, he slipped it on his wrist.
“It’s a good thing I saw them attack you. Even registered, you could have had someone question your actions. Where were you going?”
“I was trying to find Hakkyl’s.”
“It’s up on the corner on the avenue ahead, but you should have kept on the boulevard until you reached the next street. Much as we try, the footpads like the alleys here, and they seem to know when we’re watching. You must have distracted them somehow.”
Rahl suspected she knew how… unfortunately. He inclined his head. “I’m indebted to you.”
She laughed softly. “You are indeed, but don’t let it bother you.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Not this time. You were attacked. Self-defense is allowed… if you’re registered.” She pointed to the coins still lying on the stone of the sidewalk. “By rights, those are yours. I’d appreciate it if you’d dispose of the other items, though. There’s a waste barrel at the edge of the next alley. That was where the other was hiding, but he’s long gone.”
“Yes, ser.”
She laughed, not unkindly. “If you keep walking in this area, I could follow you and clean up half the petty bravos in Swartheld. But that might be hard on you. This time, follow this street to the avenue ahead. If you stay on that, no one will bother you. Next time, use the main streets.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you. You’ve just made the streets a bit safer.” She nodded, turned, and seemed to vanish.
Except this time, Rahl could sense the twisting of chaos-forces around her that made it so that his eyes kept trying to look away from her. After collecting the coins, almost a silver’s worth, and putting them in his wallet, and then taking the belt buckles and metal fastenings, he began to walk southward. He quickly deposited the metal in the waste bucket at the entrance to the next alleyway and hurried toward the avenue ahead.
Once he reached it, he glanced across to his right. Hakkyl’s was still shuttered, but the yellow-brick walls were clean, and the brasswork on the door shimmered even through the mist.
He crossed the avenue to look at the Triumph fountain, just three columns in the middle of a marble basin, with three streams of water spurting up and crossing before falling into the basin. At the western side was a smaller water jet that flowed into a watering trough, set so that pitchers could be filled above the trough and horses could drink. He did not sense anyone nearby.
Finally, he turned eastward. He had not gone more than a hundred cubits before he began to feel small and faint rain droplets on the back of his neck. He kept walking, but hurried a bit more.
The avenue he was following joined the boulevard on which the Merchant Association was located. In fact, where the two joined was where the parkway he often walked began. Once he crossed to the parkway, he looked for and found one of the stone benches that was shielded by the trees. He wiped off the
damp surface as best he could with the cloth that had been wrapped around the bracelet and sat down with a sigh.
If the mage-guards were really there to protect people, why had the mage-guard waited to see what he did? Rahl was glad he had only struck each man effectively once. His lips tightened. He could just imagine the mage-guard acting like Puvort, telling him he’d gone beyond self-defense.
After a time, Rahl looked at the stone walk beyond the tips of boots that showed scuffs, despite his efforts to keep them clean and polished.
Plop… plop… A reddish droplet hit the light gray stone, then another.
The rain was so fine, and the air had been so dusty for so long that the leaves of the false acacias—and every other tree—seemed to be bleeding as the moisture formed a thin layer over the reddish dust and slowly washed it off, so that the droplets that fell on the stone walks and pavement were reddish splotches.
The rain was falling like drops of blood, slowly dropping, inexorably.
Rahl felt the same way, as though he were being bled of hope and possibilities, hemmed in on all sides. Recluce and Nylan had thrown him out, and everywhere he went in Swartheld, he had the feeling someone was watching, waiting for him to make a mistake. Daelyt was watching; Shyret was watching; the mage-guards were watching. And what could he do?
It was possible, he supposed, for him to try to get some ship’s captain to take him as the lowest form of seaman to get somewhere else, but… he had no skills at all useful to them, and he’d seen enough of life at sea to know that a ship would be another prison, and there wasn’t much chance that life would be any better in another land—and that was if the magisters didn’t go after him for going against their exile. And if he did that… he’d have no chance at all of returning to Nylan.
Did he anyway? Probably not, but he didn’t like the idea of closing that door. Not quite yet.
XLIX
Late in midafternoon, closer to early evening, really, Rahl returned to Hakkyl’s, this time following the mage-guard’s advice about which avenues to take. As he walked up the brick steps to the brass-bound door, the muscular and dark-skinned guard outside studied Rahl.
Natural Ordermage Page 30
