The Tally Master

by J. M. Ney-Grimm

  Or had it caught her?

  She pulled.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  The Charcoal Stair, buried within the wall between the tower and the kitchen annex, was one of the darkest passages in Belzetarn. No arrowslits brought light and air to the narrow well. It could as easily have been a mine shaft delving deep into the earth as an ascent from the cellars to a dortoire tucked under the annex roof. Flaring torches illumined its tightly twisting steps and knobbly newel post. Gael knew that Keir avoided it, misliking its claustrophobic confines. It was true that when one descended, if one met a troll going up, it was a tight squeeze to pass one another.

  But Gael was headed to the artisans’ yard to meet the mine teamsters, and the Charcoal Stair provided the shortest route from the regenen’s servery. He’d slipped along the inner wall of the regenen’s kitchen and the regenen’s preparatory, marveling anew at the massive hearths feeding into the colossal stacks that vented their smoke, the high vaulted ceilings, the tiny spiral stairs – tighter even than the Charcoal Stair – giving access to opteons’ chambers emplaced within the thick upper walls, and the ranks of glassed casements providing light for the cooks to see what they were doing.

  The kitchens were like smithies for food, impressive in their way, although Gael strongly preferred the metal forges under his own jurisdiction. Which was odd, now that he considered it. Surely feeding the twelve- to fifteen-hundred trolls dwelling in Belzetarn – depending on how many cohorts were rotated home – should be preferable to equipping ten-thousand troll-warriors with the arms and armor needed for battle against the unafflicted.

  Did he love the beauty of the worked bronze so much? Enough to counter his antipathy toward the truldemagar who killed the unafflicted? Or was there some other reason he relished overseeing the metal smithies? A desire to rule would be satisfied as well by supervising the kitchens as by overseeing the smithies. No, it was not authority over others that Gael enjoyed. It was the tallying itself, and specifically the mathematical precision that tallying metals for forging required.

  Tallying foodstuffs might be demanding, but he’d seen the approximations that Barris resorted to, that seemed to be part and parcel of cooking.

  Tallying for the kitchens would never possess the symmetry of the matrices Gael constructed in his tally chamber as he monitored Belzetarn’s metals.

  His legs felt better descending the Charcoal Stair than they had earlier. He’d awakened sore and stiff and tired. Pain stabbed up through his heels when he stood, and every joint protested while he dressed. He’d suppressed groans through each of the fifteen spirals down the Regenen Stair, but his discomfort had diminished as his muscles warmed. And his ankle did not click.

  Despite his shortened sleep and aching body, his mind was clear. The previous night’s confusion must have stemmed from the shocks of the day. This morning, it seemed obvious that neither his investigation into the thefts of his ingots nor the muting of the cursed gong could be planned in one fell swoop. Each stage of the proceedings would be governed by what he learned as he went along.

  Certainly, he must interview the castellanum and then the magus, assessing their potential as thieves while he distracted each with questions about their experiences yesterday when the cursed gong resounded throughout the tower.

  He’d considered nabbing Theron when he encountered him on a landing of the Regenen Stair, but the castellanum had been in full spate, haranguing a dilatory scullion.

  Gael frowned.

  Not a tower scullion or a kitchen scullion, come to think of it, but a smithy scullion. Why would the castellanum feel it behooved him to scold one of Gael’s scullions? Gael would ask him that very question. He’d forborne to interrupt Theron amidst his diatribe. But he’d get an answer soon.

  Keir was undoubtedly issuing ingots to the smithy scullions even now. The boy could handle most of the reconciling of yesterday’s morning and evening tallies as well, although Gael wanted to hear those results the moment they were done.

  But after meeting with the mine teamsters, Gael would have time enough to question his suspects and time enough, too, to demonstrate the properties of the cursed gong to Arnoll. He would show Arnoll the blasted thing. He needed a smith to look at the gong with his inner sight. A smith might see something that a former magus could not. And Arnoll was the only smith in Belzetarn who Gael trusted enough to make such a request.

  And yes – damn it – he still trusted Arnoll. Despite what his friend had done. Beneath his anger, he trusted. By choice and reason, as well as the unreasoning affection of his heart.

  After he’d consulted Arnoll, he would devise the next step for the gong.

  And after he’d interviewed the castellanum and the magus, he’d figure the next step in catching his thief. Or thieves.

  * * *

  The copper teamsters were waiting for him in the upper yard, two of them wrestling a weighty oxhide ingot off the first pair of mules. Another, their opteon, stood some distance away, surveying the second and third pairs of mules, all four still burdened with their ingots, but dipping their heads to crop the lush green grass.

  The sun had cleared the wall enclosing the yard, and morning light cast long shadows from the various artisan lodges. Scullions dodged in and out of their doorways, a few fetching water from the well, others carrying bundles of wood. One boy approached with a full bucket to water the mules.

  Gael ambled down the ramp from the annex, shading his squinting eyes against the brightness.

  The teamsters’ opteon, Emon, moved jerkily to meet Gael at the bottom of the ramp.

  Emon was a small, wiry troll with a quick, anxious manner. His wizened face showed a mass of wrinkles, darting eyes, and was very tan. He wore the undyed suede tunic and trews of Belzetarn’s miners. Gael could smell the rock dust caught in the nap of the leather. The teamster greeted Gael – typically – with his latest worry.

  “Ah’m not sure ’bout that new seam, Secretarius. It’s narrowin’ fast. Ah think it’ll play out soon. Ah think th’ magus was a wrong ’un ’bout his seam.”

  Carbraes had sent Nathiar to the copper mine two moons ago at Gael’s recommendation. The old seam of ore-laden rock they’d been following since before Gael arrived at Belzetarn had been plunging ever deeper into the earth. Deep enough that the poor air supply was killing as many miners as the exploding rock – produced when they directed a stream of cold water on the fire-heated working face. Mining was dangerous, no question. They had to have the ore-rich rubble for shoveling into the furnace. Thus the heat, the sudden chill, and the resultant explosion were necessary. But poor air . . . would eventually extinguish the fire, as well as the miners.

  “The magus traced the new seam precisely,” said Gael. “The map in my tally chamber shows it narrowing at the current location of the working face, but it will widen again once we get to the waxing moon.”

  Emon shook is head. “It don’t have th’ look of a meander,” he insisted. “It’s thinnin’ down fast, like it’ll go to a trickle, then a thread, then nuthin’. We’ll have to go back to th’ old seam.”

  “The magus won’t have been mistaken, Emon. But if this seam plays out, Carbraes will send the magus again to find another seam altogether. I’m not willing to sustain the casualties that the old seam produced.”

  Emon nodded, reassured. “Wull, that’s good hearin’, Secretarius. But th’ new seam’s weaker than th’ old seam. And if th’ magus’ next seam’s weaker still, you’ll be gettin’ one oxhide ev’ry other day ’stead o’ three.”

  Emon was definitely a worrier. His face was creased with it as he finished his pessimistic forecast.

  “The magus did mention that this narrow neck in the seam was less rich than the wider areas before and after it,” Gael reminded him.

  “But it isn’t. It’s narrow, but the rock is just as rich as rich. We should be gettin’ four ingots, not three!” he burst out.

  “Surely not,” said Gael.

 
“The magus took a long look at our furnace,” said Emon. “Spent all day at it. But it’s workin’ worse than ever.”

  “When?” asked Gael, surprised.

  Emon frowned. “When what?”

  “When did Nathiar examine your furnace?”

  “Last waxin’ moon.” Emon was calming, even as Gael grew . . . concerned.

  “A deichtain ago?” Gael probed.

  “Aye. But it weren’t nuthin’. Just a clogged tap, and th’ magus worked out a plunger to keep it clear. Just after th’ slag rises to float on the molten copper, th’ furnace troll opens the slag tap to draw it off, then works th’ magus’ plunger – one, two, three – and then opens the oxhide tap.”

  “I didn’t know the magus had visited the mines last waxing moon,” probed Gael.

  “Oh, aye. We sent word for ’im when th’ tap clogged. And he fixed it good.” Having discharged his anxiety, Emon was wholly relaxed.

  Gael was not. Nathiar’s second trip to the copper mine – unauthorized by Gael – would bear looking into.

  The two teamsters wrestling the first oxhide ingot had finished rubbing down the pair of mules that had borne it. They hoisted the heavy metal to their shoulders, one fore and one aft, and started up the ramp to the annex. Gael followed in their wake, pondering the surest way of detaining Nathiar.

  He was tempted to bump the interview of the magus ahead of the one he planned for the castellanum.

  * * *

  After locking all three oxhide ingots in their vault, Gael trudged back down to the artisans’ yard. The morning sun had risen higher in the sky while the copper teamsters prepared to depart. The copper mines were close and they’d arrive there by midafternoon. The tin works lay more than a full day’s travel to the northeast, and the tin teamster had to camp in the forest en route.

  The copper teamsters finished tidying their mules’ straps and moved off. Passing them, a single mule loaded with two capacious sacks emerged from the gatehouse between the bailey and the lower yard – troll companion striding lazily alongside, but with a slight limp. He wore a tunic of ragged shearling, fleeces outward. His grizzled hair, wild and woolly, fell to his shoulders.

  “Fintan!” Gael called, waving a hand on high. He’d been expecting the new chap, not this old regular.

  The tin teamster waved back, a cursory swipe at the air. He paused to say something to the gatehouse guard and then led his mule along the lodges lining the lower yard, following the gradual slope up to where the lower yard merged with the upper, and only then turning toward Gael.

  A kitchen scullion scampered up the steep stairs between the two levels while Gael waited, but most of the traffic in the yard had ebbed away to a lodge mess or one of the great halls in the tower, there to break the night’s fast.

  “Gael!” said Fintan, grinning as he approached nearer. He quickened his stride. His limp grew more pronounced.

  Gael stepped to meet him, clasping both of the teamster’s forearms, feeling Fintan’s returning grip on his own.

  “How is this?” Gael asked. “Surely the leg needed another deichtain of healing.”

  “Nah. I’d coddled it too long, although Lannarc thinks like you.”

  That was the troll who’d been accompanying the tin pebbles for the last two moons. Gael raised an eyebrow.

  “He wants my job permanent,” Fintan explained, “But he’s not getting it, even if he does prefer walking through the forest over raking the gangue for missed nuggets of pure. The forest’s mine.” Fintan gave a short laugh. “Never mind that. Help me get these sacks off Hoopoh here.”

  Gael patted the mule’s neck and then set to work on the straps securing the sack on one flank, while Fintan tackled the other. Both leather receptacles bore intact wax seals over their top folds. Gael braced himself to take the weight as he loosened the last buckle, letting the forty-pound sack slide to the ground.

  A scrap of suede, dragged from its spot behind one of the straps, fell beside the full sack. Gael bent to pick it up. As he straightened, Fintan dragged his sack around to sit next to Gael’s.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” the teamster asked.

  Gael turned it over in his hands; not a scrap, but a small drawstring pouch, ornamented with rivets resembling rose blooms. He frowned. There was something peculiar about the purse, but he couldn’t place it. “Isn’t it yours?” he replied.

  “Nah. Never seen it before,” said Fintan.

  Gael compressed his lips, shook his head. He still could not place . . . whatever it was. He whistled a yard scullion over.

  “Fetch two tower porters and then water this mule,” he ordered.

  “Yes, Secretarius!” The boy bobbed his head and dashed away.

  Fintan protested, “One porter would be enough. I can carry my sack.”

  Gael held back a smile. “No doubt you could, but I doubt your physician would say you should. How did you break the bone anyway?”

  Fintan gave his short laugh. “Fell into a gangue trench like a boot. The medicus cursed me for a fool for climbing right back out again, but the damage was already done. He’d have made me lie abed for a deichtain anyway.”

  “He kept you abed that long?” Gael couldn’t see it. Fintan was an active sort who stayed outdoors from the moment he awoke until fatigue sent him to sleep at night.

  “Only by hiding my crutches,” explained the teamster.

  Gael chuckled.

  Fintan’s lips twisted. “I’d have come along with Hoopoh here” – he patted the mule’s rump – “if the magus hadn’t put forward his porter from the tower.”

  Gael frowned again. Fintan meant Lannarc, the troll who’d taken Fintan’s place while his injury healed. Gael had forgotten Lannarc was tower, not mines. A porter . . . who had run a lot of Nathiar’s errands. But what had Nathiar been doing at the tin works?

  “The magus was at the tin works when you broke the leg?” he probed.

  “Oh, aye. Said he might as well check the tributary streams for tin while the regenen had him out of the tower surveying for metals. He’d just been at the copper mines. Said he didn’t care to make two trips. Best get it all settled all in one go.”

  Gael nodded. It made sense, but he doubted it. Nathiar was up to something.

  “Keep an eye on Lannarc for me, will you?” he said abruptly.

  Fintan cocked his head. “Spy for the magus?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Just . . . notice what he does. What he says. Who he talks to.”

  “Will do,” Fintan agreed.

  Gael looked again at the small suede pouch he held in one hand. He turned it inside out. Glints of tin dust sparkled in the leather’s nap. Tin. He turned it rightside out again and studied the decorative rivets, shaped like opened rose blossoms.

  Hells!

  The pouch belonged to Nathiar.

  * * *

  Just a few steps inside the door to the tally room, Gael paused. He’d lifted the door latch softly, and Keir hadn’t realized his master had come in. The boy had opened not only the shutters, but the casements themselves, and bright sun along with cool air poured through the embrasures and across the stone floor. The shelves on each side of Keir’s desk made his working surface into a pocket of dimness, but Gael’s assistant sat very straight, his quill held between slim fingers at the correct angle, his blond head bent only slightly.

  Young eyes, thought Gael, his affection for the boy welling from some place within. He could almost imagine his tally room as his old laboratory in Hadorgol and Keir as his apprentice learning magery. Innocent magery. Safe magery. The blue energea that purified water or encouraged a poisoned wound to heal. Not the searing and dangerous orange energea of the truldemagar.

  Gael shook his head. This was Belzetarn, not Hadorgol, and his tally chamber had its own compensations.

  He inhaled slowly, savoring the warm redolence of the parchment mingled with the dry scent of dust, and moved forward into the welcome quiet, broken only by the scratching o
f Keir’s quill.

  The boy turned at Gael’s footfall and looked up, his jaw-length hair swinging back from his smooth face. “The tallies from yesterday all match,” he said.

  “Even that of the privy smithy?” asked Gael, surprised.

  “Even Martell’s,” said Keir. “Although, not in any way we would wish,” he added, laying down his quill and corking his ink jar.

  Gael sighed and came farther into the room, drawing the chair from his own desk next to Keir’s. “Tell me,” he said.

  Keir nodded. “The wastage from the smelteries was less than usual.” He smiled. “I think my pose that the tally room was seeking greater efficiency moved them to extra effort.”

  Gael snorted. “Hardly needed.”

  “No,” agreed Keir. “But those opteons pride themselves on wringing every last drop of ore from the oxhides and pebbles.”

  Gael was well aware of it, but he said nothing. Keir would communicate his full report without prompting.

  “The lodge tallies and those of the grinding, annealing, and hilt smithies all match exactly,” the boy continued. “The wastage from the armor smithy is normal.”

  “But the blade smithy?” asked Gael, surprised again. The blade smithy never possessed anomalies.

  “No discrepancies,” Keir assured him quickly, “but one of the blade pours failed.”

  “Hells,” Gael swore softly. “Then how was the smith so calm when I saw him in the afternoon?”

  Keir grinned. “He expected it to fail. He’s bringing one of his decanens along, and this was the fellow’s first blade.”

  “Ah.” Gael looked skeptically at his assistant.

  Keir’s grin faded. “But look at this.” He drew a parchment from the stack he’d been working on.

  Gael leaned forward to get his face further out of the direct sun.

  Keir tapped the first three items listed on the sheet. “Here are the ingots we issued the privy smithy yesterday morning: eighteen ingots of copper, four ingots of tin, and one ingot of bronze. That’s twenty-three pounds of metal.”