Natural Ordermage (40 page)

After setting the folder in front of him, slightly to his left, Rahl began to turn the first few pages, filled with changes scrawled in the margins and smudges everywhere.

With such entries going on for what looked to be almost twenty pages, he could definitely see why Daelyt would like someone else to do the fair copying.

He extracted the blank ledger sheets from his side of the desk and began to copy, taking his time, because he needed to check the figures as well as copy them neatly. Even so, it was certainly no worse than Natural Arithmetics and not nearly so impenetrable as Philosophies of Candar.

Daelyt looked over his efforts several times, then straightened as a trader came in the front entry. “Might I be of assistance, noble trader?”

“When’s your next vessel bound for Nylan?”

“That would be the Legacy of Montgren, and it will be porting sometime after an eightday from oneday.”

“I’m looking for cubage for amphorae—needlewasp honey.”

“How many stones’ worth?”

“Less than a hundred.”

“That will not be a problem.”

The trader nodded, turned, and left.

Rahl looked at Daelyt quizzically.

“You’ve never heard of needlewasp honey?” asked the older clerk.

“I didn’t know it came from Hamor. Don’t the vintners use it to sweeten and stabilize bitter wines?”

“More trades use it than you’d think. Apothecaries, vintners, brewers, even dyers.” Daelyt snorted. “Working for a wasp-keeper… almost as bad as the quarries or the ironworks. Worse if you’re the kind that swells up when you get stung.”

“Where do they keep the wasps?”

“Most of the wasp-keepers are in the low marshy valleys south of Cigoerne. That’s where the blue lilies grow.”

“Daelyt!” called Shyret from the archway leading to his study.

The older clerk slipped off his stool and hurried away.

Rahl kept working on the seasonal inventory through the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon, before Daelyt sent him over to Eneld’s for his midday repast. Then Daelyt went.

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.

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 man 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?