L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

“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 Atlan 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.

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 radiated from him. The barefoot boy scrambled to his knees, and then to his feet, backing away from Rahl.