L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

Rahl laughed. “I left the one I wanted behind, and I haven’t met any here. Even if I did, why would they be interested in someone without that many coins?” As he finished speaking, he realized that what had started out as an evasion and rationalization was actually true-except that the image that had come to mind was that of Deybri.

Deybri? The healer who had told him that the past had no hold on him?

“You get any coins at all, and you’ll find someone interested,” replied the shorter man. “There’s always someone in Swartheld.”

Rahl laughed. “We’ll just have to see.”

Abruptly, the two exchanged glances.

“Well, best of fortune, fellow,” said the shorter man.

“Thank you.” Rahl nodded, but kept his attention on both as they stepped back carefully, and turned away. He used his order-skills to try to pick up the low murmurs as they walked across the sparse grass and dusty ground back toward the family group under the shade of the nearest grove.

“Nice enough…”

“Tough ones are…don’t keep that pretty a face unless…” The shorter man shook his head.

“Mage-guards’ll get him…‘less he’s registered.”

“Didn’t see it.”

As the two moved out of earshot, Rahl frowned. What had they been looking for? Some indication that he was registered as a mage? But he wasn’t, and he’d been careful not to use any active order-magery anywhere, especially in public.

Finally, he walked northward for almost a hundred cubits until he found a tree where it was even more shaded and comfortable enough to sit down and read. He doubted he’d learn much, but he might as well try, and his feet could use a little rest.

On oneday, Rahl was almost happy to get up early and sweep and polish some of the brasswork before eating and washing up. That might have been because eightday had not proved particularly pleasant or productive for Rahl, except in leaving his feet sore and his face and neck sunburned, and costing him several coppers for a fowl stick from a vendor near another parklike area farther to the south of the harbor area.

People he’d passed on his long walk had seemed friendly enough, but like the two men in the first park, most had said a few words, then left or excused themselves. Could they sense the difference…or was it merely the Atlan accent?

He’d stopped in several shaded places and read portions of The Basis of Order, but the book remained as useless to him as ever. Of what worldly use was a phrase like “for chaos can be said to be the wellspring of order and order the wellspring of chaos”? Or the section that said that a mage shouldn’t assume that what lay beneath was the same as what lay above or that it might be different? Anything was either the same or different. Why did the writer even have to write something that obvious down? Reading it not only left him irritated, but often just plain angry at the unnecessary obtuseness of the words.

Daelyt stepped into the front area of the office and glanced around. “You did the brasswork. It looks good.”

“Thank you. How was your end-day?” Rahl suppressed his exasperation about The Basis of Order.

“Good. Yasnela and I visited some friends. Shealyr has an old mare and a cart, and he was kind enough to let me borrow them. We had a good time, but I’ll pay for it later today.”

Rahl let his order-senses take in Daelyt, but the clerk didn’t seem that tired or even different. Perhaps there was a shade more of the white chaos-mist around him, but Rahl wasn’t even sure about that.

“Usually on oneday, nothing happens early, because everyone’s cleaning up and figuring out things, and then it gets rushed in the afternoon. I stopped by to see Chenaryl, but he’s still not through with the corrected cargo declaration,” said Daelyt, adding after a moment, “On the cargo off-loaded from the Westwind. ” The clerk began taking blank forms from his drawers and stacking them.

“Does the Association send those from Nylan-the forms, I mean?”

“Mostly. Even with the shipping, it’s cheaper. Undelsor could print them, but anything we want has to come after everyone else because we represent outlanders.” Daelyt snorted. “Shyret tried to offer more, once, and he was told that was bribery, and he could be flogged for it. Locals can offer more to get their work done first, but we can’t.”

Rahl followed Daelyt’s example and seated himself on his stool.

“What did you do yesterday?” asked the older clerk.

“I just walked around, tried to get a better feel for Swartheld. I think it will take time.” He paused, then went on, carefully. “I was at the park, the one up behind the harbor to the east-”

“That’s a long walk.”

“What else was I going to do? Anyway, I was sitting under a tree, and a bravo came up, and two men went over and talked to him, and he left. But they watched him. They were looking for something.”

“Oh…freelance bravos have to be registered with the mage-guards, just like the mages, and they have to wear a wristband.”

“I understand about mages, but bravos?”

“They can only kill in self-defense or under contract.”

“You can hire someone to kill someone?”

Daelyt shook his head. “You or I couldn’t. The minimum contract is a gold, but most bravos won’t work for less than twice that, and the ones that will don’t last long.”

Rahl just sat there, silent, for a moment. “What…what if they fail?”

“They have to succeed or return the fee plus a tenth more.”

“What if they get killed by the person they’re supposed to kill?”

“It doesn’t happen often, but, if it does, that person gets the fee, and the name of the person who made the hire.”

“Couldn’t the person who was attacked just go kill the person who paid the bravo?”

Daelyt laughed sardonically. “No. That’d be murder. Like anything else in Swartheld, you have to pay a professional to do the job. Why do you think Shyret needs us? It’s a fine for a trader or a shipper to do his own declarations. They have to be done by one of the shipping associations or by the bonded agents of an individual shipowner. That’s for the handful that have their own fleets, like Kashanat, Doramyl, or Skionyl.”

Doramyl? Rahl had heard the name before, but could not recall where. At that moment, the front door opened, and a man stepped into the Association building. He wore a fharong colored blue and soft yellow, and embroidered in green. To Rahl’s eyes, his hands looked greenish.

“Is Director Shyret here?”

“I believe so, Dyemaster,” replied Daelyt, “but let me check.” The clerk hurried back toward Shyret’s study.

Within moments, Shyret appeared. Rahl hadn’t even realized that the director had arrived earlier through the storeroom door.

The director bustled toward the dyemaster. “Ebsolam! I have your indigo and scarletine. I sent a message.”

Daelyt slipped along behind Shyret, then eased back into his stool.

“So you did, but…you’re asking a gold more a keg than you quoted.”

Shyret offered an apologetic expression. “Cartage rates are up, and the rains in Feyn fell mainly on the higher ground, and the kermetite swarms were thinner this winter. We did the best we could.” A shrug followed. “I’d not hold you to the commitment, since we can’t meet the quote.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” asked the dyemaster.

“It’s the same thing. If I sell at less than cost, I won’t be here long.”

Ebsolam’s flinty eyes fixed on Shyret.

“You can hope the Esalians might send a shipment. Their scarletine generally costs less,” suggested Shyret.

“It’s not as good.”