L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

That was another bit of information that chilled Rahl. “Thank you.” He nodded again, then stopped. “Are there any special days…?”

“No. Someone’s here all the time. You might have to wait a while on end-days, though. We’re usually shorthanded.”

Obviously, the mage-guards worked harder than the magisters did.

“That’s all, Rahl.”

“Oh…I’m sorry. I was just thinking.” Rahl turned and left.

“…that one won’t last…”

“…might…”

Guylmor was glancing from side to side as Rahl neared the trap. Rahl kept his left arm out of sight.

“There you are. I was getting worried, Rahl.”

“They had questions and some papers to sign. Let’s get back.” Rahl climbed back up into the seat he had been in and out of more times than he’d wanted.

“Good by me.”

As Guylmor drove back along the lane, and waited for the patroller to stop other wagons so that they could get back on the harbor boulevard, Rahl sat, thinking. He couldn’t stay more than a season with the Association, and once he left, he’d either have to find a way out of Swartheld or effectively put himself in the hands of the mage-guards. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He wasn’t just in exile, but perilously close to being in worse danger than he’d ever faced.

If he could have at that moment, he would have put a falchiona into Puvort without the slightest remorse. The magistras in Nylan weren’t much better, either. Anyone they sent to Hamor was almost certainly doomed to slavery or worse. And they talked about their kindness in “preparing” people for exile!

Rahl’s lips tightened. What could he do? He didn’t really have that much time…or coins.

“Rahl…we’re here.”

“Oh…I’m sorry. I was thinking.” Rahl didn’t need to be angry at Guylmor. The teamster certainly wasn’t at fault.

Rahl gathered himself together and eased off the seat. His feet were still warning him not to jump down. Before he stepped into the Merchant Association building, he slipped the shimmering copper bracelet off his wrist and into his belt wallet. At the moment, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to think he was a mage, especially Daelyt or Shyret, since they were not supposed to know-if what the board members in Nylan had said happened to be true. He had to wonder at that, but he wasn’t about to bring it up.

Shyret was pacing up and down the space behind the wide desk. At Rahl’s entry, he turned. “Rahl, what took so long? I need Guylmor to take the wagon and the dyes to Ebsolam.”

“Something must have happened in the harbor. The mage-guards were stopping everyone. They wanted to know who I was, why I was there, and who I worked for.”

“Did they take the envelope?”

“No, ser. They let me deliver it to the enumerators’. Here is the receipt they gave me.” Rahl extended the envelope with the sealed square of parchment.

Shyret as much as grabbed the envelope as accepted it and immediately opened it. Rahl could feel the relief from the director as soon as Shyret saw the receipt.

“Sometimes that happens. It’s most disconcerting,” said the director.

Rahl could tell he was lying-and that he’d been worried about that draft getting to the enumerators’, worried more than just a little.

Shyret forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry it took so long. Maybe they just stopped me because I was new. The mage-guard wanted to know where Daelyt was. It seemed better when I explained, but that took time.”

The director smiled wanly. “I need to make sure Chenaryl’s loaded the wagon for Ebsolam.” He turned.

Rahl took a slow deep breath, then moved toward his stool. “Do you know what that draft was for?” He kept his voice low.

“No. Not exactly,” replied Daelyt. “I imagine it’s one of the seasonal tariff payments to the enumerators. Everyone who handles declarations and manifests is assessed tariffs four times a year. The amount is based on how much cargo passes through our warehouses. I work up the figures and give them to the director. He writes the draft and sends it. I’ve been taking it…until you got here.”

“He seemed worried,” Rahl ventured.

“Things have been a little slow…he probably waited until the last moment to write the draft-or he could have forgotten it was due. Anyway,” Daelyt said with a shrug, “it’s done, and I’ve got the declarations for the Legacy of Westwind. We might as well get on with it before the enumerators show up.”

Rahl climbed into his stool.

At that moment, he realized where he’d heard the name Doramyl before-from Alamyrt on the Diev. But why had Alamyrt been traveling on a Recluce vessel when he or his family owned their own fleet? Or had the trader just been pretending to be Alamyrt? Yet he’d owned bales of wool in his own name, and black wool didn’t come cheap.

“Rahl? We need to get started.”

“Oh…I’m sorry.” Rahl jerked alert. He must have dozed off. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Too much sun yesterday. Your skin is still red. It’s hotter here than in Recluce.”

“That could be.” Rahl cleaned his pen and dipped it in the inkwell. “I’m ready.”

“Cargo declaration of sevenday, eleventh eightday of summer…”

Rahl began to write.

Thankfully, the next several days were uneventful for Rahl, and he did not have to go anywhere there might be a mage-guard. Even with the registry bracelet, he didn’t want anything to do with them. He kept the bracelet in his belt wallet, although at first it clinked loudly and gave the impression he had more coins than he did. He solved that problem by wrapping it in an old square of cloth he took from the rags in the storeroom.

The Legacy of the Founders ported ahead of schedule on fourday, but Chenaryl did not finish the “corrected” cargo declarations until midafternoon on sixday. Daelyt had delegated the drafting of the clean Hamorian copies of the cargo declaration to Rahl and checked each page of the first copy of the declaration as Rahl finished it.

Rahl was completing the last page of the third copy when Daelyt looked up from the cargo consignment form he had been writing up.

“The declaration shows that two kegs of madder were spoiled. What happens to all the spoiled goods?” asked Rahl.

“Chenaryl will sell them for what he can get on the sevenday auctions at the Exchange Plaza,” replied Daelyt. “Just like all the other spoilage. The coins go back into the accounts here, except Chenaryl gets one part in fifty for his trouble.”

“I can see that it’s better for everyone to get some coins,” Rahl said, “but how does it work out for the traders? Or the growers or whoever made the goods?”

“Oh, they don’t have to worry,” explained Daelyt. “The Association buys the goods outright, except for cargoes carried under consignment. Then we resell them to factors and merchants here-or anyone else who pays the price. The spoilage and the costs of carrying goods are why they cost more here than they would in Nylan or wherever they come from.”

Rahl thought about that for a moment. “So the price that the director charges others here in Swartheld has to be high enough to cover the losses and the spoilage…and what it costs to keep the Association going? That’s why he wouldn’t back down to Ebsolam the other day. Or Escoryl.”

“Exactly.”

“So, if spoilage gets too high, prices have to go up, or the Association loses coins.”

“Both, sometimes,” replied Daelyt, “and for some things he can’t raise prices. The director doesn’t like it when that happens.”

Rahl could see why.

“Are you finished with that last copy?” asked Daelyt.