L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

“There’ll be more like that. Always are after the turn of fall.”

“Be a moment or two!” called Seorya. “You could let us know you were coming.”

“We would if we knew,” Daelyt replied.

“The lead plates,” Rahl began. “What was all that about?”

“That’s simple. Lead is lead. It doesn’t matter whether it comes from Hamor or Lydiar. The price is the same. Hassynat’s probably got some fine cotton or linen scheduled for his ships, and doesn’t have enough space for the lead. See…we tend to ship fuller on the legs out from Nylan, and they tend to ship fuller on the legs out from Hamor. Not always, but it’s more likely to fall that way. Plus, the lead doesn’t take the cubage, and the supercargo-or the master-or the crew-is likely to try and squeeze in more cargo. That can overload the ship. All around, they’d rather have us ship the lead.” Daelyt grinned. “They also don’t have to worry about spoilage. Lead doesn’t spoil.”

All that made sense, but…

“Here you go, you hardworking clerks!” Seorya set the two chipped crockery platters down, one in front of each man, followed by the two mug-like tankards that held the always-bitter beer.

For a moment, Rahl just looked at the fried flat bread wrapped around onions, pepper, and fish whose origins he preferred not to know, drizzled on top with too little cheese. There was one definite aspect of Seorya’s cooking. It didn’t matter what it was, because all Rahl could taste was the heat and the spices. Even the beer tasted like the spices after a mouthful or two of food. But, he reflected, there was enough so that he didn’t go hungry.

“Frig!”

Rahl glanced up to see that somehow Daelyt had juggled his mug, and sloshed beer out before managing to catch the mug itself-as more beer spilled on his hands.

Daelyt looked at Rahl. “Can you see if Seorya or Eneld has a rag up there?”

Rahl got up and walked forward toward the steamy heat of the big iron stove.

Seorya had already seen what had happened and thrust a rag at Rahl, shaking her head. “It’s a good thing you clerks aren’t cooks.”

“It’s a good thing you cooks aren’t clerks,” Rahl shot back, grinning.

“That is true, because we’d all go hungry.”

Daelyt was still trying to wipe and shake beer off his lower sleeve when Rahl returned with the not-too-clean rag. “Thank you.” The older clerk used the clean section of the rag to wipe the beer off his hands and blot some off his sleeves.

Rahl sat down and worked to finish the mound of flat bread and spiced-fish-flavored onions and peppers. The beer seemed sweeter than usual, but that was welcome. Unlike most nights, Daelyt actually ate all of his meal, and Rahl wondered if Yasnela were with friends.

“We’d better get back,” Daelyt said.

Rahl nodded and stood. He wasn’t looking forward to slogging through the rain, even for the relatively short distance from Eneld’s to the Association.

He yawned as he stepped out into the rain, which continued to fall as heavily as ever. Usually, right about sunset, there was a mage-guard around, but he didn’t see any. He yawned again as he followed Daelyt across the street-far less traveled in the rain. He almost slipped stepping across the gutter to the sidewalk in front of the Association.

Daelyt obviously didn’t like the rain, either, because he’d hurried ahead and unlocked the door.

As Rahl let the older clerk lock the door behind them, he headed for the desk to pick up the forms and papers he’d left. He looked around. Somehow, the office looked and felt darker, but the same lamps were lit as when they’d left.

“I need to check with the director. Why don’t you put your things away? It’s been a long day,” Daelyt said before making his way back toward the study.

“I’ll…do…that.” Rahl yawned again. It had been a long day. His legs felt heavy, and he struggled onto the stool so he wouldn’t have to stand while he stacked the forms and slipped them into the drawers.

He was beginning to feel sleepy. Far too sleepy. He put his head on his hands at the wide desk, but somehow, it slipped onto the wood. Then he tried to lift his hand, but it wouldn’t move.

“He’s almost out…”

“Get rid of the truncheon, and you can have what’s in his wallet…lay him out on the old rug here, and we’ll just roll him inside.” There was a laugh. “Make him real comfortable.”

Rahl struggled to move, to hear more, but a hot blackness rolled over him.

Despite the clouds overhead, the late-winter afternoon was almost as hot as fall or spring, and the hint of a breeze was acrid and carried the heat from the furnaces to the west.

“Move that shovel, Blacktop!”

The man knew his name was not Blacktop, but, for all the time he had been in Luba, he did not remember what it was. Until he remembered his name, he would answer to Blacktop. Then again, he had no idea how long he had been in Luba, only that he had been there at least for most of what the overseers called winter, hot as it seemed to him. For the moment, all he knew was that every single time he lifted the shovel, his arms and back ached, and every time that he took a deep breath, the air itself burned through his nostrils and all the way into his chest. He sweated all the time, and half the time, his beard itched from the salt that dried in it.

“Keep the chute full!”

He kept shoveling, evenly and just fast enough so that the overseer would not flick out his lash. He already had more than a few rents in the back of the sleeveless canvas working tunic, and scars on his back beneath those rents. He did not remember how he had gotten them.

“Stand back! ‘Ware the wagon!”

Another wagon-pulled by heavily muscled sloggers-rolled to a stop in the unloading dock next to the chute that funneled the coal down into the coking furnace. The loading dock had been cut into the hillside, so that the wagon bed was level with the ground on which Blacktop stood. The top end of the coal chute was barely a span above the ground.

The wagon guide pulled a rope, and the side of the wagon dropped down. A portion of the hard coal rolled out of the wagon and onto the blackened and hard-packed ground some four cubits wide, where Blacktop and the five others stood between the wagon and the chute.

“Loaders! Back to your places! Get those shovels moving!” The overseer’s whip cracked into the hot air.

Blacktop stepped closer to the side of the wagon and slipped the shovel under a pile of coal, then turned and lofted it in a low arc into the chute. So did the loaders on both sides, all working with the same motion-out of necessity.

Scoop, turn, and release…scoop, turn, and release…

Blacktop kept with the others until the wagon was empty. Then he lowered the shovel but did not otherwise move.

“Loaders back!”

He stepped back.

“Short rest, and I mean short.”

Blacktop sat down on the concrete-and-stone support to the chute feeding the coking furnace below, a furnace whose stacks rose far above his head, even though the chute ran down the hillside for more than thirty cubits. He turned his head slightly, to let the slight movement of hot air help dry the sweat on his face.

Farther to the west, the furnaces of the ironworks rose up the hill, stair-step fashion, with the large iron pipes that fed the exhaust gases of one furnace into the belly of the next. On the west end of the valley were the mills. He’d been told they were mills, but he’d never been there. His job was simple. He had to shovel coal when he was told to, rest when it was permitted, eat when he could, and sleep the remainder of the time.

The great blast furnaces radiated heat and light into a sky that was gray by day and sullen red by night. Day and night molten iron poured from the furnaces into the sand molds, and when the molds were cool enough, the pigs were moved. At times, from a distance, he had seen wagons moving some pigs when still red-hot to the rolling mills and drop-forges to the west of the furnaces. When his crew worked close to the furnaces, the combined clanging of the forges and the roar of the furnaces was deafening. Other wagonloads of pigs went elsewhere, but he had not seen where that might be.