So what was the purpose of garments that covered everything, yet that occasionally revealed so much?
Rahl eased himself into a relatively shady spot beneath the nearest tree and continued to survey what was happening. Whole families had to have arrived early to claim the shaded tables in the groves, and in several places, he could see older white-haired men playing what looked to be a form of plaques.
Two men detached themselves from a group that looked to include several families under the nearest acacia grove and ambled toward him.
Rahl waited, taking their measure as they neared. Neither was as tall as he was, and while the two bore belt knives, they had no other weapons. One had drooping black mustaches, and the other had a few days’ growth of beard. Both wore old and thin faded shirts, not tunics or undertunics.
“You’re not from around here,” said the shorter and broader figure, fingering one pointed end of his mustache. “No. I live down near the harbor.”
“You sound like you’re from Ada.”
“I’ve only been in Swartheld for a short time.” The taller man looked at the truncheon, then at Rahl.
“You look too pretty to be a guard, and most bravos wear blades.”
“I work for a trading association,” countered Rahl. “They don’t like holes in possible shippers.” The shorter man laughed. “You ever use a falchiona?”
“Enough.”
“Why are you here?”
“At the park?” Rahl shrugged. “What else would I do? I haven’t gotten paid that much yet.”
“How about women?”
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 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.”
“Do you want it or not?”
“I’ll take it, you scoundrel. Sometimes, you give Jeranyi pirates a good name.”
“As soon as we have your draft, Guylmor will deliver the kegs.”
“My son will be by with the draft before midday.” Ebsolam turned and left. .
Rahl could sense the anger held within the dyemaster.
Only once the door had closed did Shyret turn, shaking his head. ‘They charge all the market will bear, and when we have to raise prices to cover our costs, you would think that the very ocean was at his door.“ He looked directly at Rahl. ”I was about to come out anyway. I need you to take something to the enumerators’ office. It’s next to the harbormaster’s.“
“I’d be happy to, ser,” Rahl said, “but I’ll need directions.”
“Guylmor will drive. It’s not a good idea to walk that far. Not with a draft on the Exchange, and that’s what you’ll be taking. Just run out and tell Guylmor that he’s to drive you there. Then you can come back here while he’s harnessing and wait until he pulls up out in front.”
“Yes, ser.” Rahl slipped off the stool and headed for the rear storeroom door. Once outside, he had to go to the south end of the courtyard to find Guylmor, who was grooming one of the dray horses outside the stables there. He was sweating by the time he reached the teamster. The day was looking to be even hotter than end-day had been.
“Guylmor, the director wants you to drive me to the enumerators’ place next to the harbormaster’s.”
The teamster looked up. “You got too much sun. Look like a steamed langostino.”
“I’m not used to it.”
“Be a few moments, and I’ll bring it out front.”
“Thank you.”
“What we’re here for.” The teamster resumed grooming the big chestnut.
Rahl turned and walked back up the long courtyard. Shyret had gone back to his study by the time Rahl returned to the Association office and climbed back onto his stool. What was he supposed to do now?
Daelyt was painstakingly cleaning his pen and then the rim of his inkwell. After that, he looked up. “The director will be back in a few moments, he said.”
“You were telling me about people being punished for doing things they weren’t supposed to do. Does that mean we get in trouble if we mortar a loose brick or repair a shutter, things like that?”
Daelyt laughed. “You’re taking me too seriously. It’s stuff for other people. We can do anything the director tells us here at the Association, because the Association owns everything, and we work for it, and the director’s in charge. He couldn’t have us fix Eneld’s shutters, because we’re not carpenters and we’re not working for Eneld or related to him. Eneld can try to fix his own shutters. He shouldn’t because he makes a mess of anything but cooking and serving, but he could…”
“Rahl…”
Rahl turned to see Shyret walking toward him, carrying a large brown envelope.
“This is what you’re to take to the enumerators. You say that you’re new and you’re delivering this to the tariff clerk from Director Shyret at the Nylan Merchant Association.”
“Yes, ser.”
“You have Guylmor drive you there. Have him wait, and then have him drive you back here. Make sure that you get a receipt with the enumerators’ pressed seal.”
“Yes, ser.”
Shyret finally handed the envelope to Rahl, then turned and headed back to his study.
Rahl watched through the narrow front windows until Guylmor drove up. He wasn’t holding the leads to a wagon, but to a light trap, pulled by a single horse.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Rahl said, standing and picking the envelope off the desktop.
“Don’t dawdle, but don’t rush.”
“I won’t.” Rahl made his way out to the trap and climbed up onto the seat beside the teamster.
“Rahl… you said we were going to the enumerators‘. That right?”
‘That’s what the director told me. I have to deliver this envelope.“
“Oh… Daelyt used to do that. Guess you get to be messenger now.” Guylmor flicked the leads lightly, and the horse pulled the trap away from the Association building and out into the welter of carts, carriages, and wagons, heading eastward, then north on the harbor boulevard. The going was barely faster than a walk, and if Rahl’s feet had not been sore, he could have walked the distance faster than he was riding.