So did Blacktop, conscious that the two guards trailed him, ready to cut him down if he so much as stepped sideways. As he neared the building, he saw that the walls were old and pitted, as well as stained.
In front of him, the overseer opened the plain oak door and stepped into a square foyer. He turned right down a narrow corridor, walled in the same pale marble as the exterior of the building, but without the staining and pitting. The second door on the left was open, and the overseer entered.
A guard wearing a falchiona surveyed the overseer.
“Overseer Stolt reporting with the loader Blacktop, as ordered.”
“Wait.” The guard turned and opened the door to his left. He took a half step into the chamber, and said, “The overseer is here.” After a moment, he stepped back. “The guard-captain will see you and the loader.”
“Go ahead, Blacktop.”
Blacktop walked through the door into a smallish chamber that held little besides a table desk, two chairs, a stool, and a set of file chests stacked against the wall on both sides of the narrow window before which the table desk was set.
The guard-captain was standing, waiting beside the table desk. She was a woman, with, gray-and-white hair cut as short as any man’s. Her shoulders were broad and muscular, and eyes watery gray and rimmed in red. Her face was so weathered that Blacktop couldn’t tell what her age might be, save that it was beyond middling. Beside her was a mage-guard, a thin-faced man who looked to be nearly as old as she was. Neither smiled.
“You may wait outside, overseer.” The guard-captain’s voice was like rumbling gravel, slightly softened by sand. “Close the door.”
“Yes, ser.”
The guard-captain did not speak until the door closed. “The overseer claims you were writing on the table, Blacktop.”
“Yes, ser, but only in the dust. I didn’t make any real marks on the table.”
“That’s good. We don’t like destruction of any sort here in Luba. This is where all that Hamor builds begins.” She laughed, softly, harshly. “That was not my real question. Can you write?”
“I think so, ser… it’s been so long, and there is so much I don’t remember.”
“What did you do before you came here?”
“I don’t remember, ser.”
She glanced to the mage.
“He does not remember, Captain.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“Just one or two things, ser. I remember a girl giving me a pouch, and I think it held pen nibs, and I remember being rolled into something hot and dark.”
“Nothing else?”
“Just the words… and how to write them; ser.” The mage-guard nodded.
The guard-captain pointed to the stool at the side of the desk. “Sit down. There is paper. There is a pen. Write something.”
Blacktop sat. Slowly, he took the pen. He had never seen it, yet it felt familiar. He looked down at the rough paper, and he realized he would have to be careful, or the point might snag… but… how did he know that? What could he write? He could feel the guard-captain and the mage-guard looking at him.
Slowly… he began.
The ironworks are in a valley in Luba. The blast furnaces roar night and day, and the coal goes into the ovens and conies out coke, and the coke goes into the furnaces…
“That’s enough.”
Blacktop cleaned the pen and laid it beside the inkwell. Both the guard-captain and the mage-guard had watched him do so.
The guard-captain lifted the paper, studied it, and handed it, without speaking, to the mage-guard, -who in turn studied it.
“His hand is as good as an old-time scrivener’s,” offered the mage. “You don’t see penmanship like that anymore.”
Scrivener? Blacktop thought that word sounded familiar. Had he been a scrivener? But how would a scrivener come to be a loader in the ironworks?
“Except in the hills west of Atla, or in the mountains of Merowey.” The guard-captain looked down at Blacktop. “Do you know numbers? How to write them?”
“Yes, ser… I think. I haven’t written any, not even in the table dust.”
“I’m going to give you numbers. I want you to write them down in a column, so that they can be added together.” The mage-guard set the paper back in front of Blacktop.
“Yes, ser.”
“Twenty-three… nine… seventeen… thirty-five…”
Blacktop wrote each number, lining them up from the rightmost column.
“Now… add them together and write down the sum.”
Sum? Oh… that was the total, Blacktop recalled. He wrote 84 under the summation line.
“Might have been a clerk. That’s a merchanting sum line.”
“Your gain, Captain,” suggested the mage-guard. “Did anyone tell you why you were sent to Luba?” asked the guard-captain.
“I don’t remember, ser.”
“What do you remember?”
“Just being a loader, ser. Except I don’t remember ‘? much of when I was first here, either.”
“Would you like to do something else, with better food and a better place to sleep? It wouldn’t be quite so hard, but you would have to write and do sums all day.”
“Yes, ser.” Blacktop didn’t have to think about that long.
The guard-captain nodded. “Go out into the front room and wait.” . .
“Yes, ser.” Blacktop bowed slightly, then turned and-opened the door, stepping out into the outer office.
“Get him a shower and clerk’s garb. He can start at one of the plate-loading docks. Can’t exactly do that much harm there if it doesn’t work.”
Just before he closed the guard-captain’s chamber, Blacktop heard a few words of what the mage-guard said.
“… wonder what merchant he offended…”
Why did they think he had offended a merchant? Because his writing and his ability to do sums suggested that he had been a merchant clerk? What could he have possibly done? Even that thought tightened his guts, and he could feel the seething rage starting to rise before he pressed it. back into the darkness within himself.
Within moments, the mage-guard emerged from the guard-captain’s study and looked at the overseer and the two guards. “Thank you. You three can return to your duties. We’ll take care of Blacktop.”
After the three left, the mage-guard looked at Blacktop. “Let’s go.”
Another wagon carried him and the mage-guard down from the mesa, but the road they took was on the west side.
As they rode, the mage-guard began to talk. “Blacktop… your job is going to be very simple, but very important. We need to keep track of how much steel is produced. Each time a wagon is loaded, you need to write down the wagon number, where it is being sent, and how many sheets of each size of iron plate are in each wagon. You will need to write this down in a book called a ledger.”
Ledger? He’d heard that before. It was a book where things were listed by name and number. “Blacktop?”
“I’m sorry, ser. I was just remembering what a ledger was. I can do that”
For several moments, the mage-guard did not speak. Then he said quietly, “You may remember more in the eightdays ahead. Do not get angry. Before you say anything, think about everything that you do. Duty and performance can get you better positions in the ironworks. Sometimes, they can get you out of the ironworks. Violence and anger will only turn you into a slogger—if you aren’t killed first.”
“Yes, ser.” Blacktop already understood about anger and violence.
At the same time, he wondered what else he would remember.
By midday, Blacktop had showered in cool water, changed into a tannish short-sleeved shirt and matching trousers, been assigned to a real bunk in a dormitory at one end of the mesa, and dispatched by a wagon to loading dock number three. The mage-guard accompanied him, still providing information.
“The loading dock is where the sheets of iron plate are lifted onto the short-haul wagons that take them to the river piers. From there they’re barged up- or downriver. The head supervisor is Moryn. You call him and any other supervisor ‘ser’ or ‘supervisor,’ not that you wouldn’t anyway.”
“Yes, ser.”
“All you have to do is pay attention and write down how much iron plate of what sizes leaves the loading dock.”
That seemed simple enough to Blacktop, and he nodded as the wagon neared its immediate destination.
“You get two coppers an eightday for wages. It’s not [much, but you can buy things at the small chandlery next ‘to the dining hall…”
Wages?
“You’ll work from breakfast to dinner, but after today, you’ll get an extra half loaf of bread at breakfast to take with you for a midday meal. A wagon picks up all the checkers and brings you back to the dormitory and’t dinner…”
Blacktop kept listening, trying to fix what the mage-guard said in his memory. The loading dock was little more than a stone platform covered in heavy and battered planks. Behind it were stacks I of iron plate. Each stack held a different size of iron plate, set three and four layers deep, with wooden wedges between each sheet A swivel hoist powered by what looked to be-a small steam engine was mounted north of the middle of the dock.
As the wagon came to a stop well short of the dock, Blacktop watched as the hoist operator turned the loading arm until it was positioned over a stack of plate. Then two men in beige shirts and trousers similar to those he now wore unfastened half the sling and slipped it under the iron.
Blacktop climbed-out of the wagon, carefully, because he was now wearing stiff new leather sandals, and he wasn’t used to them. He followed the mage-guard up a set of worn wooden steps on the northern side of the dock. There, the mage stopped, and so did Blacktop.
Shortly, a stocky man in a khaki shirt and trousers, a black-leather belt and scuffed black boots appeared from behind a stack of plate and walked toward them.
“That’s Moryn,” said the mage-guard quietly. “What do you have here, Mage-guard Taryl?” asked the supervisor.
“You’ve been asking for a qualified checker for eightdays. The guard-captain found one.”
The weathered supervisor studied Blacktop for several moments. “He looks like he’s been a loader or a breaker. Now… how is that going to help?”
“He was a loader because he lost his memory, and the paperwork was somehow mislaid. The guard-captain and I have examined him. He writes well and does his sums adequately. His writing suggests he was at one time a scrivener.”
“Tried to cheat his master, you think?”
Taryl shrugged. “Could be. Could be otherwise, too.”
Moryn laughed. “Doesn’t matter now. No one’s going to make off with iron plate. We’ll see how he works out.” He turned. “What’s your name?”
“Blacktop.”
“That’ll do.” Moryn nodded to the mage-guard. “Thank you.”
“We do try to help.” There was a slight irony in the words, but Taryl said nothing more before vaulting back up into the wagon.
Moryn pointed to what looked like a tiny roofed building with walls waist high on three sides, and a high stool set behind a narrow counter. Another man dressed like the supervisor sat on the stool, shaded by the small roof. “See the kiosk over there. That’s the checker’s station.”
Blacktop watched as the checker wrote something.
Moryn pulled out a sheet of paper and stepped back, smoothing it on the top sheet of plate in the pile nearest him. Then he motioned for Blacktop to look at it. “Here’s the form you use. Each large block has a space where you write down the wagon number. Each wagon has a letter and a number painted on each side beneath the driver’s bench. Each time the supervisor or wagonmaster calls out the size and thickness of the plate, and the number of plates loaded in a-hoist, you write them down in the large space, and after the wagon pulls out, then you add up the total number of each size of plates, and put the totals in the smaller boxes here. Each box is for a different size or thickness of plate. It might be full span, half span, or quarter span in thickness, and it will be either full plate, half plate, quarter plate.” Moryn rolled up the paper. “Do you have any questions?”
“Will they be loading anything besides iron plate, ser?”
“That doesn’t happen often. Just write down what it is—iron bars, say, and total those separate from the plate.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Now… go stand next to supervisor Chylor and watch what he does for the next several wagons. Don’t move away from the kiosk. If you get in the way of the hoist, there won’t be enough of you left to worry about. Iron plate is
heavy
.”
“Yes, ser.”
As Blacktop walked carefully along the back edge of the loading dock toward the checker’s kiosk, Moryn raised his voice. “Chylor! Blacktop’s the new checker. He’ll watch you until you finish this wagon.”
“Got it, boss!” Chylor kept his eyes on the wagon and the hoist.
Blacktop stationed himself at the right side of the kiosk, just far enough back not to block the supervisor’s view, but close enough that he could see the paper in front of Chylor, although he could not make out the words and numbers that clearly. Then he waited as the hoist rattled and the steam engine hissed, and the sling lowered its load.