‘Two quarter plates, quarter span!“ Moryn called out
Chylor wrote and waited.
Blacktop watched.
After another sling delivery, Moryn announced, “Wagon away.”
The six dray horses—not sloggers—strained for a moment before the wagon began to move. Chylor stood out from the kiosk, then walked to where Moryn stood. He did not look at Blacktop. “Go ahead, Blacktop.”
The former loader slipped into the kiosk and seated himself. Somehow, the stool and the counter felt familiar. Not the ones before him, but their arrangement. He studied the form on the counter, roughly half-filled out. Chylor’s fractions for the thickness of the plate were sloppily written.
Blacktop found himself frowning. How did he know that? Why could he only remember so much, arid no more?
The next wagon rolled up, and Chylor walked south of the kiosk, stopping just short of even with the driver, while Moryn moved back toward the kiosk.
Blacktop looked for the wagon number. It was faint, but right where Moryn had said it would be. He wrote down D-21, in the wagon number space, and waited, watching as the steam hoist rattled and swung a sheet of plate over the wagon.
“Forward about a cubit!”
More rattling and hissing followed the supervisor’s directions. “Easy down.”
As the hoist lowered the plate, Chylor called out, “Full plate, one sheet, half span, first sling.”
The wagon settled slightly under the weight of the plate. Then one of the hoist assistants unfastened the leather and cable sling, and the hoist operator lifted it, and the process began again.
“Full plate, one sheet, half span, second sling…”
After the loading was complete and the wagon rolled away, Moryn walked up to Blacktop. “Let’s see.”
“Yes, ser.” Blacktop turned the sheet so that Moryn could see the entries.
The supervisor nodded. “Just keep doing it that way.” He stepped back to where he had been watching and waited for the next wagon.
In the end, Moryn checked the entries for almost a half score of wagons before leaving the loading dock to Chiylor’s control.
For a moment, Blacktop hadn’t seen why Moryn had waited so long, but then he realized that the head supervisor had wanted to see how Blacktop had entered all the different sizes and thicknesses of plate.
Blacktop settled himself on the stool and waited for the next wagon.
As the mage-guard had told him, a wagon did trundle up to the plate-loading dock when Moryn stopped work at the loading dock somewhat before sunset. Both Chylor and Moryn got-on as well, but they sat in the first three rows, reserved for guards and supervisors, and Blacktop sat alone in the seventh and last row.
From the plate loading dock, the wagon continued along the dusty stone lane toward another loading area, one with stacks of steel bars. As the wagon slowed there, the wind picked up, swirling grit into Blacktop’s eyes. He had to blink and blot them, and he realized that they didn’t water or hurt as much as they had at the end of his day when he’d been a loader.
The single checker from the bar dock walked to the wagon, looked at Blacktop, then walked around to the far side, where he sat in the last row as far as he could from Blacktop. The supervisor squeezed in beside Chylor.
Once the wagon stopped outside the dormitory area where Blacktop had cleaned up earlier, he climbed down and followed the other checkers—he thought most were checkers—into the eating hall. There he found that they filed past a table with tin cups and tin platters, rather than shallow bowls. They also picked up forks and broad spoons before moving to a serving table.
Blacktop found himself served a heaping pile of spiced rice and a thick sauce that held root vegetables and discernible chunks of meat, as well as a half loaf of fresh bread. The beer actually foamed slightly and smelled better.
For a moment, “Blacktop just stood, looking around the hall. The tables were old, but had been recently cleaned and polished, and, most surprisingly, since talking had been scarce among the loaders, the area was filled with the low murmur of voices. Scattered fragments of conversations flitted past him.
“… problems with the big drop-forge… glad I’m not a mech…”
“… don’t ever want to piss off Dyeth… call a mage-guard and swear you struck him… they can’t tell he’s lying, either…”
“… less than a season… be paid off… head home…”
Blacktop realized that two men at a nearby table were . studying him.
“… transfer from- hard labor, more likely… look at the tan and the muscles… and that bushy beard.”
He smiled and moved toward-them.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” asked the older balding man.
“I just started as a checker today,” Blacktop admitted. “You’re welcome to sit down.”
“Thank you.” Blacktop settled onto the bench. “I’m Zhulyn,” offered the balding man, “and this is Faryn.”
“Blacktop”
“Is that your real name?”
Blacktop took a sip of the beer before replying. He was thirsty. “No, I don’t think so, but I can’t remember my real name.”
“But… you’re a checker?” Faryn smiled broadly.
“I remember how to write and do sums. I just don’t know how I got here.”
Zhulyn and Faryn exchanged quick glances. “You must have really upset someone.”
“Why do you say that?” Blacktop added quickly, “I know some things, but not others, and I’m trying to find out more.”
“It’s like this,” said Faryn. “It’s said that the only people who can take away memories are mages, and they can .only do it if they use a special potion. If the Emperor’s mages did it, you did something very wrong, and everyone would know why, and you’d still be doing hard labor. Because no one knows, that means someone broke the Codex, and to do that without getting caught means that they had to pay a great deal.”
“Do you understand?” asked Zhulyn.
“Enough.” The Codex was some sort of law, and whoever had taken his memories had broken it. He could feel his rage rising, but he suppressed it and forced a smile. “There’s not too much I can do about what I can’t remember.”
Faryn nodded. “True enough. What’s your station?”
“Plate-loading dock, number three.”
“That’s one of the places where they start new checkers.”
“Where are you?”
“I work in shipping. We take all the checkers’ sheets and put together reports for the Emperor’s Minister of Trade.” Faryn shrugged. “They think it’s important. Who am I to argue?”
Blacktop hadn’t heard of a minister before. He knew that. There was another word… magister… was that it? No, they were different. Magisters were from someplace other than Hamor. He turned to Zhulyn. “Where do you work?”
“I’m in receiving. I’m in charge of the coal section. We keep track of how much coal is mined and used in the coking furnaces.”
Blacktop took a sip of the beer. He’d been right. It was better than what he’d gotten as a loader. He looked up. Several of the other checkers kept looking in his direction.
Faryn watched for a moment, then said quietly. “It’s your beard. It’s rather unruly.”
Blacktop just looked at him.
“You can’t have a razor here, but if you want to trim the beard now, you can borrow scissors from the guard station in the dormitory.”
“Thank you.” Blacktop began to eat, and before long the other two left him. No one joined him.
After he ate and left his platter, cup, and cutlery in the rinse tanks, Blacktop walked back outside and along the stone walk to the dormitory. Once inside the main door, and past the guard station, he stopped. There was a room to the left, one lit with high lamps affixed to the ochre-brick walls. There were five wooden benches, and against the outer wall, there was a single bookcase with books filling the six shelves.
Books…
He moved deliberately into the room and to the bookcase.
An older man with a trimmed gray beard who sat on one of the benches reading looked up. “They’re for reading.”
Blacktop smiled politely. “I know.”
“You can read any one of them, but you can only take one to your bunk, and if you damage it, you’ll have to work extra hours to replace it.” The older checker looked back down at his book, pointedly ignoring Blacktop.
Blacktop stepped forward until he stood directly in front of the shelves. Some of the books had titles on their spines, but most did not. The older books had clearly been handbound, but there was a sameness about the newer ones that suggested… what? He just stood in front of the shelves for a time, realizing that he knew how to bind a book, how the signatures had to be sewn together, and how the backboards of the covers had to be just exactly so much smaller before the leather was stretched and sewed and glued.
He must have been a scrivener. He had to have been. How else would he know that? Except… how did he know that was what a scrivener knew? How did he know anything?.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
When thoughts and questions stopped swirling through his mind, he picked out a book without a title on the spine and took it gently from the shelf, opening the cover. The title page read: A World Geography and History.
He opened the book and began to .read, his eyes going down the page. !
For age upon age, scholars taught that all true history began with Cyad and the ancient mages who carved a land of miracles out of the Accursed Forest of Naclos, and that Cyador lasted in prosperity and plenty until the black demons landed on the Roof of the World and sent forth the demon smith Nylan, who forged even greater weapons and toppled an empire in the course of an afternoon. This is, of course, a tale for children, if not nonsense. There were kingdoms east of the Westhorns long before Cyad rose, and many endured long after Cyad fell…
Blacktop kept reading. While the words made sense, he could feel that he should know more than what the words told him.
“You can read that, young checker?”
Blacktop lowered the book to look at the older man. “Yes. It talks about the stories that have been handed down as history… the first page does. I haven’t read farther yet.”
“Balderdash… if you ask me. Anyone who writes about the past is creating their own vision of what they think was. That’s because they have to rely on the words of those who lived then, and no man tells his own story truthfully.” He snorted and returned to reading his own book.
Blacktop took the history to the bench farthest from the other man, where he sat down and continued reading until the warning bells rang—the ones before the curfew bells. He reshelved the book quickly and started for his bunk room.
Abruptly, he turned and walked back to the guard station. The guard watched as he neared.
“Ser… I was told that I could ask for scissors to trim my beard.”
“That you can. It might be a good idea. You won’t look so much like a loader or breaker.” The guard reached down and held up a pair. “Don’t be long. The curfew bells will be ringing soon. The guard chief gets unhappy if you’re not in your bunk room by then.”
“Yes, ser.”
“You can have the barber trim everything on sevenday afternoons or on eightday.”
Blacktop hadn’t even known about a barber. He also realized he had no idea what day it was. “Oh… thank you.”
He hurried toward the bathing facilities at the end of the corridor.
The wall mirror in the shower room was old and wavey, but Blacktop managed to trim his long beard and enough of his hair so that he looked more presentable. Then he returned the scissors to the duty guard. He even got to his bunk before the bells chimed.
Later, in the darkness, he lay on the bunk mattress, his eyes open, ignoring the snoring coming from somewhere to his left.
In one day, everything had changed—and all because the guards had discovered he could write and do sums? Yet, somehow he had changed. He had learned more… or relearned some .of what he had forgotten, and that had happened so gradually that he had not fully been aware of that change until just before the Overseer had found him writing words in the table dust.
Now… he was in a far better place, and the guarding was so lax that he could easily have walked away. After a moment, he smiled wryly. And then what? The valley was desolate. There was nothing edible and no water, except in the guarded buildings in the valley, and everywhere else away from the ironworks, the dry rock and scrub bushes stretched for kays. The aqueduct that ran to the mountains must have been ten kays long. A guard on a horse could track anyone and run a prisoner down with little difficulty. And even if he did reach the mountains, what would he do? He had no real name, no real idea of what his skills might be, and no understanding of how he had come to Luba—or why.
Cling… cling.
Blacktop groaned. He had not slept well, and his dreams had been disturbing. He’d killed a man. At least, he had in his dreams, and then people had begun to chase him. He could even remember some of the words from his dreams, from a shadowy figure who had attacked him with a truncheon. “We’ll get you, we will. You’re a white demon… the magisters will take care of you.” Blacktop knew the word magister. It meant a kind of ruler, but why would the magisters be after him? There weren’t any magisters in Hamor. Had he lived somewhere else?