Envelope in hand, he turned northward and headed down the gray-stone-paved street that led from the orchard and craft houses on the slopes south of the town down toward the center of Land’s End. His sandals scuffed the stone, and the fine sand filtered around his toes. He would have liked to have boots, but decent boots were too expensive for a scrivener. ‘ Within half a kay, the dwellings and shops were closer together, and even the gardens beside the dwellings were narrower. Before long, the street intersected the avenue that led to the harbor. After dodging behind a wagon heaped, with coal, Rahl crossed to the east side and headed north. If he had turned the other way, he soon would have reached that point where the avenue became the High Road that stretched the length of Reduce, all the way from Land’s End to Nylan in the south.
He walked through the crafters’ quarter, passing first a tinsmith’s, and then a cabinetmaker’s, and beyond that the shuttered windows and closed doors of a shop that Rahl thought had been an apothecary, but it had been closed for years.
Behind the crafters’ shops, on the low rises to the east, overlooking the avenue, were a handful of grander two-storied dwellings, surrounded by walls with iron gates, behind which were vast gardens and fountains. They belonged to ship-owners and factors. At least, that was what Khorlya had told her son.
As Rahl walked northward on the wide avenue that was the northern end of the High Road, the closer he got to the harbor piers, the more wagons and carts appeared. Still, there were probably less than a score in the two or three hundred cubits before the avenue reached the base of the piers. Voices rose over the creak of wagons and the clopping of hoofs on the stone pavement.
“… careful with that team!”
“… got a consignment of fruitwood logs from Naclos… tell you, those are rare… Druids don’t cut many…”
“… need to be here when they port. Suthyans travel fast and keep cargoes dry, but they’d just as soon sell to whoever offers a single silver more than you… contracts not worth the paper they’re written on…”
“… frigging idiots… don’t leave shit hanging out the tailgate…”
Rahl stayed on the eastern sidewalk and kept moving. At the foot of the pier was a pair of Council Guards from the keep assigned to port duty. He scanned the faces quickly, but neither was a familiar face from the handful of Council Guards he’d met through Kacet before his brother had been transferred to the keep at Reflin.
Just beyond the guards was the black-stone building that held the portmaster and the customs collectors. Rahl slipped through the port-master’s door, then stopped short of the guard stationed inside. The guard took in the truncheon at Rahl’s belt and dismissed it.
That irritated Rahl, but he merely straightened, and announced firmly, “A letter for dispatch.”
Portmaster Hyelsen sat on a high-backed stool. The window to the right of where he sat allowed him to look down the main black-stone pier. Three vessels were tied up there. One was a “three-masted square rigger, and one was a brig. The other was a smaller schooner. Before Rahl could determine more, the portmaster turned. His eyes fixed on the scrivener.
“Young Rahl… I expect that will be the letter the weaver paid to have dispatched to Valmurl.”
“Yes, ser.” Rahl stepped up past the guard and extended the letter.
“Just in time. The Suthyan trader—the square rigger— she’ll be leaving late this afternoon, on the evening winds, for Brysta. Valmurl after that.” Hyelsen produced a pen from somewhere and wrote a few words on a small square of paper, then handed it to Rahl. “Here’s the receipt for you.”
“Thank you, ser.” Rahl slipped the square into his belt wallet, inclined his head, then turned and hurried out. Something about the portmaster troubled him, but, he couldn’t have said what, not exactly, except that when Hyelsen looked at Rahl, he seemed to be sensing more than Rahl’s words or appearance.
As he cleared the pier, Rahl took a deep breath. He was still careful to watch for wagons and carts, and for what the horses might have dropped on the pavement.
Across the paved serviceway that fronted the main pier and the two flanking it and back, past the memorial park to the east, Rahl caught sight of the time-faded black stones of the Founders’ Inn.
Had Creslin really so enchanted all the Westwind Guards and the Montgren troopers with his songs that they worked together from that moment on? Rahl snorted. There had to be a limit to what song—even something like ordersong—could do.
He looked farther south and up the wide stone road that ran through the center of Land’s End to where it climbed the rise south of the town to the Black Holding, where the Council still met. Rahl shook his head. No matter what the magisters said and Tales of the Founders recounted, Creslin and Megaera couldn’t have been that great. No one could have been. He crossed the avenue, dashing behind an empty wagon I until he was on the sidewalk on the west side. Ahead he noticed fresh boards across the front of a shop. He didn’t remember what it had been, but he could make out some of the painted lettering on the sign set into the bricks and partly covered by one of the boards. “Fine tailoring,” he murmured. That could have been why he hadn’t recalled it. He kept walking, past the coppersmith’s and then the cooperage.
Rahl smiled as he saw the chandlery ahead on his right.
He stepped up onto the narrow porch and smoothed his hair and tunic. He tried to ease through the chandlery door quietly because he sensed someone was already inside talking to Fahla. It didn’t do any good. A bell attached to the door rang. Still, he moved to one side, where he looked at the leather goods—a pack with wide straps, clearly used, and an old bridle, and a wide belt with loops—almost an armsman’s or a guard’s belt.
Next to the pack was a small book, one without a title on the spine. He opened it and looked at the tide page, but could not read anything, except what he thought was a name: Kaorda. The book was old, and it had been written in either Hamorian or old Cyadoran, because Rahl would have been able to read High or Low Temple.
He set the slim volume down and looked sideways toward the counter behind which Fahla stood. Even from the rear, Rahl recognized Porgryn. The fuller had a voice that would have been whining without the gravelly tone.
“What’s the best cheese you got for travel? Doesn’t turn green quick, you know what I mean.”
“The white hard cheese,” replied Fahla. “It won’t even turn in midsummer so long as you don’t leave it in the sun. How much would you like?”
“Don’t want it now. Might need it later. Nephew’s bringing a wagon of earth up from down south. It’s a long trip. Need to provision him on the way back.”
‘The white cheese would be best. What would you like for now?“
“Ezelya said to check on needles…”
“We set some aside for her…”
Rahl waited until Porgryn turned to leave before moving away from the leather goods, stepping aside as the fuller neared. “Good day, ser.”
“Good day, fellow.”
While Porgryn’s words were pleasant, Rahl sensed that the wiry fuller had no idea who Rahl was. That bothered him, although he couldn’t say why. There was no special reason Porgryn should have known Rahl, even though Kian had made copies of several things for the fuller, and Rahl had been in the workroom.
“What can I get for you, Rahl?” asked Fahla pleasantly. Her mahogany hair was tied back with a dark blue band, leaving her forehead looking wider than when she had worn it down at Sevien’s.
“Nothing today. I had to come down to the harbor, and while I was here, I thought I’d stop.”
“I can let you have some special cheese that Faseyn found in Extina. Half a quarter wedge for two coppers. Your mother would like it.” The hint of a smile played around the corners of her lips. They were good lips, not too thin and not too protruding.
Rahl laughed. “If you were consorted, you’d still try to sell to your consort.”
“Of course.” She did smile, and that softened the intensity of her eyes—for a moment. “What are you doing down here?”
“Delivering a letter to the portmaster to go by ship to Austra.”
Fahla nodded. “Do you get paid a portion of the fee paid to the portmaster?”
“I don’t know. Father takes care of those details. We don’t do that often. Most folks can’t afford to send letters that far.”
“It’s expensive. They have a system of couriers to do that in Hamor, Father said, and it only costs three coppers to send a letter anywhere there.”
Three coppers wasn’t cheap, not to Rahl, but it was nothing compared to the two silvers Alamat had paid.
“There’s something like that in Candar, too, at least where the white wizards are in charge.”
“We really don’t need it here,” Rahl replied. “We’ve got the High Road, and you can almost always find someone to carry a letter on it.”
The bell on the chandlery door rang, and Fahla looked up. “It’s Chorkeil, Rahl. Do you need anything?”
“No, not today.” He could sense that she was already thinking what she’d say to the new arrival. “I’ll see you later.” He offered a smile, inclined his head, and turned.
“Chorkeil… We have the spikes you wanted,” Fahla began.
Rahl nodded politely to the man although he couldn’t say he knew him. Chorkeil ignored Rahl, not even giving him a glance.
The way back felt longer, although Rahl certainly didn’t dawdle.
He’d barely stepped into the workroom when his father looked up.
“That took you long enough,” Kian said mildly.
“I’m sorry, ser. There were three ships in the harbor, and it was crowded. The portmaster said the letter would go on the Suthyan trader today.” Rahl paused. “Oh, here’s the receipt.” He stepped forward , took the paper square from his wallet, and handed it to his father.
“At least, you remembered the receipt. Best get some water before you settle back into work.”
“Yes, ser.”
Kian was already absorbed back in working some sort of embellishments on parchment, perhaps a copy of one of the declarations, when Rahl returned from the outside pump and settled back onto his stool and more copying of Tales of the Founders.
Day dawned bright and sunny, and Rahl had a spring in his step, although it was still early morning, if well past dawn, when he made his way from the tiny chamber out to the common room for breakfast. He enjoyed the end-day because, unless his father had an urgent commission, after chores, the day was largely Rahl’s.
Lukewarm gruel, bread, and some peach conserve awaited him at the table, along with a small mug of redberry. Khorlya was finishing a basket, and Rahl could smell something baking. He settled before his modest breakfast, then looked to the other end of the table. “Baskets on an end-day? And baking?”
“Have you forgotten? You’re going to see Shahyla today. I was up early. The honey cake is almost ready.”
Rahl hadn’t exactly forgotten—more like put the thought at the back of his mind. “Oh… that’s right.”
“You could show a bit more enthusiasm, Rahl.”
“I’m still a little sleepy.” That was true enough, but hot the reason.
“She’s a pretty girl, and she could use a young man like you. You’re handy and polite.”
Rahl knew that, but he just took a large spoonful of gruel to avoid saying anything. Why did they keep pushing on the consort business? Couldn’t they just let him be?
“After you finish breakfast and your chores, wash up and put on your good tunic. You’ll need to start soon to get there just after midday. It’s at least four kays, and you don’t want to hurry and arrive all sweating.”
“You told them I was coming?” That was even worse.
“I said you might when I saw Shahyla at the market on fourday. What would be the point of my baking and your walking that far if the girl didn’t happen to be there?”
“Did you say when I’d be there?”
“Just that it would probably be past midday. Now, finish eating and get on with things.” Khorlya set the basket aside and moved to the old tiled stove. “I did make another honey cake for us. You can have yours when you get back.”
“They aren’t one-god worshippers, are they?”
“I doubt anyone in Land’s End is, and they’re not single-twinners, either,” offered Kian from the doorway.
“Single-twinners?” Rahl hadn’t heard of that belief, but for him the idea of order and chaos was enough, without believing that the world was controlled by some invisible deity using strange rules.
“There aren’t any here. The magisters don’t allow them. Now… enough dilly-dallying: Finish up and get on to your chores.”
Rahl finished eating, then washed his bowl, and racked it before turning to deal with chamber pots and his other chores, as well as checking the newest batch of ink.
Later, he did take his time washing up and dressing. He’d just donned his better tunic when he heard his mother.
“Rahl? Are you about ready?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Khorlya was standing by the front door, holding the basket she’d been working on earlier. “Here you go.”
Rahl took the basket, his eyes checking it. Right above the base was the linked chain, woven out of the rushes soaked in thinned ink so that they took up the blackness. The chain swirled up and into the handle and then down the other side. It took a special talent to weave and braid a design so intricate that it looked as though a black chain was actually imbedded in the basket itself. The basket was one that would have sold for a half silver. That wasn’t good, not at all, not when his mother was sending him off with one of her best.