Natural Ordermage

XXXI

On fiveday morning, Rahl found himself in the small study again, wondering if he was being sent off as a result of his problems with the falchiona, or if he’d made some other mistake. Tamryn sat across the table from Rahl.

“Yes, ser?” asked Rahl politely.

“I understand you had a little trouble the other day. This isn’t about that. This is about your assignment in Swartheld…”

Exile merely an assignment? Rahl had his doubts about that.

“You’ll be leaving in about an eightday,” Tamryn went on. “Until then, you’ll be working every afternoon at the Merchant Association building down in the harbor. You’ll wear the standard clerk’s attire. We’ll take a moment for you to pick that up at the wardrobing building-and a pack for your clothing and gear. From now on, you’ll wear the clerk’s garb from breakfast until you’re dismissed by Ser Varselt. He’s the managing director in Nylan.”

“Yes, ser.”

“And Aleasya and Magister Zastryl have agreed to spend a session with you every evening after meals. They did mention something about not cheating on pain.” Tamryn smiled. “There’s a price for everything, Rahl, and it’s either paid fairly when due or with interest and penalties later.”

Tamryn made it sound like order-skills were trade goods subject to usury.

“Now…head over to wardrobing. Elina’s already got your garb ready for you. Wear it while you’re with Magister Thorl as well. The association of Hamorian with the garb will help when you get to Swartheld.”

How that might be, Rahl couldn’t imagine, but he didn’t doubt Tamryn on that. “Yes, ser. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Not right now.” Tamryn stood.

So did Rahl, bowing politely to the silver-haired magister.

Tamryn left, and Rahl followed him out, then headed for the wardrobing shop.

After he picked up the garments, he hurried back to his chamber and changed, leaving the empty canvas pack on the bed. The clerk’s garb consisted of light brown trousers, darker than the khaki worn by Kysant and his staff at the eatery, a light tunic of a darker brown, with three-quarter-length sleeves, and an even lighter undertunic.

Magister Thorl only nodded in acknowledgment when Rahl slipped into his session.

Tamryn appeared, as the magisters often did, just as Rahl had finished rinsing his dishes at the mess. “We’ll take a cart down today, but you’ll have to eat more quickly-if you’re walking down there and if you expect to be there in a timely fashion.”

“Yes, ser.”

Rahl followed Tamryn to the cart that waited outside.

The magister drove, and Rahl sat on the narrow seat beside Tamryn as the cart moved downhill behind a dun mare.

“The more you can learn at the Merchant Association, the better you’ll do in Swartheld,” Tamryn observed. “It’s very different from either Land’s End or Nylan. As I’m certain Magister Thorl has indicated, the laws are far more stringent. If you break a minor law, you might get off with a flogging. If you break a major law, you’ll end up in the quarries, the ironworks, or dead. Oh…one of the major laws is a restriction on use of order-or chaos-skills unless you are registered with the mage-guards. As an outlander, you can have the talent. That’s not forbidden. Using it is unless you’re registered. Citizens of Hamor with any magely talents must register. Minor uses in one’s own dwelling don’t count. Almost all active uses in public do.”

Rahl almost swallowed. Magister Thorl had only told him to be very careful and scrupulous in obeying the laws. “Is there anything else that I’m likely to stumble into through ignorance?”

“The Hamorian Codex is based on that of Cyador.”

Rahl didn’t have the faintest idea what Tamryn meant, but before he could say so, the magister went on.

“That means that once you’re taken into custody by patrollers or by the mage-guards, you’re assumed to be guilty, and you have to prove that you’re not. That’s a very good reason not to even look like you’re breaking the laws.”

To Rahl, that didn’t sound all that different from Land’s End.

“How do they look at use of order-and chaos-skills?”

“If they’re used as the Emperor wishes, that’s acceptable, and those who serve him directly are respected. Only outlanders or healers are allowed to serve others.”

Rahl wasn’t sure what else to ask, and Tamryn seemed reluctant to volunteer more on the rest of the ride down into the harbor area.

The Merchant Association building was set slightly east and north of the main shipping piers, but on an avenue that ran along the seawall. The second-story windows were narrow but tall, while those on the ground level were high and narrow. The oiled door was of dark oak, a gold so deep it was almost brown. Tamryn eased the cart to a halt, vaulted off the seat, and tied the mare to an iron post painted black. “We won’t be long, lady,” he said to the mare.

Then he walked toward the door, which he opened, and stepped inside. Rahl followed and closed the door behind himself. They stood in an open area bordered on all sides by oak counters as old and as oil-polished as the front door.

Two clerks sat on high-backed stools behind the counters, whose surfaces were just slightly higher than a dining table, one on the right, the other on the left. Beside each were various stacks of paper. The stool at the counter opposite the door was vacant. Farther to the rear of the open chamber was a paneled wall, and in the center was an archway, off which at intervals were several doors.

From one of those hurried a tall but round-faced man so bald on top that his remaining silver-blond hair formed a furry ring around a tanned and shining scalp. Handlebar mustaches filled the space between his upper lip and nose and flowed out almost to his ears. “Magister Tamryn…you caught me checking a cargo reconciliation.”

Tamryn nodded politely. “We did not mean to interrupt.” He inclined his head. “This is Rahl, Ser Varselt. As we explained, he was trained as a scrivener and has a good head for neatness and is capable with figures. He knows High and Low Temple, as well as having a working and speaking knowledge of Hamorian.”

“He’ll be most useful here for now, but Master Shyret in Swartheld will be most pleased. A scrivener with a good and working knowledge of Hamorian-we don’t see many of those. No, we don’t.”

Rahl could sense the veiled curiosity from the two clerks.

“He’ll be available every afternoon, starting now until his ship comes in,” Tamryn said.

“We’ll have plenty of work for him,” Varselt promised, “that we will.”

“Then I’ll leave Rahl in your capable hands.” Tamryn bowed, turned, and departed.

Varselt gestured toward the vacant stool. “For now, that will be yours, Rahl. Gorot and Wulff will instruct you on how each form is to be filled out. Now in Swartheld, some of the forms-the ones that go to the Emperor’s tariff enumerators-must be filled out in Hamorian, but here the tariff declarations are done in High Temple. Not that there’s really much use of words-mostly figures, but they must be precise. No smudges. No…no smudges at all.” Varselt bobbed his head cheerfully, and his ample jowls shook as well.

Rahl made his way to the stool, undecided about whether to climb onto it or wait.

“Take a seat. Take a seat,” said Varselt jovially. “Look over the forms. You’ll get a smudged and crumpled one from the ship’s master or supercargo, and your task is to provide three fair copies, one for the ship, one for the association, and a final one for the tariff collectors. They’ll check the cargo against the copy the ship gives you, but they’ll want both the one they seal and a clean copy.” The managing director nodded to Gorot. “I need to get back to that reconciliation. Take him through the declaration first.”

The thin-faced Gorot hopped off his stool and walked to where Rahl sat.

The clerk set a partly filled-out printed form on the counter.

At that moment, Rahl could definitely see a reason for the use of Magister Sebenet’s printing press, especially with three copies for every vessel.

“This is what the straight declaration of cargo looks like,” Gorot began. “Two sections, one for everything off-loaded and one for everything on-loaded. There has to be one for every port the ship makes. Of course, we only have to do the ones here in Nylan, but sometimes we have to make copies for ports where there’s no association representative. Purser or supercargo has to put down everything that has more than a token value. Captain has to sign it. Right now, a token value means more than a silver…but that doesn’t mean that a trader can get away with not listing a keg of nails or spikes because a single spike is less than a copper. Token value applies to the units in which a cargo is usually traded. Cloth-yards for fabric, kegs for nails, amphorae for oils…you get the idea. The cargo declaration is not the same as the manifest. The captain’s manifest is usually kept by the purser or supercargo, and it’s a listing of all cargo carried from port to port. There’s a separate manifest for each leg of a trading voyage, and at the end, we have to go through them and reconcile the declarations with the manifests. You probably won’t do many reconciliations in Hamor because the home port of all Association vessels is here in Nylan. If you do, of course, everything should balance.”

Wulff looked around and, seeing no one near, laughed. “Never does. Never. But Ser Varselt and the other directors don’t say anything if the difference is a few golds or less. More than that, they call the captain in. Bad business, that. Captains know it, too. Sometimes, they’ll sneak in with a different declaration.”

“And?” asked Rahl cautiously.

“You got to look at ’em and decide. Was the original right, or is the one he holds right?”

Rahl could see that might be a problem for most clerks, even if they could tell.

“If it’s a lot, you just tell ’em you can’t do it, because Ser Varselt or the directors’ll bring in a mage. Most captains won’t try it unless they made a mistake on the original and are just trying to set it right. Thing is, they got to make the coins balance, too.”

Rahl hadn’t even considered this side of trading.