Natural Ordermage

XLV

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.

“There’s the harbormaster’s up on the right, past the mage-guard post.”

Rahl stiffened inside. He really didn’t want to get that close to one of the mage-guards.

Ahead of them, the mage-guard sat in a chair on a raised pedestal a good four cubits high, shaded by a crimson umbrella. A pair of patrollers, also in crimson and khaki, stood in front of the pedestal, occasionally stepping forward and stopping a wagon or carriage headed toward the piers. Those stops were what slowed their progress, Rahl could see.

The patroller waved through a wagon loaded with coal, and the carriage following it, but as Guylmor eased the trap forward, the patroller gestured for Guylmor to stop.

The teamster did.

“You…” The mage-guard pointed to Rahl. “Over here.”

Rahl climbed down and moved from the trap, still holding the envelope, to the south side of the pedestal from which the mage-guard looked down. He was far enough away that Guylmor could not hear, not easily. The mage-guard was a woman, Rahl realized, her face weathered and hard, but the white flames of chaos flickered around her as she studied him.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Rahl, ser. I’m a clerk at the Nylan Merchant Association,” Rahl replied in Hamorian.

“What happened to the other clerk?”

“Daelyt? He’s still there.”

She nodded knowingly, but her shields blocked whatever she was feeling.

“Why are you here?”

“The director told me to bring this envelope to the tariffing clerk at the enumerators’.”

“What’s in it?”

“Some papers and a draft on the Exchange for them. That’s what he said. It’s sealed, and I haven’t opened it.”

“Are you registered in Atla? Or here?”

“Ah, ser…I’m from Nylan. I don’t understand.”

“You have order-energies. That makes you a possible mage. Mages must be registered.”

Rahl didn’t know quite what to say that would not make matters worse.

“Where do you live? Or sleep?”

“At the Merchant Association, ser. That’s where I work.”

“You were born and grew up in Recluce, then?”

“Yes, ser.”

“How did you get an Atlan accent?”

“The man who taught me Hamorian had it. He said I’d picked it up, and that people would notice it.”

“That they would,” she said dryly. “Were you aware you are a mage?”

“Ser…I’m not really a mage, not in Nylan,” Rahl said. “I have a few skills. I don’t want to get in trouble with you and the other mage-guards, but I don’t want to claim I’m something I’m not, either.”

The mage-guard shook her head. “Here in Hamor, if you have any order-or chaos-skills, you’re considered a mage. Since you work for an outland merchanting association, and were born elsewhere, and live on their premises, you are not technically in violation of the Codex.” The mage-guard paused. “I would still suggest that you register as an outland mage. If you do, so long as you do not do active magery, and you wear your bracelet, we will not trouble you.”

“Yes, ser. I’m new here. Where do I register?”

She smiled faintly. “I wish others were as cooperative.” She half turned and pointed. “The first building to the right is the harbormaster’s. Behind that is the enumerators’ building. That’s where you find the tariffing clerk. If you follow the lane, there’s a building with crimson tiles set around the windows and the doors. If you get to the end and the bluff, that’s too far. Go in the main door, and tell whoever is at the counter what happened. They’ll take it from there.”

“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser. Can I deliver the envelope first?”

She nodded. “On your way.”

Rahl walked back to the trap and climbed up.

“What did she want?”

“To tell me what I needed to do after we deliver this.”

The trap moved forward, past the patroller, and then right into a narrower way that headed due east past the small brownstone building that had to be the harbormaster’s. Less than fifty cubits from the eastern end of the brownstone was a larger structure with a domed roof, constructed of a reddish sandstone.

Guylmor slowed and then halted the trap short of the main entrance. “Can’t block the entry. If I have to move, I’ll be farther down.”

Rahl nodded and vaulted down. His feet hurt when his boots hit the stone pavement, reminding him, again, how far he’d walked on end-day. He walked another thirty cubits or so, up the three wide stone steps, and in through the sandstone archway. There, he looked around, catching sight of a guard with both falchiona and a long truncheon, one weapon on each side of his belt.

“I’m looking for the tariffing clerk.”

“The arch to the left.”

“Thank you.”

The guard did not reply.

Rahl continued to the arch, turning there and stepping into a chamber with a waist-high oak counter set back five cubits from the arch and running from wall to wall. The wooden counter was so old that it was brown rather than even golden.

Two men stood behind the counter.

“The tariffing clerk?” asked Rahl.

“Either one of us,” replied the younger man, although he was clearly close to Rahl’s father’s age, while the other was graying and stern-faced.

Rahl went to the man who had spoken, tendering the envelope. “This is from the Nylan Merchant Association.”

“The last moment, as usual.” The clerk shook his head as he opened the envelope and scanned the sheet of paper and the draft that accompanied it. After several moments, he turned to a black ledger and began to write-entering the name of the Association and the amount of the draft, Rahl thought.

Then, he took a square of parchment, roughly a span by a span, and filled in several lines, then signed it. After waiting for the ink to dry, he took a circular press-seal and fitted it over the signature part of the parchment and pressed the handles. The receipt went into an envelope that he handed to Rahl. “Your receipt.”

“Thank you.”

The tariffing clerk only nodded, although Rahl sensed a certain disdain.

Rahl hurried back outside to where the teamster waited and climbed back up into the seat. “We need to go somewhere else, Guylmor. Because I’m an outlander, I need to register with the mage-guards. It’s in the building up there against the bluff.” Rahl pointed.

“Daelyt always came right back, Rahl.”

“He probably did, but he’s been here a while, and they know him. Anyway, the mage-guard said that I’d have to go through that every time I saw one of them unless I registered. I don’t think the director would like that.”

“Suppose not. Never had this happen before.”

“It’s been a while since anyone came here directly from Nylan or Recluce.”

“They get those travelers in black, sometimes, with black staffs. Most of ’em end up in the quarries, I hear, without any memory, either.” Guylmor lifted the leads, and the mare started forward.

Rahl was not looking forward to registering, whatever that meant, but he had the feeling that not registering would be worse. That might have been because of what had happened with Magister Puvort.

At that thought, Rahl had to push back anger he had managed to forget. Here he was, having to deal with Hamorian mage-guards just because Puvort hadn’t wanted to go to any trouble to explain things-and in fact because the dishonest bastard had framed Rahl. Magistra Kadara hadn’t been that much better, either. She’d been skeptical of him before she’d even seen him more than a few moments.

Being angry would only make matters worse. Rahl took a deep slow breath.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine.” Rahl sat quietly beside the teamster as the trap moved toward the registry building. He concentrated on calming himself.

When the teamster stopped the trap, he looked at Rahl. “I’ll be turning the trap around if you come out and don’t find me.”

Rahl doubted he would be anywhere near that quick. “Thank you. I hope I won’t be long.” He climbed down and crossed the paved space between the street and the entry.

There were no mage-guards outside, and two corridors branched from the entry. Rahl stepped into the one to the right, but he could tell two things. There were no mages around, not nearby, and all the doors were closed. He went back and stepped through the other archway into a foyer with a desk. A mage-guard sat behind it.

Chaos swirled around Rahl, and he barely managed to avoid losing his balance.

The older mage-guard looked up from the table desk. “Yes?” Then he smiled, coolly. “You’re here to register?”

“Yes, ser.” Rahl was getting more than a little tired of saying “ser” to so many people, but he offered a polite smile. “I’m new here in Swartheld, and I work at the Nylan Merchant Association…” Rahl explained everything he had told the mage-guard who had stopped him on the pier avenue and what she had said. “…and she told me it would be best if I registered.”

An ordermage had somehow appeared, although Rahl had not seen him, and he nodded. “He’s clean. Almost every word true.” He grinned. “He’s a little fuzzy about his abilities.”

“Tell me more about your order-skills,” asked the chaos mage-guard.

“I can’t really, ser. I mean, I can sometimes tell how people are feeling, and I see better in the dark, but I can’t sense weather or what’s under the ground. I can sort of see and feel when people are sick, but when I tried to help a healer, it didn’t help much. I didn’t hurt the man, but I couldn’t heal him.” Rahl shrugged helplessly.

“That’s about got it,” said the ordermage-guard. “He could develop more skills here, or stay the same, or even lose skills. He doesn’t look to be a danger, and…if he’s a registered outlander…”

There were more questions, but not many, although Rahl had the feeling that matters would have been much worse had he not been a clerk at the Association.

In the end, the chaos mage-guard measured Rahl’s left wrist before departing for a time. He returned with a copperlike bracelet. On it were Rahl’s name, the letters NMA, and inscription OUT-437. The mage-guard took out a ledger and, at the bottom of a half column of names, wrote out Rahl’s name, place of work, and what was inscribed on the bracelet.

Rahl sensed that not many entries had been made recently, and that concerned him.

“Sign here-you can sign your name since you’re a clerk, right?”

“I can sign.” Rahl did.

“You don’t have to wear the bracelet,” the chaos mage-guard said, “not as an outlander, but you do have to have it with you if you leave Swartheld for any other part of Hamor. It will be easier for you if you have it with you whenever you leave your dwelling or work.” He extended the bracelet.

Rahl nodded as he took it and slipped it on his left wrist. “Is that all? Do I have to do anything else?”

“As an outlander, you are forbidden to use active order-or chaos-skills outside your dwelling or place of work, except in self-defense. Any claim of self-defense will be tried by the justicers of mages. If you choose to leave your employer and do not work for another outlander, you must reregister and be tested and instructed like any mage born in Hamor. That costs a gold, but if you don’t have the funds, just say so, and the funds will come out of whatever you get paid in the future. Don’t let the lack of coin stop you. Failure to reregister could get you a flogging or worse.”

That was another bit of information that chilled Rahl. “Thank you.” He nodded again, then stopped. “Are there any special days…?”

“No. Someone’s here all the time. You might have to wait a while on end-days, though. We’re usually shorthanded.”

Obviously, the mage-guards worked harder than the magisters did.

“That’s all, Rahl.”

“Oh…I’m sorry. I was just thinking.” Rahl turned and left.

“…that one won’t last…”

“…might…”

Guylmor was glancing from side to side as Rahl neared the trap. Rahl kept his left arm out of sight.

“There you are. I was getting worried, Rahl.”

“They had questions and some papers to sign. Let’s get back.” Rahl climbed back up into the seat he had been in and out of more times than he’d wanted.

“Good by me.”

As Guylmor drove back along the lane, and waited for the patroller to stop other wagons so that they could get back on the harbor boulevard, Rahl sat, thinking. He couldn’t stay more than a season with the Association, and once he left, he’d either have to find a way out of Swartheld or effectively put himself in the hands of the mage-guards. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He wasn’t just in exile, but perilously close to being in worse danger than he’d ever faced.

If he could have at that moment, he would have put a falchiona into Puvort without the slightest remorse. The magistras in Nylan weren’t much better, either. Anyone they sent to Hamor was almost certainly doomed to slavery or worse. And they talked about their kindness in “preparing” people for exile!

Rahl’s lips tightened. What could he do? He didn’t really have that much time…or coins.

“Rahl…we’re here.”

“Oh…I’m sorry. I was thinking.” Rahl didn’t need to be angry at Guylmor. The teamster certainly wasn’t at fault.

Rahl gathered himself together and eased off the seat. His feet were still warning him not to jump down. Before he stepped into the Merchant Association building, he slipped the shimmering copper bracelet off his wrist and into his belt wallet. At the moment, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to think he was a mage, especially Daelyt or Shyret, since they were not supposed to know-if what the board members in Nylan had said happened to be true. He had to wonder at that, but he wasn’t about to bring it up.

Shyret was pacing up and down the space behind the wide desk. At Rahl’s entry, he turned. “Rahl, what took so long? I need Guylmor to take the wagon and the dyes to Ebsolam.”

“Something must have happened in the harbor. The mage-guards were stopping everyone. They wanted to know who I was, why I was there, and who I worked for.”

“Did they take the envelope?”

“No, ser. They let me deliver it to the enumerators’. Here is the receipt they gave me.” Rahl extended the envelope with the sealed square of parchment.

Shyret as much as grabbed the envelope as accepted it and immediately opened it. Rahl could feel the relief from the director as soon as Shyret saw the receipt.

“Sometimes that happens. It’s most disconcerting,” said the director.

Rahl could tell he was lying-and that he’d been worried about that draft getting to the enumerators’, worried more than just a little.

Shyret forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry it took so long. Maybe they just stopped me because I was new. The mage-guard wanted to know where Daelyt was. It seemed better when I explained, but that took time.”

The director smiled wanly. “I need to make sure Chenaryl’s loaded the wagon for Ebsolam.” He turned.

Rahl took a slow deep breath, then moved toward his stool. “Do you know what that draft was for?” He kept his voice low.

“No. Not exactly,” replied Daelyt. “I imagine it’s one of the seasonal tariff payments to the enumerators. Everyone who handles declarations and manifests is assessed tariffs four times a year. The amount is based on how much cargo passes through our warehouses. I work up the figures and give them to the director. He writes the draft and sends it. I’ve been taking it…until you got here.”

“He seemed worried,” Rahl ventured.

“Things have been a little slow…he probably waited until the last moment to write the draft-or he could have forgotten it was due. Anyway,” Daelyt said with a shrug, “it’s done, and I’ve got the declarations for the Legacy of Westwind. We might as well get on with it before the enumerators show up.”

Rahl climbed into his stool.

At that moment, he realized where he’d heard the name Doramyl before-from Alamyrt on the Diev. But why had Alamyrt been traveling on a Recluce vessel when he or his family owned their own fleet? Or had the trader just been pretending to be Alamyrt? Yet he’d owned bales of wool in his own name, and black wool didn’t come cheap.

“Rahl? We need to get started.”

“Oh…I’m sorry.” Rahl jerked alert. He must have dozed off. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Too much sun yesterday. Your skin is still red. It’s hotter here than in Recluce.”

“That could be.” Rahl cleaned his pen and dipped it in the inkwell. “I’m ready.”

“Cargo declaration of sevenday, eleventh eightday of summer…”

Rahl began to write.