Natural Ordermage

LII

The mist that had cloaked Swartheld on eightday had given way by oneday morning to high clouds that in Recluce would have promised rain. Rahl had doubts that they would and went to work sweeping and mopping the floors. The brasswork could wait a few days, but he did oil and polish the woodwork and furniture. When he finished, he washed up and dressed. He replaced the registry bracelet in his belt wallet, wrapped in cloth once more, rather than wearing it. Then he went and bought some bread from Gostof that he ate in his own cubby, before returning to the front and waiting for Daelyt to arrive.

The older clerk came in whistling, but Rahl thought the melody was a bit off.

“Good morning, Rahl.”

“Good morning. How was your end-day?”

“Quiet. We slept late and went and saw friends. What about yours?”

“I explored a little and had a meal at Hakkyl’s.” Rahl laughed. “I won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

“I can see why. I took Yasnela there once for her birthday. She told me she wouldn’t stand for my spending that many coins on food ever again.”

Rahl chuckled politely, even though he knew the older clerk was lying. “I suppose once will have to be enough. At least, the Association pays for our meals at Eneld’s.”

“In a way,” replied Daelyt. “We probably get paid less, but Shyret can get the meals for us cheaper than we can.”

Rahl hadn’t thought of it quite that way.

The day went quickly, with traders coming in and seeking consignment space on the Montgren-and even on the Black Holding, which wasn’t scheduled back until an eightday or more after the Montgren, or the Diev, which would arrive in Swartheld even later. Others came in looking to purchase various goods in the warehouse, or to see if they were available.

“We’re in the last eightday of summer, getting on toward fall,” Daelyt pointed out in one lull. “It gets busier then.”

“And winter?”

“That’s busy, too. Late summer is the slowest.”

As the sun dropped lower in the west, and the shadows lengthened outside the Association, a slender man wearing a pale blue fharong hurried into the Association. “I’ve got a remittance for the director.”

“I can take it,” offered Daelyt.

“No. It has to go to him personally. The trader wouldn’t be happy otherwise.”

Daelyt nodded at Rahl, and the younger clerk jumped off his stool and hurried back through the archway.

Shyret looked up from the ledger open before him. “What is it, Rahl?”

“Ser…there’s a man here with a remittance. He won’t give it to anyone but you. Daelyt sent me to tell you.”

The director rose, shaking his head, then ran his fingers through his short iron gray hair. “Because none of them trust their own clerks, they don’t trust mine.”

Rahl stepped aside and followed the director.

As Shyret approached the wide desk, Rahl could sense two kinds of chaos from the remittance man-that of a hidden blade and that of evil or corruption. His hand went to his truncheon.

The man stepped toward Shyret extending a large envelope. “Ser director, this is the remittance from Waolsyn.”

Rahl’s truncheon was out, and he was moving even faster than the attacker. The black wood slammed across the man’s wrist, and the dagger in the hand not holding the envelope dropped to the floor.

The man whirled, dropping the envelope, and sprinted toward the front door. Rahl couldn’t move around Shyret fast enough to stop him.

The director glanced around, then shuddered ever so slightly. His hand touched his midsection, his fingers lingering there for a moment as his eyes dropped to the weapon on the floor. He looked up and moistened his lips. “Have either of you seen him before?”

“No, ser.” Daelyt’s and Rahl’s words were almost simultaneous.

“He’s not one of Waolsyn’s men that I’ve ever seen.”

Daelyt bent down and picked up the envelope, then straightened and handed it to Shyret. “It’s light, but there’s something in it.”

Shyret did not take the envelope, instead looking at Rahl. “How did you know he had a blade?”

“I didn’t, ser, not until I saw that he had something in his other hand. It just felt wrong.”

“It was indeed.” Shyret’s laugh was hollow. His eyes dropped to the dagger on the floor. “Since you were the one who stopped him, Rahl, the blade is yours.”

“Thank you, ser. Ah…is it all right to sell it?”

“Whatever you wish.” Shyret opened the heavy envelope. He looked anything but happy, and he manifested a tenseness as he extracted a short sheet of heavy paper, which he read quickly and thrust inside his beige fharong. He handed the empty envelope to Daelyt. “Burn it.”

Then he turned and strode back toward his study.

Rahl looked at Daelyt. “Why would anyone do something like that?”

“This is Swartheld. You can pay for anything here.”

“Even here, there has to be a reason,” Rahl pointed out. “Is he undercutting other traders? Or did he do something to anger someone?”

Daelyt shrugged. “He doesn’t say much about things like that.”

The older clerk was lying. That Rahl could tell.

“Still smells like something got burned,” mused Daelyt.

Although Daelyt was changing the subject, Rahl realized that there was the faint stench of burned hair hanging in the air.

“Watch things,” Daelyt added. “I need to burn this.” He held up the envelope, then glanced at the weapon still lying on the floor. “That’s yours, remember.”

“Oh…” Rahl shook his head. “There’s something on it. I’ll get a rag from the storeroom.” Before Daelyt could protest, he dashed to the back and returned almost immediately.

As soon as he did, Daelyt headed toward the rear door.

Rahl could sense that the substance on the edge of the blade held something like chaos. Poison? He was careful to wrap the entire dagger in rags and slip it into his lower drawer. Later, after he was alone, he’d clean it, and study it.