He reined up beside the porch of a store, where an older man, dressed in dark blue, was talking with a younger bearded man.
Both turned as they became aware of the rider watching them.
“Ser mage?”
“I’m looking for a trader. Freidr or some such,” Cerryl offered.
“Freidr?” The younger man frowned.
The older one nodded. “Son of Fearkl.”
“Could you tell me where his place is?”
“Like as I recall, not that many trade as much with him as his sire, the narrow street off the north corner of the square-back there.” The older man pointed. “His place is about a hundred cubits off the square. It be a plain building without a sign.”
“How will I tell if it doesn’t have a sign?” Cerryl asked.
“Between the cooper’s and Wrys the silversmith’s. Should have said that.”
“Thank you both.” Cerryl inclined his head.
“Freidr…a trader? Fop and a fool…sister a better man than he be.”
“Takes all kinds, Biuskr.”
The trader’s sister a better man? Cerryl frowned but kept his eyes on the north side of the street, ignoring for the most part the bustle of the square to his right. The corner street was narrow, barely wide enough for a wagon and a mount at the same time, and the building was ancient. How long had the family been in factoring?
Cerryl dismounted and tied the gelding to the iron ring set in the stone post almost at the door, then rapped loudly. There was no answer. He waited a time, then rapped again.
Finally, the door opened, but Cerryl could see the heavy chains on the inside of the antique oak. Behind the chains stood a thin woman with fine blonde hair twisted into a single braid down her back. Wispy hairs escaped both the braid and the sides of her head. “Yes, ser?”
“I’m looking for the trader Freidr.”
Her eyes widened, not meeting Cerryl’s, and she swallowed. “A moment, ser, a moment, I assure you he will be here.” The door was not closed quite all the way, as if to make a statement, but the iron chains remained in place, forming an arc between door and frame.
“Who be it now?” came a rough voice from the dimness beyond the door.
“…one of them…another one…didn’t say…”
A pale face appeared behind the chains. “I’m Freidr.”
“I’d like to speak to you, then,” Cerryl said politely.
After a moment, the man loosened the chains, held the door, and stepped back. Short and squat, he wore a new dark blue tunic and matching trousers. His boots glistened even in the gloom of the small foyer.
Cerryl took in the dark beard and the cold blue eyes, eyes that did not meet his gaze, though they almost seemed to. The man was hiding something, but why was he afraid of Cerryl? Surely not just because I’m a mage?
“Might as well go to the office.” Freidr closed the door, replaced the chains in their slots, and turned to his right, heading down a narrow passageway, then turning into a small room. The trader closed the door after Cerryl entered.
An ancient oil lamp set in a green-tinged copper bracket on the wall spilled light across the space. On one wall was a cage of iron bars with heavy wooden racks behind it. The three strongboxes behind the iron seemed almost lost in the rack shelves that could have held nearly a score.
Freidr sat behind the table-desk, his arms on the table, waiting. Cerryl took one of the antique wooden straight-backed chairs, a chair that felt as old as the building that held it.
“How might I help you?” Freidr offered a professional smile, but his eyes still did not quite meet Cerryl’s.
“The trader Narst mentioned you,” Cerryl offered.
“I’m a factor who deals with many traders.” Freidr presented an apologetic smile.
“I am sure you do. You also deal with the prefect’s tax collectors.”
“Every factor must do so, especially with the road taxes imposed by the Guild at Fairhaven.” Despite the chill in the room, perspiration had already begun to seep from the dark-bearded factor’s forehead.
“Do you keep records of the taxes you pay?” Cerryl raised his eyebrows.
“Surely you’re not suggesting…You already had the warehouse searched.”
“I didn’t have anything searched,” Cerryl pointed out, wondering just what had been going on in Jellico that Freidr was so fearful of a young White mage.
“No…you might as well have…The prefect’s inspectors did.”
“Was it Pullid?” Cerryl tried to keep his tone casual.
“He stood there, but you think he’d dirty his hands? I don’t know their names, the ones who went over the accounts. They said they were looking for goods stolen from you White mages.”
Cerryl looked at the sweating trader, then smiled. “Why don’t you just show me the tax records?”
“You’ll take them. Then what will I do when Pullid comes back next year?”
“I won’t take them,” Cerryl assured him. “I’m looking for something very different. It appears…Let me just say that there are irregularities in the tariff records. It would help…and I’m sure you’d want to be helpful.” As he smiled more broadly, Cerryl felt as though he were acting just like Anya.
Freidr sighed.
Cerryl let his senses range ahead of the trader as the man turned and lifted out a ledger and an old wooden box, one that reeked of age.
“Here…” The factor offered another sigh as he pushed the ledger toward Cerryl. “You can see. I’ve paid them all-every last one.”
Cerryl scanned the receipts, mentally totaled the numbers…then frowned. One was signed with another name-Liedral.
“Liedral-that’s your…sister…” A cold feeling settled over Cerryl, and his eyes felt like ice as he looked at the factor.
Freidr cringed in the chair, as though he had been struck. “I did what you people wanted…what the other bearded…”
“Fydel, you mean?” Cerryl asked.
“That’s what he said his name was…”
Cerryl forced himself to be calm, although he wasn’t sure why he was getting agitated. He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t even been able to see what had happened until it was over and done. You still feel guilty…because the Guild did it and you feel it was wrong? “The matter with your sister is something entirely different. This deals with golds. You have paid on the order of 15 percent of your receipts-at least is what you claim.”
“It’s 15 percent…and it’s of everything. Pullid, he went through everything…everything. That’s what you mages require.”
Cerryl nodded. “And he told you that he would send one of us after you if you didn’t show everything?”
“He didn’t have to…We know that.”
Cerryl forced a smile. “Would you mind telling me how you know that?”
“We just do…” Freidr’s eyes flicked from side to side, never meeting Cerryl’s.
“How long have you been paying 15 percent?”
“I don’t know…five years…The records are there.” Despair flooded the factor’s face.
Cerryl wanted to shake his head. “It doesn’t matter. There will be records.” He stood. “Thank you.”
Then he paused, before looking back at Freidr. “Can you think of any other traders who had their warehouses scrutinized in the way yours has been?”
“Ah…no…”
“You’re lying.” Cerryl hated to do it, but he gathered enough chaos to create a small fireball above his raised left index finger.
Freidr paled.
“Do you recall?” Cerryl gave another Anya-like smile, still disliking himself for it.
“I don’t…know…not for certain…but Pastid…and Triok…they were muttering something.”
“Pastid and Triok…where might I find them?”
“Pastid-he’s on the other side of the Market Square, where this street is, except it’s the Silver Way there, about three hundred cubits. His place is next to a coppersmith’s-Gued, I think. Triok-he’s on the Way of the Weavers, or the north part, north of the palace.”