Then the inspectors nodded, turned, and walked down the gangway.
“See to the passengers, purser.”
“Yes, ser.”
Rahl wondered if he was supposed to help off-load passenger baggage, but Galsyn just handed him the leather folder he had been carrying, and the declaration, and said, “Wait here. It won’t be long.”
Rahl waited.
The first passenger to leave was a bearded dark-skinned man whom Rahl did not recall even having seen on the voyage, but he might have been ill or violently seasick, because his eyes were reddish, and he looked pale behind the color of his skin. A faint miasma of chaos clung to him.
Valdra Elamira did not look at Rahl as she left the Diev. Neither did her bodyguard.
The wool factor Alamyrt actually stopped for a moment. “I wish you well in Swartheld, and perhaps our paths will cross.”
“Good fortune to you, honored ser.”
“I’m certain it will be.” Alamyrt laughed, then turned and walked down the gangway, carrying a large satchel-like case.
Once the last passenger had left, Galsyn turned back to Rahl. “We need to get on with tracking the unloading, Rahl.”
“Yes, ser.”
The off-loading continued until slightly after twilight, when the piers cleared of wagons and vendors. From what Rahl could tell, the vendors tried to sell until it was almost dark, with their warbling and piercing cries, which had become even more insistent, then hurried away. At that point, the gangway was swung up and the railing closed.
Rahl looked to Galsyn. “We’re not leaving, are we?”
“No. It’s just the captain’s way of reducing temptation. No one gets shore leave until we’re off-loaded,” Galsyn said. “Not anywhere in Hamor. She says she doesn’t like being shorthanded. More likely she doesn’t want to lose good sailors.” With a smile, Galsyn left Rahl by the railing.
The younger man stood there, looking out on the pier, feeling the warm air filled with scents he could not identify moving past him, and hearing the sounds of a strange port rising and falling around him in a rhythm he could sense, but not describe.
XXXIX
More wagons arrived on the pier opposite the Diev not long after dawn on threeday, and Rahl sat on a stool by the railing and wrote down the cargo items as they were off-loaded and as Galsyn checked each item and called it out.
“Fifteen bales of raw wool, ship’s consignment…”
“Thirteen kegs of scarletine, shipper’s consignment…”
“Two barrels of quilla flour, ship’s consignment…”
Rahl’s fingers were almost numb by midafternoon, when the last goods had been transferred to one of the wagons on the pier. He was also sweating from the heat, even though he and Galsyn had been shaded from the direct sun by a square of old canvas stretched between a frame of ancient poles.
“Better grab your gear, Rahl,” called Galsyn. “Teamster won’t wait.”
Rahl dashed for the cubby where he’d slept for the past eightdays, scooped up his pack, and headed back out to the deck.
The captain and Galsyn were waiting for him on the quarterdeck, just short of the gangway.
Liedra extended a small cloth pouch. “Here’s your pay. It’s not that much, but it should help.”
“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate it.” Rahl was well aware that she didn’t have to pay him anything. He quickly tucked the pouch into his belt wallet. “I really do.”
“Everything you learned could help us all, and give my best to Shyret.” She paused. “One other thing.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I just wanted to give you a few words from a woman who’s been around.” Liedra smiled ruefully. “Whatever you’re doing when you’re out of the Merchant Association, be careful. Be especially wary around the girls. Any woman seen in public with any of her body uncovered is a slave or servant. If she’s paying attention to you-or any other young fellow-she’s probably working to ensnare either your coins or your body. You have to watch closely, because the free women with golds often wear fabric and scarves so sheer that their shoulders look bare, but you won’t see more than that. If you do…watch out.”
“The body-snatchers get you,” added Galsyn, “and you’ll end up working in the great ironworks at Luba, or lugging stone on one of those great highways the Emperor’s building and rebuilding…”
Rahl had heard often enough while at the training center about the ironworks at Luba, but he didn’t recall anything about the great highways.
“Watch everything,” added the captain. “Best of fortune.”
“Thank you.” Rahl picked up his pack and walked down the gangway toward the remaining wagon from the Merchant Association. When his boots rested on the wide stone wharf, a mixture of order and chaos swirled up around him, then seemingly receded slightly.
“You the clerk?” called the teamster from the seat of the remaining wagon.
“Yes. I’m Rahl.”
“Climb on up. Need to be moving. Otherwise the red-and-tans get nasty.”
Rahl hurried to the wagon and swung his pack up, then scrambled onto the hard painted wood of the bench seat.
“I’m Guylmor,” offered the driver, a dark-skinned man with a short-cut graying beard who wore a blue shirt and trousers, both so faded that they were more like a light gray shaded blue. “Teamster for the mercantos.”
Mercantos? Then Rahl nodded and asked, in Hamorian, “Do you live near the Merchant Association?”
“Where else?” Guylmor laughed, not quite bitterly. “We have a bunk room. My consort, she lives out in Heldarth. I go there on end-days.” He flicked the leather leads, gently. One of the dray horses snorted, but the wagon began to move, slowly. “Where are you from? Did you grow up in Atla?”
“A long ways from there, but I learned to speak from…someone like an uncle…who lived there.”
“Some of the vendors will try to cheat you. They don’t think Atlans are that smart.”
“Are you from…Heldarth?”
“My family is from south of there.” Guylmor shook his head.
The wagon rolled slowly down the pier, inshore toward the buildings beyond the end of the pier. Rahl’s eyes flicked from point to point, but so much was going on that he scarcely knew where to look-or for what. The wagon passed a cart with an open grill, so close that Rahl almost could have reached out and grabbed one of the spiced fowl roasting on spits there.
“No better fowl anywhere…” The words in guttural Temple were followed by another set in far more precise Hamorian. “The best young chickens, fattened and roasted…”
Voices pitching wares and more came from everywhere, or so it seemed.
“Indentured servants…young and in the best of health…young men, young women…”
On the opposite side of the wagon from where Rahl sat was a stage on which a young man and a girl stood. They wore little but cloths around their loins, and the girl was red-haired. For a moment, he thought she might be Fahla, but the girl was shorter and more fragile. Was that what had happened to Fahla-because she wouldn’t betray her father to the Council? A flash of anger swept through Rahl.
“…in the best of health and form…”
The teamster jerked his head toward the slave stage. “The only ones they show here are trouble. They’re crazy or damaged in some way. They look good, but the best slaves never come to the piers. A little cheaper, though, and I wouldn’t mind having the redhead, if I had the coins. Good thing about slave women-they can’t tell you no.”
Two darker-skinned men wearing short-sleeved shirts and trousers of a light khaki fabric stood in a loose formation at the end of the pier, just at the point between the pier itself and the stone-paved causeway perpendicular to it. Each wore a khaki cap with a blue oval above the visor. They also carried polished oak truncheons and wore falchionas at their black belts.
Rahl looked at the Hamorian patrollers, or whatever keepers of the peace were called in Swartheld. Both were hard-eyed and made the Council Guards of Recluce seem friendly by comparison.