Directly behind the armsmen was a younger man, barely older than Rahl. The younger man bore only a falchiona, but above his cap visor was a bronze or gold starburst set on a red oval. A whitish chaos-mist surrounded him. He had to be one of the chaos-mages serving the Emperor. Rahl was careful not to look long at the man, but he had a feeling that the chaos-mage still had noticed him.
Once the driver had the wagon off the pier and onto the street that fronted the harbor, the crowding eased, and the wagon began to move more quickly. On the streets heading south from the harbor boulevard, there were few peddlers or carts, but more people, and despite his understanding of the far larger size of Swartheld, all the people made Rahl feel cramped and crowded.
“How much farther?” asked Rahl.
“Less than half a kay,” replied Guylmor.
The shops Rahl could see and make out carried everything, but a greater proportion seemed to deal with fabrics-silks, woolens, linens, cottons-and even costly shimmersilk. The shop that displayed the shimmersilk had two large armed men in maroon by the door. In just a few blocks were as many bolts of cloth as in all of Nylan, Rahl suspected.
Even though he had done little more than ride in the wagon, Rahl could feel even more sweat beading on his forehead and neck and running down his spine. A haze hung over the city, mostly from the heat, Rahl thought, but some of it might have been from chaos-or just from so many buildings and people. He tried to take in what they passed, but there were so many factorages and shops that he soon lost track of all that he had seen.
The teamster cleared his throat, then gestured with his left hand. “There’s the traders’ building. We’ll be unloading in the rear yard. That’s where the warehouse is.”
“I need to tell Ser Shyret I’m here.” Rahl glanced around, trying to take in what he could. Across the street from the Merchant Association building was a shop that displayed weapons-many shimmering in the front display window-sabres, cutlasses, an especially menacing falchiona, a huge wide broadsword, and all manner of knives and dirks. “Thank you for the ride.”
“Serfing together and company’s welcome,” Guylmor replied.
Rahl waited until Guylmor slowed the wagon to bring it through the brick-pillared gates before hopping off and hurrying toward the front door of the building. Before he put his hand on the polished-brass door lever, he paused, then firmly pressed down and opened the door.
Inside, the building was cooler than the street, but only slightly. The ceilings were high, close to ten cubits, and the walls were white plaster over brick, with occasional yellow-brick pillars. Unlike the Merchant Association in Nylan, there was no counter, but a single long desk facing the door. The blond-wood surface was not quite chest high.
The clerk seated on a stool behind the desk was turned, listening to a man at the side.
“…be getting the cargo and declarations from the Diev…”
Rahl intended to wait, but the man turned, as did the clerk.
“You must be the new clerk.”
“Yes, ser.” Rahl inclined his head politely. “Are you Ser Shyret?”
“‘Director’ will do.” Shyret was stocky, and the top of his head barely came to Rahl’s nose. The managing director was also clean-shaven, with iron gray hair cut short, and he wore a loose-fitting white shirt decorated with silvered embroidery and lace. “Say something in Hamorian.” The tone was polite enough, but preemptory.
“I look forward to working here and doing my best.”
“That will do.” Shyret nodded brusquely, inclining his head toward the thin-faced man at the high desk. “Daelyt is the senior clerk. He will assign your duties. You are to speak Hamorian at all times when anyone else is here, even if you are addressed in Temple. The one exception is any ship’s master. You reply in whatever language the captains use to you.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Show him his duties, Daelyt. You can see me later.”
The senior clerk nodded.
Shyret turned and walked through a wide archway at the rear of the main office. There was a faint chaos-haze about him, not as much as if he were a white wizard, Rahl thought, but he wasn’t sure about that.
“We might as well get you started,” said Daelyt. “What do you know about manifests and declarations?”
“I worked in the Nylan Association for several eightdays, and I was the assistant to the purser on the Diev for the voyage here.”
“You can write Hamorian?”
“Enough for the forms.”
“You’re going to make my life much easier.” Daelyt smiled. “There are some differences in what the magisters want in Nylan and what the Imperial tariff enumerators want here. Set down that pack, bring over another stool, and we’ll go through them.”
Rahl carried a stool from the side of the room and set it close enough to Daelyt’s so that he could see what the older clerk was doing. He sat down, then wiped his forehead with the cloth he’d tucked inside the light tunic. “Is it always this hot?”
“You’re fortunate,” said Daelyt. “You came in on one of the cooler days of summer. But it’s in the high season. Some days, even the locals don’t go out unless they have to. So the wealthier traders send their families to their east-hill villas or their seaside places. Once we get into fall, Swartheld won’t be quite so uncrowded as it is now.”
Daelyt took out a set of declaration forms and laid them on the desk before Rahl. “We’ll start with the differences…”
After going through all the variations on the forms, then making Rahl copy one set, abruptly, the older clerk looked up. “Time to get something to eat and show you where you’ll sleep.”
“I was wondering about food…”
“We get two meals a day from Eneld’s. It’s the cantina across the street, beside the arms shop. We have to eat in the back, but the food’s not bad, and you don’t have to use your own coins.”
“What about my pack?”
“Oh…I’ll show you your alcove.” Daelyt turned and walked through the archway that Shyret had taken earlier, except he went through another door into a small storeroom. “Here’s your space. There’s a water barrel for drawing your wash water out the back door there.”
In the corner on the right side of the storeroom was what amounted to a narrow chamber without a door, but with a cloth curtain, half-drawn back.
Rahl glanced around the narrow area behind the curtain, little more than a narrow pallet with shelves above the foot of the bed and a pegboard affixed to the wall for hanging a few clothes. There was a bowl and pitcher on the shelves for washing, and one thin worn towel folded beside it. There was also a chamber pot against the wall.
“The chamber pot wastes and water go down the sewer out the rear door. It’s the circular cover. Just lift it and dump. Don’t toss wastes into the alley. The patrollers catch you, and it’ll cost you a silver the first time, and the quarries the second.”
That stopped Rahl for a moment. Finally, he said, “Thank you for the warning. Where do you…”
“My consort and I have rooms and a kitchen above the main warehouse.” The older clerk’s eyes dropped to Rahl’s belt and the truncheon. “You can use that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You won’t have much cause to use it most nights, but you can never tell. Not in Swartheld. We don’t keep many golds here-just enough in case we need supplies or if someone pays us late in the day after the Exchange is closed. That makes the director very unhappy, but sometimes it happens.”
“There’s a strong room?” asked Rahl.
“Of sorts. It’s really an ironbound closet in the back of his study. Now…let’s eat, because we’ll be working late on the Diev’s declarations.”
Rahl followed Daelyt to the main door and out into the growing twilight. From what he could tell, there were even more people on the street than there had been earlier.