For lack of anything better to do, he went through the side of the long desk that was apparently his and looked at the various blank forms. Then he checked the inkwell and the ink and cleaned the pen he’d been given. That didn’t take long.
After that, he went back to the storeroom and looked over what was there, but there was nothing out of the ordinary on the shelves, just copies of various forms, two large glass jugs of ink, several amphorae of lamp oil, and a small brass pitcher with a long and narrow spout designed to fill the lamps, some lamp wicking, brass polish, and rags. There was also a small jar of what looked to be a waxlike polish.
That reminded him of his duties, and he looked for a broom. He found both a broom and a mop, but he decided against trying to mop because he couldn’t find any water for washing floors. As he recalled, there were barrels or possibly a pump or tap out the rear door, but it was locked.
Instead he swept the front part of the building and the rear corridor, then used a rag and the wood polish-sparingly-on the woodwork. The brasswork didn’t look that bad. It could wait for a day or two.
He had just returned to the long desk when he heard and sensed Daelyt unlocking the front door.
The older clerk walked inside, then nodded. “You swept. Good.”
“I polished the wood, lightly.” Rahl paused, then added, “I should have asked, but I forgot about keys. I could have gotten out the window, if there had been a problem, but I didn’t want to try to lift a chamber pot through it or try to get water…”
Daelyt grinned. “I would think not. You should have asked. We tend to think you know things unless you tell us otherwise. For the keys to the front door, we’ll have to wait until the director gets here. He keeps the keys under lock. In the morning, you’ll have to use the front door.” Daelyt nodded. “Is there anything else?”
“You said we got two meals at Eneld’s, and one is dinner…”
“The other is midday. We take shifts for that. Director Shyret wants a clerk here all the time.” Daelyt laughed. “It’s been difficult at times since Wynreed disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Rahl didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“He went out on an end-day night and never came back. The patrollers and the mage-guards don’t have any record of taking him into custody or…disciplining…him.” Daelyt settled onto his stool.
Disciplining him? That suggested that the mage-guards could just dispose of people. Despite a morning that was already getting warmer than Rahl would have liked, he managed to repress a shiver, but his stomach rumbled…loudly.
Daelyt shook his head. “That won’t do. You need to get a loaf of bread or some hard biscuits to get you through the morning. Run down to the corner, on the side beyond the warehouse. Gostof usually peddles some. You can get a loaf of rye for two coppers, if you press. The director won’t be here for a bit, and he wouldn’t mind on your first morning. It takes a while to get settled.” The clerk’s smile was helpful and friendly.
Rahl didn’t sense any deception or chaos, not beyond the slight whiteness that apparently accompanied Daelyt all the time. “I’ll hurry.”
“That would be good.”
Rahl moved toward the door.
Outside, the sun had lifted over the hills to the east of the harbor and shone through an already hazy greenish blue sky. There were more people on the street, but still not so many as the evening before, and most looked to be older and graying. Rahl hadn’t taken three steps before he began to sweat. He hurried past the still-closed iron gates of the warehouse courtyard. Tyboran was standing inside the heavy iron grillwork. The guard looked at Rahl impassively.
Rahl smiled back and called cheerfully in Hamorian, “Good morning, Tyboran.” He didn’t feel all that cheerful, but that wasn’t the point.
Tyboran just looked at Rahl, but Rahl had the feeling that the guard was at least slightly glad to be recognized.
An older man, weathered and bent, stood in the morning shade of the northernmost warehouse, so close to the corner that Rahl had to come to a halt quickly to avoid running into him.
“Loaves, just a day old, good loaves!”
“How much?” asked Rahl.
“For you, young ser, a mere four coppers. For the rye. Five for the dark.”
“Old bread? Four coppers?” Rahl snorted. A half silver for a loaf of bread? Between his wages from the training center and what Liedra had given him, he had but three silvers. “A half copper is more like it.”
“You’ve been in Atla too long, where bread and women are cheap, young ser.”
Rahl grinned. “You’ve been in Swartheld too long, where even dung is sold as incense. Not more than a half copper.”
“For your fine tongue I might accept three.”
“Flattery is cheaper than coin. No more than one and a half.”
“My bread may be a day old, but it is far fresher than most loaves, and of better quality.”
“Only the dark bread, and who can afford that?”
In the end, Rahl paid two coppers for a loaf of dark bread, the first he’d had since he’d left Land’s End. He could have gotten the rye for a copper and a half, and doubtless would have to settle for it in the days to come, but he had wanted the dark.
He walked back to the merchant association, only nodding to Tyboran as he passed. The guard did nod back.
“I see Gostof was there,” observed Daelyt, when Rahl walked toward the long desk. “Take the bread to your cubby and eat it there. The director doesn’t like crumbs or food out here.”
As he hurried toward the storeroom and his cubby, Rahl wondered just how much else there was that Shyret demanded or didn’t like. Once in the back, he ate half the loaf and wrapped the rest in one of his cloth squares before wiping his face and hands and returning to the desk.
“We need to check through your forms and make sure that you have everything,” Daelyt said. “Start with the declarations…”
Rahl had not quite finished reorganizing his side of the desk when a slender man with a short black beard and dark eyes stepped through the door and made his way toward the two clerks. He wore the same type of loose-fitting embroidered shirt that Rahl had seen on Shyret the day before, but his was tan with brown embroidery. Despite the intricacy of the stitches, the garment had seen better days.
The newcomer ignored Rahl and looked at Daelyt. “What is the next vessel bound for Nylan, and when might it be expected?”
Daelyt slipped several sheets of paper from the drawer to his left and scanned them. “The Legacy of Diev is already in port, but her cargo space is all spoken for, and she’s almost loaded out. The next would be the Legacy of Westwind. She should port here in Swartheld in about three days. Most of her cargo space is taken. The Legacy of the Founders is scheduled in about an eightday, and there’s space for up to two hundred stones or the equivalent cubage.”
The young trader frowned.
“There’s more space on the Legacy of Montgren, Trader Forisyt,” Daelyt suggested, “but you’re looking at two to three eightdays before she ports. Does it have to be Nylan, or would you consider Land’s End?”
“Nylan. There is little profit and less satisfaction in dealing with those at Land’s End,” replied Forisyt. “I’ll take a hundred stones on the Founders. Brassworks and oils.”
Daelyt began to write on a form that looked vaguely familiar to Rahl. “What is the approximate declared value, Trader Forisyt?”
“It is a cargo of insignificance, so small that it would be an insult to your association to declare a value.”
“The minimum valuation is fifty golds,” Daelyt pointed out, “and the reserve on that is five, and the cartage would be six.”
“Insignificant as it is, it might be of greater worth than the minimum.”
“That is often the case, for we will ship goods with little value, except to the shipper, and your goods are usually far beyond that.”