“No. I haven’t been paid.”
She turned from the stove and tossed something at him. “Other half got overfried when Eneld was chewin’ wind too much. Be better if he didn’t think he was a cook.”
Rahl caught the ragged chunk of fried flat bread. “Thank you.”
After taking a small bite of the flahyl, Rahl followed it with a small bite of bread. Besides a sauce that tasted like liquid flame, the flahyl contained a mashed and flattened fried grain base with pieces of barely cooked slimy fish, pepper strips, and cheese that tried to stick to the roof of his mouth. He was just as glad he couldn’t taste much of it, but he was hungry enough that he would eat it all.
“Daelyt coming over in a bit?”
“He should be, but that depends on the director and what work has to be done.” He paused. “Have you ever seen his consort, Seorya?”
“No. She doesn’t come here. Folks say that she has a bad leg, can hardly move it. She does needlework for Pasnyr, the fancy stuff on the fharongs.”
It took Rahl a moment before he realized she was talking about the embroidered loose shirts worn by the more well-off men. “I’d wager it doesn’t pay that well.”
“Nothing pays well here, not unless you already got plenty a’ golds.”
Rahl nodded and kept eating, trying not to think about what the sauce and cheese concealed. He was successful enough that he managed to eat every last bite of the flahyl, but he had to take few small bites of the flat bread, and small sips of the bitter beer.
Finally, he stood. “As always, Seorya, your cooking was a delight to a famished man.”
“You didn’t say it was good.”
Rahl laughed. “Delight is always good. I’ll see you this evening.”
She just snorted.
After stepping out into the alley behind the cantina, Rahl glanced around quickly, but there were only an old man and a youth on the far side, both in the shade, trying to escape the worst of the heat of early midday. The old man was eating something, shaking his head, and muttering, before spitting something onto the paving stones of the alley.
The youth, leaning against the brick wall of the arms shop, looked away.
Rahl hurried toward the street, belatedly sensing that the youth was following, and whistling. At the edge of the paved sidewalk, Rahl had to stop because a wagon, a coach, and several carriages were moving quickly down the street. He tried to keep his distance from all those on foot, but there were scores of people within fifty cubits.
Then, as he started to cross the street, he felt chaos, and turned, his hand on his truncheon. A youth bounced away from him, sliding onto the stone slab of the sidewalk. His eyes were wide, and fear radiated from him. The barefoot boy scrambled to his knees, and then to his feet, backing away from Rahl.
“Don’t try your thievery on me,” Rahl said quietly, the truncheon in his hand.
The boy turned and sprinted away, ducking behind a heavyset older woman.
“See…not all Atlans are easy marks.”
“…he’s a big one, he is…”
“…just a clerk for someone…”
Feeling another chaos-mist, Rahl half turned and slashed with the truncheon. He was not gentle, and an older youth reeled back, grasping his wrist. Like the first cutpurse, he dashed away.
In turn, Rahl hurried across the street, angling between two wagons. Inside, he was more than a little angry. Where were the patrollers and the mage-guards who were supposed to deal with thieves? He could feel his fingers tightening around the truncheon, and once he stepped up to the door of the Merchant Association, he forced himself to relax. He didn’t replace the truncheon in its half sheath until he was inside.
Daelyt looked up from the consignment forms he was studying. “You don’t look happy.”
“Cutpurses. They didn’t get anything…” Rahl paused and checked his belt wallet, concealed as it had been. “No…not this time, anyway.”
“I try not to carry anything I don’t have to,” Daelyt said, shaking his head. “Little bastards will take the belt off your trousers. How did you even feel them?”
“I don’t know. I just did. I hit one of them on the wrist.”
“They’ll either be looking for you or leave you alone.” The other clerk paused. “Mean-looking truncheon you carry.”
“I was told I’d need it.”
“It’s not iron, is it? The mage-guards frown on that.”
“It’s wood.” Rahl decided against mentioning what kind of wood.
“That’s probably all right.”
“Where are the mage-guards? I’ve only seen them on the piers.”
“They’re everywhere. You don’t always see them, but they see you.”
“They didn’t see the cutpurses,” Rahl pointed out.
“With what you did, they probably didn’t need to show up.”
There wasn’t much point in saying more, except that Rahl could sense order and chaos, and he hadn’t sensed either. But he could see that there was a certain value in having people think the mage-guards could be everywhere.
“Could you make another copy of this consignment order?” asked Daelyt. “It’s from Rystinyr for three hundred stones on the Montgren.”
“I can do that.”
“While you’re writing it up, I’ll hurry over to Eneld’s. The director just left, and he won’t be back for a bit. You know what to do on consignments, and you have the schedule for the ships. I won’t be long. Do you have any questions?” Daelyt slipped off his stool.
Thinking about the state of his wallet, Rahl glanced to Daelyt. “Ah…when do we get paid?”
“Good question. At the end of the day every other sixday. The last payday was last sixday. So we get paid an eightday from tomorrow.”
Rahl nodded. His coins might last that long, but he’d probably be reduced to the cheapest loaves that Gostof hawked.
XLIV
Sixday came and went, and so did sevenday, although Rahl and Daelyt had to work till almost dinner on sevenday, because the Legacy of Westwind ported, and the ship’s master didn’t have any intention of waiting until oneday to off-load and receive his cargo declarations. From Rahl’s point of view, that had been a mixed blessing because it had meant that Shyret-or the Association-had paid for both his midday meal and the evening meal, which didn’t happen on sevendays. On the other hand, he didn’t get paid extra for the half day’s work.
When he woke on eightday morning, later than usual, he realized, again, that the day was his and that he could do as he wished. Except for one thing-he hadn’t been paid and wouldn’t be for another six days, and all he had left was a little more than one silver, and that would have to go for the bread that comprised his morning meals.
After eating half of the loaf he’d bought the day before on the way back from his midday meal, when he’d realized that Gostof probably wouldn’t be hawking bread on end-day, he washed up and got dressed. At least, he could walk around, and look and study Swartheld. In fact, he told himself, the more he learned the better off he would be, because in less than a season, he’d be on his own. He hadn’t learned anything more about how to control his order-skills, but then, he’d had little enough time, and he hadn’t read much more in The Basis of Order either. He thought for a moment, then tucked the small black-covered book inside his summer tunic. He might find a quiet place to read.
He’d thought about writing his parents, but there was no point in it. It would be seasons before he had enough coins to pay for sending a letter to them, and anything he wrote now would have changed.
With a shrug, he slipped the truncheon into its belt straps, left his cubby, and walked to the front entrance, where he removed the bar, and unlocked the door. After stepping outside the Merchant Association building, he relocked the front door, then turned, glancing around. Heavy shutters covered the windows of the arms shop and Eneld’s cantina across the street. Farther westward, the coppersmith’s was closed, as was the lacemaker’s.