The weathered supervisor studied Blacktop for several moments. “He looks like he’s been a loader or a breaker. Now…how is that going to help?”
“He was a loader because he lost his memory, and the paperwork was somehow mislaid. The guard-captain and I have examined him. He writes well and does his sums adequately. His writing suggests he was at one time a scrivener.”
“Tried to cheat his master, you think?”
Taryl shrugged. “Could be. Could be otherwise, too.”
Moryn laughed. “Doesn’t matter now. No one’s going to make off with iron plate. We’ll see how he works out.” He turned. “What’s your name?”
“Blacktop.”
“That’ll do.” Moryn nodded to the mage-guard. “Thank you.”
“We do try to help.” There was a slight irony in the words, but Taryl said nothing more before vaulting back up into the wagon.
Moryn pointed to what looked like a tiny roofed building with walls waist high on three sides, and a high stool set behind a narrow counter. Another man dressed like the supervisor sat on the stool, shaded by the small roof. “See the kiosk over there. That’s the checker’s station.”
Blacktop watched as the checker wrote something.
Moryn pulled out a sheet of paper and stepped back, smoothing it on the top sheet of plate in the pile nearest him. Then he motioned for Blacktop to look at it. “Here’s the form you use. Each large block has a space where you write down the wagon number. Each wagon has a letter and a number painted on each side beneath the driver’s bench. Each time the supervisor or wagonmaster calls out the size and thickness of the plate, and the number of plates loaded in a hoist, you write them down in the large space, and after the wagon pulls out, then you add up the total number of each size of plates, and put the totals in the smaller boxes here. Each box is for a different size or thickness of plate. It might be full span, half span, or quarter span in thickness, and it will be either full plate, half plate, quarter plate.” Moryn rolled up the paper. “Do you have any questions?”
“Will they be loading anything besides iron plate, ser?”
“That doesn’t happen often. Just write down what it is-iron bars, say, and total those separate from the plate.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Now…go stand next to supervisor Chylor and watch what he does for the next several wagons. Don’t move away from the kiosk. If you get in the way of the hoist, there won’t be enough of you left to worry about. Iron plate is heavy.”
“Yes, ser.”
As Blacktop walked carefully along the back edge of the loading dock toward the checker’s kiosk, Moryn raised his voice. “Chylor! Blacktop’s the new checker. He’ll watch you until you finish this wagon.”
“Got it, boss!” Chylor kept his eyes on the wagon and the hoist.
Blacktop stationed himself at the right side of the kiosk, just far enough back not to block the supervisor’s view, but close enough that he could see the paper in front of Chylor, although he could not make out the words and numbers that clearly. Then he waited as the hoist rattled and the steam engine hissed, and the sling lowered its load.
“Two quarter plates, quarter span!” Moryn called out.
Chylor wrote and waited.
Blacktop watched.
After another sling delivery, Moryn announced, “Wagon away.”
The six dray horses-not sloggers-strained for a moment before the wagon began to move. Chylor stood out from the kiosk, then walked to where Moryn stood. He did not look at Blacktop.
“Go ahead, Blacktop.”
The former loader slipped into the kiosk and seated himself. Somehow, the stool and the counter felt familiar. Not the ones before him, but their arrangement. He studied the form on the counter, roughly half-filled out. Chylor’s fractions for the thickness of the plate were sloppily written.
Blacktop found himself frowning. How did he know that? Why could he only remember so much, and no more?
The next wagon rolled up, and Chylor walked south of the kiosk, stopping just short of even with the driver, while Moryn moved back toward the kiosk.
Blacktop looked for the wagon number. It was faint, but right where Moryn had said it would be. He wrote down D-21, in the wagon number space, and waited, watching as the steam hoist rattled and swung a sheet of plate over the wagon.
“Forward about a cubit!”
More rattling and hissing followed the supervisor’s directions.
“Easy down.”
As the hoist lowered the plate, Chylor called out, “Full plate, one sheet, half span, first sling.”
The wagon settled slightly under the weight of the plate. Then one of the hoist assistants unfastened the leather and cable sling, and the hoist operator lifted it, and the process began again.
“Full plate, one sheet, half span, second sling…”
After the loading was complete and the wagon rolled away, Moryn walked up to Blacktop. “Let’s see.”
“Yes, ser.” Blacktop turned the sheet so that Moryn could see the entries.
The supervisor nodded. “Just keep doing it that way.” He stepped back to where he had been watching and waited for the next wagon.
In the end, Moryn checked the entries for almost a half score of wagons before leaving the loading dock to Chylor’s control.
For a moment, Blacktop hadn’t seen why Moryn had waited so long, but then he realized that the head supervisor had wanted to see how Blacktop had entered all the different sizes and thicknesses of plate.
Blacktop settled himself on the stool and waited for the next wagon.
LXIII
As the mage-guard had told him, a wagon did trundle up to the plate-loading dock when Moryn stopped work at the loading dock somewhat before sunset. Both Chylor and Moryn got on as well, but they sat in the first three rows, reserved for guards and supervisors, and Blacktop sat alone in the seventh and last row.
From the plate-loading dock, the wagon continued along the dusty stone lane toward another loading area, one with stacks of steel bars. As the wagon slowed there, the wind picked up, swirling grit into Blacktop’s eyes. He had to blink and blot them, and he realized that they didn’t water or hurt as much as they had at the end of his day when he’d been a loader.
The single checker from the bar dock walked to the wagon, looked at Blacktop, then walked around to the far side, where he sat in the last row as far as he could from Blacktop. The supervisor squeezed in beside Chylor.
Once the wagon stopped outside the dormitory area where Blacktop had cleaned up earlier, he climbed down and followed the other checkers-he thought most were checkers-into the eating hall. There he found that they filed past a table with tin cups and tin platters, rather than shallow bowls. They also picked up forks and broad spoons before moving to a serving table.
Blacktop found himself served a heaping pile of spiced rice and a thick sauce that held root vegetables and discernible chunks of meat, as well as a half loaf of fresh bread. The beer actually foamed slightly and smelled better.
For a moment, Blacktop just stood, looking around the hall. The tables were old, but had been recently cleaned and polished, and, most surprisingly, since talking had been scarce among the loaders, the area was filled with the low murmur of voices. Scattered fragments of conversations flitted past him.
“…problems with the big drop-forge…glad I’m not a mech…”
“…don’t ever want to piss off Dyeth…call a mage-guard and swear you struck him…they can’t tell he’s lying, either…”
“…less than a season…be paid off…head home…”
Blacktop realized that two men at a nearby table were studying him.
“…transfer from hard labor, more likely…look at the tan and the muscles…and that bushy beard.”
He smiled and moved toward them.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” asked the older balding man.
“I just started as a checker today,” Blacktop admitted.