I
In late midafternoon on threeday of the second eightday of Summer, as Overcaptain Alyiakal sits behind the modest writing table in the post commander’s small study, a Mirror Lancer ranker appears in the open doorway.
“Overcaptain, ser…”
Alyiakal looks up from the maps before him, closes the atlas, and says wryly, “Nomads wanting water or traders coming up from Stonepier?”
Not that Stonepier is much of a port. It sits some seventeen kays east of Oldroad Post with a small Kyphran stone building and is nothing more than a barracks for a squad of Kyphran troopers, with a stable for possibly a half score of horses and a single wagon. Then again, two years earlier, right after the border-readjustment conflict, all that had been left was the stone pier—and the ashes of hundreds of Kyphran troopers.
When the Kyphran post was built at the pier, Alyiakal had wondered why the Duke of Kyphros exempted the small port from levying tariffs, then realized no traders would land there if they had to pay tariffs at the port and again at Oldroad Post. Instead, the troopers collect a small landing fee. And the Duke hopes in time to see a small town that will raise more golds. The Duke’s actions also require Cyador to spend golds to maintain Oldroad Post.
The Mirror Lancer scout clears his throat, politely trying to get Alyiakal’s wandering attention. “Two wagons, ser. With guards. They’ve crossed the border and should be here in another glass. Second Company’s third squad is escorting them.”
“Wagons and guards mean wealthy traders.” Alyiakal wonders why wealthy traders would take three or four days on the road when they could afford to sail into Guarstyad directly, even skipping the need for wagons. He stands. “Very interesting. Wealthy or not, they’ll be too late to take the road tonight and will have the waystation to themselves. You can return to duties.” Alyiakal heads for the door. “I’ll let the gate guards know.”
As he walks from his study toward the gate at the east end of the old road, he can’t help but think how his discovery of the forgotten road and how it had been blocked led to so many changes over the past two years. One of the first changes after the annihilation of the Kyphran troopers had been the destruction of their rough fort and the removal of the half-destroyed building created by the dissidents a century earlier, followed by the construction of Oldroad Post and the repair of the old road.
Traders deciding to enter Guarstyad through Oldroad Post essentially forced Alyiakal and the lancers of the two companies to build a waystation to the south and east of the post, including diverting water to a rough fountain and drains, a matter requiring Alyiakal to employ more than a few concealed uses of order/chaos magery. The waystation rules are simple. No one can enter Cyador and use the old road to Guarstyad without the Mirror Lancers approving the condition in which they leave the waystation. Nor can they set up camps within Cyadoran territory, which extends ten kays east of Oldroad Post.
The Kyphran troopers at Stonepier are somewhat laxer about travelers or others setting up camps on Kyphran territory, but not much. The Duke of Kyphros made it clear that camping didn’t bring in silvers the way an inn would, and discouraging camping might cause an inn to be built sooner.
As Alyiakal leaves the post building, he smiles ironically. The Duke might even regain a few silvers out of his ill-considered attack on the Mirror Lancers. Then Alyiakal glances at the wall that encloses the Mirror Lancer post, except for the rear of the post, cut into the stone that looms a good fifteen yards high behind the post. He walks alongside the wall to the gatehouse guarding both the post and the entrance to the old road to Guarstyad.
“Ser?” says the lead duty guard.
“There are some traders heading in. They’ll get here too late to use the road safely and will complain about it. Just tell them the road is closed until sunrise tomorrow. Don’t argue with them. Send for me.”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal turns and goes to find Torkaal, who is working on blade skills with the recent recruits from Guarstyad. Although blade skills are usually a last resort, if they’re needed, they’re needed desperately. The other aspect of blade skills is, as Alyiakal knows well, that they’re extremely useful for teaching a certain amount of caution and wariness, often the only way with some recruits … and even officers.
Alyiakal stops in a shaded courtyard archway and watches Torkaal spar under the hot Summer sun with one of the recruits. Half a quint later, when Torkaal finishes with that recruit, Alyiakal steps forward.
“You’ve got a half quint to catch your breath,” the undercaptain says to the recruits before walking to meet Alyiakal. “Ser?”
“You got the report about the traders?”
Torkaal nods.
“What do you think?”
“Wealthy traders in good wagons? Something’s up.”
“That was my first thought,” agrees Alyiakal, “but then I recalled something. Remember the hamlet near where we thought the road from Guarstyad ended?”
“The one where that mage attacked you?”
“Exactly. They have two kinds of goods that those with wealth would be interested in—the musk ox wool and that mushroom that grows on holly oak roots.”
“The last thing they’d want the tariff enumerators in Guarstyad to know is their interest in those,” replies Torkaal.
“They might also be using that for a cover. Or they’re wary of the Imperial tariff enumerators in Guarstyad for another reason.”
“Ser, how could we possibly imagine anyone being wary of those upright officials?” Torkaal’s every word drips sarcasm.
“I would never imagine anything of the sort,” returns Alyiakal with a cynical smile, “but it might occur to an outland trader.”
“It hasn’t happened yet,” rejoins Torkaal, “but I’ve wondered when it might.”
“I’m not holding my breath.” Alyiakal laughs softly, then asks, “How are the recruits coming along?”
“They’re all green and soft as Spring growth. Good thing is that they haven’t had a chance to learn bad habits.” Torkaal smiles happily. “In a season, they’ll be better than anyone coming out of Kynstaar. Be a while before any of them’ll need to spar with you.”
“There’s always someone,” replies Alyiakal.
“Not near as many here. Won’t be long before some of the more experienced rankers we’ve trained will be getting orders.”
“Most likely to the northern borders.”
“Everyone serves there, sooner or later.”
“And usually often,” rejoins Alyiakal. “I’ll see you later.” He starts back toward his study, then stops for a moment as his order/chaos senses alert him to riders from the north. After a moment, he nods and continues. Vaekyn and first squad returning from patrol.
Two quints later, Vaekyn knocks on the open door to Alyiakal’s study.
Alyiakal motions for the senior squad leader to enter and take one of the two straight-backed chairs in front of the small writing desk. “How did it go?”
“Caught sight of some nomads, but they stayed on the Kyphran side of the border. No signs that anyone’s been using the east pass road. Not since we took care of that bunch in late Spring.”
“I still can’t see the point of smuggling spices overland and then over the east pass. Not when they’d have to take the west pass road and travel more than a hundred kays to Luuval, and as many more to Fyrad. The tariffs aren’t that high on spices. Well, except for tri-spice and vanilla. If they’d been trying to get iron blades into Cyador or gems…” Alyiakal shakes his head.
“Have you heard anything about the silvers we get from the sale of the spices we confiscated?” asks Vaekyn.
“You and the men will get them. I got the acknowledgment from headquarters last eightday. When they’ll arrive is another question.”
“Do you think the nomads here will turn to raiding, like along the northern borders?”
“Not any time soon. There’s not enough to support them year-round, and nothing to raid. Even if they avoid our patrols and get over the east pass, there are only a handful of steads north of Guarstyad post, and it would take at least a well-armed squad, if not two, to mount an attack on the mine. Before they could take it, the subcommander would have them cornered. It’s not like the Duke of Kyphros, who wanted the silver mine and all Guarstyad so that he could have a sheltered harbor and another port.”
Left unsaid is the fact that the Oldroad Post primarily exists to protect access to Guarstyad, and the lancers’ greatest enemies are not smugglers or Kyphran troopers, but weather and boredom. He’d kept them occupied exploring and mapping the entire border area, building and rebuilding the dangerous trail down to the tiny cove pier twice, so that the ride down and back is merely arduous, rather than potentially deadly.
After Vaekyn leaves, Alyiakal picks up the tariff manual. You might as well refresh your knowledge before the traders arrive.
A glass passes before a ranker from the road gate arrives.
“Overcaptain, ser?”
“The traders have arrived and want to know why the gate is closed?”
“Yes, ser.”
Alyiakal stands, dons his visor cap, and follows the ranker back to the road gate, where two well-kept, if dusty, wagons wait short of the iron-bound gate. He enters the gatehouse from the post side and then steps out to meet a heavyset and red-bearded trader standing beside the first wagon. On the wagon seat is a teamster, holding the leads for the wagon’s single horse.
Facing the trader is the duty gate guard.
“You the officer in charge here?” demands the trader.
“I am,” replies Alyiakal. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“This gate is, officer.”
“Overcaptain,” corrects Alyiakal politely.
“Well … Overcaptain … can you get this gate open so that we can be on our way?”
“The gate will open at sunrise tomorrow.”
“That’s absurd. Why can’t you open the gate now?”
“Because being on the next ten-fifteen kays of the road in the dark gets people killed,” replies Alyiakal. “We used to let people do it, until too many fell two hundred yards onto the rocks into the ocean.” Including several Mirror Lancer messengers. “It’s perfectly safe when you can see where you’re going. It’s not when you can’t, and parts of the road are in heavy shadow even in full sunlight.”
The other reason is to bar the road to unwelcome persons, such as brigands posing as small traders and, of course, armed nomads or Kyphran troopers, not that either would attempt to use the road after the border-readjustment conflict. “Since you’re merchants or traders, your wagons will need to be inspected for goods subject to tariffs. That will take a little while.”
“And for an additional fee…” snorts the trader.
“We go by the Imperial tariff manual,” says Alyiakal coldly. “I’ll be happy to have you look at it if you have any goods that are subject to tariffs.”
Alyiakal can sense the trader’s surprise.
For a moment, the red-bearded man says nothing. Then he asks, quietly, “You said sunrise tomorrow?”
“I’ll be happy to go over your goods tomorrow at sunrise. After determining and paying the tariffs on your goods, you’ll be free to go—if it’s not raining. We don’t expect rain, but the first ten kays are smooth rock that’s slick when wet.”
Those words elicit some little surprise.
“You’ll need to use the waystation. The fountain water is clean. There’s a refuse barrel and a jakes house. Use them. If you don’t, you’ll have to clean up the waystation before we open the gate.” Alyiakal projects a slight feeling of unyielding law.
“Yes, ser. We’ll be back at sunrise.”
“I’ll be here.” Alyiakal nods, then turns and enters the gatehouse, where he watches as the traders turn the wagons and head back to the waystation.
II
Early on fourday morning, Alyiakal makes his way to the duty squad leader’s desk, where Saavacol has just taken over.
“Good morning, ser.”
“We’ll have some traders showing up shortly.”
“The ones at the waystation? I’ve already sent some of the duty squad down to check the waystation. If there’s a problem, I’ll let you know.”
“Let’s hope there’s not. I did caution the lead trader late yesterday.”
“If you cautioned him, there won’t be.”
“Hopefully.”
From there, Alyiakal walks to the enumerator’s three-room building on the south side of the still-closed iron-bound gate. While he waits for the traders’ wagons, he goes over the procedures and makes sure all the forms are ready.
Slightly after sunrise, the first wagon nears the enumerator’s building, and Alyiakal steps out before it comes to a stop. He carries a polished wooden hand desk holding the necessary forms.
The red-bearded trader climbs down from the wagon.
“I have the shipping manifest for you to look at and compare, Overcaptain.”
“Thank you.” Alyiakal smiles politely, then adds, “Before you say anything more, trader, you should know several things. First, we follow the Imperial tariff code, as close to the letter as possible. Second, copies of all tariff bills and import fees are sent to the Senior Imperial Tariff Enumerator in Cyad. And, third, in addition to being a Mirror Lancer overcaptain, I’m also a Magi’i-trained field healer.” Before the trader’s puzzled expression can fade, Alyiakal continues. “While I do not have enough order skills to be a magus or a Mirror Engineer, I do have enough to be a better than usual field healer and can discern when someone is not telling the truth or the whole truth.”
The trader swallows slightly, “I appreciate your directness, Overcaptain.”
Alyiakal reads through the manifest listing the goods. Nothing on it appears different from goods most outland traders might carry, items of comparatively high value for their weight and size. Among the herbs and spices are brinn, burnet, cumin, cinnamon, peppercorns, and others he’s never heard of before he’d had to act as a tariff enumerator. There are also dyes and aromatics, and ten amphorae of olive oil. One listing catches his eye—“20 s/s scarves, each 4/5 yard.”
“Shimmersilk scarves?” he asks.
“Yes, ser. From Hamor.”
“In all colors?”
“Not all,” admits the trader.
Alyiakal doesn’t pursue the matter, although he wonders if there are any scarves in Merchanter blue that might suit Saelora. Even if there were, he cannot ask or offer to buy anything the trader might have. Besides which, the scarves would cost more than a gold, close to what Alyiakal makes in an eightday.
After reading through the manifest, Alyiakal says, “Let’s take a look. What is your name, or the name you usually trade under and where are you from?”
“Byjaan, out of Brysta.”
“Brysta?” asks Alyiakal, sensing a possible evasion.
“That’s where I’m from.”
Alyiakal understands. Byjaan is the name he’s known by, and he was probably born in Brysta, but that’s not his trading base. Since that’s not relevant to levying tariffs, Alyiakal just nods and asks, “Do you wish to declare a trading name, in addition to your true name? That’s not required, but some traders prefer it that way on the documentation kept on file.”
“No, ser.”
After that, as he goes through the goods in the two wagons, Alyiakal asks various questions:
“Peppercorns in these kegs?”
“Ehrenflower? Is that a perfume?”
“Why shimmersilk scarves, rather than a bolt or half bolt?”
To that question, the trader replies, “Hamorians won’t sell shimmersilk cloth to traders not from Hamor, only finished goods.”
When Alyiakal completes the inspection, he turns and asks, “Is there anything else you should have listed? Have you misstated any of the values?”
“No. After what you said earlier, I would have told you. The values are based on what I paid for them. They may sell for more … hopefully not less.”
Alyiakal can sense the honesty. “Why don’t you join me in the study while I figure the tariff and import fee? That way you can check my mathematics.”
Alyiakal’s words surprise the trader, who pauses, then says, “Thank you. I will.”
The two walk to the study. There, Alyiakal methodically tallies up what is due. Some of the goods are only subject to the one-part-in-twenty import fee, while others have additional tariffs of one part in ten.
In the end, the fees and tariffs total forty-seven golds, by far the greatest amount that Alyiakal has ever collected. Not surprisingly, since only a handful of traders have come through Stonepier over the past two years.
The trader looks over the forms and signs them, and then counts out forty-seven golds. “I won’t say it’s a pleasure, Overcaptain, but it’s been quicker and far less burdensome.”
“I take it you’ll travel by the winding road from Guarstyad to Luuval, or what’s left of it, and then to Fyrad and Geliendra?”
“What else? It takes longer, but no one else is doing it, and we can sell goods along the way. Not as much as in years past.”
“You have quite an array of goods for Luuval.”
“For now, but before the better half of the town was destroyed, the families of many wealthy Merchanters spent the colder seasons there.”
Alyiakal didn’t know that, and while he can sense that the trader’s telling the truth, he has the feeling that the man isn’t telling everything.
“I wish you well.”
“Thank you.”
Even after the gate to the old road is open, and both wagons have passed through, Alyiakal is still considering what he doesn’t know. Are the enumerators in Guarstyad or Fyrad so incompetent or corrupt that it’s worth adding four days’ traveling time? Especially since it’s improbable that Trader Byjaan could possibly sell all the goods in his wagon in Guarstyad or Luuval … or any of the villages or hamlets along the way from there to Fyrad. Whatever those reasons, Alyiakal is certain Byjaan didn’t choose to offload his goods and wagons at Stonepier just to travel the old road to Guarstyad.
He shakes his head and begins to write up the trader’s visit for his eightday report. After finishing, he returns to the post commander’s study, where he locks away the tariff fees. With this amount, he’ll have to dispatch a squad to convey the forms and the golds to the Imperial enumerators in Guarstyad, and they’ll have to leave at first light. The enumerators don’t like being forced to accept the golds in the evening, but they’ll certainly take them. The squad won’t mind it because they’ll get a day’s rest in Guarstyad, and a chance to visit one of the alehouses in the town before returning.
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