“Quite a satisfactory quarter, if not as good as the last.” The remark was made by one leaning back from a desk where neat stacks of documents surrounded a single sheet of paper in the centre. This showed two rows of figures, each summing to a total in bold black ink.

“Indeed. This current quarter also looks to go well. Or would look to do so if the Merllan matter can be resolved.”

“You do know how to dampen the mood,” remarked the first speaker with an ironic twist of the lips. This was acknowledged with an apologetic spread of the hands.

“We cannot just ignore it. They have accepted one delay but will not wear a second. We do not want them coming to collect.”

The first gave a small theatrical shudder. “No, we do not want that. Yet the problem remains. Bank drafts are out of the question, unless you fancy the pillory and a subsequent life in sack-cloth.”

The other glanced down at the velvet of his own gown, dyed in the richest of greens and belted with a cord of golden silk, and then across at the other, resplendent in a dull crimson of the finest wool.

“Specie?” he suggested.

“Ten per cent at least, and a captain and crew we can trust to keep their mouths shut forever,” came the rejoinder. There was a considering silence, ending in frowns and small shakes of the head. One moved papers around on the desk, paused, tapped a fingernail on the polished wood, gnawed on a thumb. The other sat pensive, expressions flickering across his visage as one scheme after another came to mind and was discarded.

Green Gown made a noise, a satisfied quack of the kind a duck might make on finding a large worm. Red Gown was startled from his reverie.

“What?”

“Would they accept something of equivalent value? What about if we offered them that thing. You know, that thing.” Green Gown tilted his head towards a section of wall, apparently blank. “A third use would be stretching Pleriano’s * hand too far, given what happened last time.”

The other grimaced. “Who could have thought those wretched girls could be so ignorant? Or the Guardian Avengers so persistent? Bloody-minded bitches,” he added.

Red Gown gave the proposal serious consideration. “They would probably accept; it’s easily worth the sum and more, and I’m sure it’s something they can use in their affairs. It made us a tidy sum, and they are as capable as we. I’m sure they won’t have any trouble finding ah, disposables. And disposing of them after. How do we get it there?”

“It’s small. We can’t use the Association – a scan would land us in trouble. However, we could send a courier on our own account. They need not even know what they carry – a sealed pouch, a good story, a healthy sea voyage, free trip to exciting foreign parts… who could refuse?”

“Some people have families; some people know of the risks of sea-travel; some people will not go into the Wild.”

Green Gown waved this away. “Young, single, silly… I am sure we can find someone. If I send a message tonight we can have an answer in a week or so.”

Red Gown nodded assent then, covering all the angles, went on “What if our courier meets with misfortune on the way? We would still be liable and it’s not as if we can insure the thing – they would want to look at it, for a start.”

Green Gown turned this over, then brightened. “We include a bill for Mer Ammery. We draw it on, oh, Iron Casket and insure against its loss through the trust.” He added “I hate that smug peacock.”

“And when our messenger does not return?”

Green Gown spread his hands. “We express our sorrow, rue that the world is sometimes dangerous and claim a loss against tax.”

Red Gown smiled. “Can’t lose, can we? I’ll send the message.”

* * * *

Gherrit held a finger on one figure on the page while his other flicked the stones in his counting frame. “Add fourteen thousand three hundred and seven, tulips to beech-marks, rate one point zero four seven, commission three point four,” muttered under his breath. He gave a final flick, tapped the frame, watched the stones change colour as the calculation flooded through, wrote the result down in a neat hand and took up another page. Just another – he gauged the pile with a practiced eye – twenty or so to go and then he could go to lunch. Perhaps he would try that new stall in Tailor’s Lane. Heini said their vegetable soup was good and the bread excellent. As his finger located the relevant figure a cough made him look up. The head clerk, a forbidding figure in fusty brown, seals and stamps heavy at his waist, loomed over the table. Around, Gherrit’s colleagues bent over, eyes averted and industrious at their tasks. No-one wanted to attract Messer Jurd’s attention.

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“Gherrit! You are wanted on the third floor.”

The floor of the partners, the floor of reprimands, fines, dismissals. Rarely, the floor of commendations, more rarely still, promotion or reward. Gherrit did not think he had done anything to deserve punishment. On the other hand, he had also done nothing to deserve reward. As far as he could judge his performance was reliably competent but not outstanding. Messer Jurd had never complimented him, but then Messer Jurd never complimented anyone. Gherrit drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, composed his face to stoic calm and crossed the floor. His path drew a few glances of sympathetic concern, a few of relief. Under Messer Jurd’s stern eye no-one offered a word and the cadence of calculation barely faltered.

Gherrit pushed open the worn wooden door, passed through the antechamber with its rows of tarnished brass coat-hooks and out to the landing of the broad stair. To the right these descended in bare wood to the street, to lunch and the crowded streets of Daruz Alman and his single rented room above the pancake stall. To the left they rose in carpeted luxury to the third floor, the offices of the partners and to his immediate fate. The rent was due in two days and he had enough put by for that. He would have to find a new position quickly if he was to meet the month after, though. Gherrit turned right and climbed the stair, worn shoes soundless on the pile.

He expected to have to wait, brooding over his fate, on one of the hard chairs in the outer office. Instead the dragon who guarded the partners directed him straight into Messer Pranik’s office. Within Messer Pranik indicated a chair in front of his desk, said “Please give me a moment” in a distracted tone and made some notes in tiny writing on the margins of a document. He laid it aside and looked up. This was the one Jurd had recommended as diligent and reliable, if lacking in initiative, and without family or connections. He looked fit enough (no point sending some invalid) and very ordinary. A nondescript face, typical of Daruz Alman in features, hair a bland brown, downcast eyes an ordinary brown, skin tanned from exposure. Really, he looked more like a dockworker than a clerk, thought Pranik with an internal sniff. That might be to advantage. He cleared his throat.

“Gherrit. Thank you for coming up here. Messer Jurd gives good reports of you, and my partner and I are always keen to hear which of our people show promise.” This was news to Gherrit; the partners were more known for parsimony, arbitrary rulings and vindictiveness. He kept his face blank and listened.

Messer Pranik went on. “So when a special and rewarding task came up, we thought of you. But before I outline the task, can I confirm some details?” Gherrit gave a cautious assent.

“I understand you have some Merllan?” Pranik asked.

“Yes. My grandfather was from the Archipelago and I grew up in Dockside, so I can speak it quite well. I can get by in Haghar too, and I have a few words of Brahnak.”

“Very good. This task might take you out of the city for a time? Are there any dependants or family we should look after?”

The question reminded Gherrit that he was now alone in the world. “No, Messer. My parents are dead and I have no siblings, ” he said sadly. Internally Gherrit glumly reflected that he had few friends either. Long hours, low pay and no connections made for a solitary life.

Pranik made appropriate noises and then moved on to business. “We have an unusual situation in regard to one of our Merllan counter-parties, a minor House in Freizeian Canton. They insist that, under Merllan law, certain of our agreements are not valid unless confirmed with physical documents, duly attested and sealed, and then returned with counter-seals witnessed in person. These will be letters of understanding, not letters of credit or anything of value to anyone else. The simplest and least expensive way of meeting these requirements is for us to send someone duly authorised to carry the documents and act as witness. It does of course mean a sea voyage and a short stay in the Archipelago. We would pay the fares and all reasonable expenses, as well as your wage for the period. Messer Jurd vouches for your reliability and good character, you have the language. What say you?”

This was not what Gherrit expected. He looked across at Messer Pranik, sitting there in his fine green gown, his hair in the three braids of a senior merchant, his jowled face set in a questioning frown. Pranik was not known for generosity. He was known to take refusal or even disagreement poorly. If the choice was between a trip abroad and being turned on to the streets without a reference then Gherrit would pack his single bag and walk up the gangway.

“I would be honoured to accept, Messer.” Was that a flicker of relief on Pranik’s countenance? Did he think that Gherrit might refuse?

“Good, good. I expected no less of you,” enthused Pranik. “I expect to have everything ready within a few days, no more than a week. Messer Jurd will keep you informed. And now we both have work to do, no?”

Gherrit could take a hint. He bowed himself out and returned downstairs. Messer Jurd pointed a stern and silent finger at his station and he bent to his figuring. As soon as they reached the street for the short midday meal break Gherrit’s work-mates crowded around. His news caused a puzzled silence, then a flurry of speculation. Might there be other such opportunities coming up? Who would do Gherrit’s work while he was away? Gherrit disengaged himself and walked briskly to Tailor’s Lane. Heini and Fhen came with him but were thankfully silent about the trip. The vegetable soup was good and the bread as promised.

Heini was half way through her bowl when she came back to the topic. She was persistent that way, although mostly tactful. Heini had a long single braid and was a qualified accountant, not just a lowly frame-jockey like Gherrit.

“A free trip? My first thought was that protested bill from Pomos had come over your desk. They’ve bounced that twice and the taker can’t be happy. Then you came back alive and I supposed they must be in a good mood. They just closed out the last of the options on Hirrese silk at a good profit. But a good mood does not get you free trip, not from Pranik it doesn’t.”

“’Cause I speak Merllan? And I am cheaper than a registered courier?”

Heini wrinkled her lips. “Cheaper I can understand. Registered couriers cost but they have weapons and ether-craft and travel in pairs. You have what? A belt-knife and a head for figures.”

“I’m reasonably fit,” protested Gherrit. “I’ve been doing a half-day on the docks every week for these last few months to earn a bit more. That’s hard work.”

Heini looked him over. “I thought you’d lost weight,” she teased. “No, really, you do look in good shape but you are still no venturer.”

Gherrit shrugged. “Messer Pranik said the documents had no value to anyone else. Why spend money if I will do?”

Heini tilted her head. “You could be right. At least this offer has put a sparkle in your eye.” They finished their soup and returned to work.

* * * *

*Pleriano (Plerin, Flerre, Gheshki): a Power called upon to avert bad luck. Theologians are almost certain no such Power exists.