Rokka caved in. The dwarf said Urik needed what was in those amphorae, sealed or tainted; he accepted the unsealed amphorae. After the woman’s companions had laid down their burdens, Rokka held up four fingers for salt, then three for the volatile oil.
Pavek considered upright measurement: he was that impressed by the woman’s accomplishment, but he rejected the notion. Rokka’s weights were light. Any honest efforts on his own part would only focus the procurer’s frustration on his own head. And the dwarf was undoubtedly looking for someone to blame.
Keeping his eyes as carefully lowered as the druid woman had kept hers while she wrangled with Rokka, Pavek set two salt pouches on the balance pan. They were a few hairs heavy, not enough for argument. While Pavek sealed one, Rokka reached for the other, presumably to knot the thong. But the procurer was a master in his own right. Pavek, standing at his shoulder, almost missed the glint of gold as Rokka dropped three coins into the pouch before sealing it. Without thinking Pavek shot a glance at the woman. Her look said that she knew about the gold, and that she recognized him. He expected to be denounced on the spot as a dung-skull baazrag, but the moment passed quietly, and he set amber-glass flasks in the balance pan, weighing his perceptions as he weighed the oils.
Pavek had come away from Metica’s chamber convinced that if Rokka wasn’t skimming the zarneeka, the itinerants were: one or the other, not both in collusion. But the itinerants weren’t simple nomadic traders, and Rokka was slipping gold into an already generous ration of salt. Maybe they were working together, playing a dangerous game against Urik?
He pulled his hands back from the scale, allowing the pans to swing free.
If it was a ruse, the whole confrontation had been an elaborate ruse. Pavek didn’t know if dissembling was a common skill among druids, but it wasn’t among dwarves or procurers. When the brown-haired druid threatened to take her zarneeka away with her, Rokka had been mad enough to kill. Then he’d capitulated.
Urik’s inhabitants needed Ral’s Breath, but Rokka wouldn’t give a gith’s thumb for Urik or its inhabitants. Rokka needed zarneeka, and not, Pavek guessed with certainty, for Urik’s sake.
The pans leveled. Pavek sealed the flasks with wax, then pushed them toward the woman without meeting her eyes. He’d gotten two steps toward the lacquered clay jugs lying on the floor when Rokka called him back.
“I’ll handle that, Regulator,” he said, rising too quickly from his chair. “You take my place here.”
It was unheard of: A regulator standing a procurer’s duty, Rokka toting four heavy amphorae on his own broad shoulders.
“Never think of it, great one. It’s not my place.”
“Make it your place and maybe you’ll keep it, Regulator. You’re so good with writing—all that practice. Scribble-scrape. Scribble-scrape. What else you got to show for it? Ink stains on your fingers? Or has our Great and Mighty King promised you a place in the archives—? Scholar Pavek—sweeping bug-dung off the floor.”
As dwarves went, Rokka was soft-muscled. Maybe Pavek could best him hand-to-hand, maybe he’d need a heavy stick. But the risks were unacceptable, and King Hamanu frowned on templars brawling in front of the rabble, and the king’s frowns were often fatal. So, Pavek let the procurer pass. He settled himself on the chair’s leather cushion, still warm and molded to the dwarf’s differently shaped anatomy.
The druid and her companions were already out the door. Pavek called for the next in line. His script was better than Rokka’s, and he was more efficient—dragging the salt-chest up to the table so he could negotiate, sign, measure, and seal, all without standing up. He simplified the negotiations, too: asking each petitioner what he or she was due, then shaping his scarred lips into an impressive snarl until the poor sod lowered the request.
The city’s tax-paying rabble was clever. By the fifth petitioner, the transaction had been completely ritualized and the line moved at unprecedented speed. Every time Pavek spun around to reach into the salt chest, he expected to see Rokka’s bandy legs and wrinkled robe, but the procurer was taking his time.
* * *
In fact, Rokka took the whole afternoon.
The last petitioner was a dark silhouette against a sunset ruddy sky as he departed the customhouse. Pavek blew out the flame beneath the crucible. He waited until the sky was a lurid purple before locking all the chests and dragging them to the nearest