Balen Filet straightened his papers, tapped the edge of the ledger twice on the table, and surveyed the stalls with the mild displeasure of a man who had expected less and found it.
He moved to the first stall along.
“Right. Name, goods, and by whose licence do you trade today.”
“Berrick, sire, every leaf of us. Rodrick stands before you. Goods as plain as the mud on thee boots. Vegetables, sire. And every inch of our licence is valid, by the length of my carrot I swear it.”
Balen’s stylus hovered.
“Berrick. I shall not be recording that as either a unit of measurement or a legal instrument recognised by the House of Coin.” He looked at the vegetables without touching them. “The licence. Not your carrot. The licence.”
Rodrick called behind him. “Marl, we need proof that these roots grew of their own accord and never fell into our hands by no devilish means.” Then, to Balen: “Wicked is the wind that slackens the sails, master.”
Balen did not look up from the ledger.
“I have no interest in your wind, Berrick, devilish or otherwise.”
He tapped the stylus on the page with the patience of a man who had done this in forty markets and expected to do forty more.
“The licence is a document. Parchment. Possibly folded. It will have a seal on it — round, red, the size of a thumbnail — and the date of issue, which if your goods are legitimate will fall within the last quarter.”
He glanced up at Marlin rummaging, then back down.
“I have four more stalls after yours.”
Marlin narrowed her eyes and very slowly handed over the licence.
“We lose a day’s toil every quarter n’all, for the walk,” she rasped.
Balen accepted the licence without acknowledging Marlin directly. He read it. Read it again. Turned it slightly, as if the angle might reveal something criminal.
“Mm.”
He wrote something small in the ledger.
“The licence is in order. Your quantities. I’ll need to see the weights. And I would ask you not to spit within three feet of the ledger, Berrick. This parchment costs more than your cabbages.”
Marlin turned to Rodrick. “I’ll be putting the ‘chokes there now, Rod. Think our master can gauge weight by means of ‘is toes?”
Balen looked up slowly. “Your wife has a quantity of artichokes to declare, I take it.” He kept his eyes on Rodrick. “The weights, if you please.”
Rodrick sent one of his sons for the market scales. Balen was already moving.
The next stall. Balen looked down at what was on it, then up.
“And you are.”
“Sibyl Sudley. Wool-woman, master.”
He wrote without looking up. “Sudley. Wool. Quantity, grade, and origin of fleece, if you please. And the name of the shearer.”
“Half the village’s fleece runs through my hands, sire. Each sheepfolk shears their own — that’s what’s done from here all the way to where you can’t see the lowlands no more. Past Wisbrook Spring, if you know it, sir. Fine waters.”
“I do not know it.” He wrote something, stopped, looked at what he’d written, looked back up. “Each sheepfolk shears their own. That is a number of shearers, Sudley. I will need each name. And each flock’s origin recorded separately by owner, not consolidated under your hand. How many.”
“Well, to start with my family, as there’s nowhere better to start than the loose end of the yarn, as you will know. That’s the Bracks, all of us —”
“The Bracks — you are a Sudley, Sudley?”
“I brought my own name back and I’ll be keepin’ it.”
Their eyes swapped a brief silence. Balen looked down at the ledger, found no column for it, and waited.
“The day there was a Brack without a flock, well, it wouldn’t go, would it? So that’s Bermrose, Coot, Evis — that’s with one ‘s‘, sire — and all have no less than two childs. I have them listed on my register, sire. Starting with those who are not my kin now, sire, well, I’ll go east to west by their homes, for smoothness…”
The stylus had not moved for some time.
“Sudley. The register. Your register. Give it me.”
“The register, sire?”
A pause.
“I’m their teacher, sir. There’s none that can card who can’t untangle a spelling, if I’ll be anything to do with it.”
Balen looked at Sibyl for a long moment.
“You are their teacher.” He wrote nothing. “And the register is — ” He already knew the answer. ” — in your head.”
“Nowt to hide from the House, sire. Say the word and I can lead you to each flock also.”
He wrote something in the ledger. Stopped. Looked at what he’d written. Closed it. Opened it again.
“That will not be necessary, Sudley.”
He moved on slightly too quickly. Sibyl watched him go.
“May the coin spin long then, Balen — sir.”
A long pause, during which he appeared to be deciding something. He decided nothing, turned back, and kept walking.
The next stall. He was starting shorter now.
“Name and goods.”
“Osric Pell. Eggs.”
“Pell. Eggs.” He looked at the eggs. Looked at Osric. “How many.”
“Three… four… twenty five per basket. If a basket’s not full just ask and I’ll tell you how many I sold.”
“How many baskets.”
Osric’s face remained completely immobile. Then, with an arthritic turn of attention, he twisted his head to each basket pointedly.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Sir.”
Balen wrote down four without expression. “And the sum of your unsold stock at present. In eggs, Pell. Not baskets.”
“Three are full. As I say, they fit a full twenty and five more. One is empty. The last — I sold six to Marlin, a dozen to the bakery, and the odd one or two to passing childs for their goodmothers. That leaves —” Osric looks down to stare at the basket full on. “— one in that basket.”
Balen looked at the single egg. Looked at Osric. Looked back at the egg.
Osric frowned. “Is that too many?”
A pause.
“The children, Pell. How many children, and how many eggs, precisely.”
“Are you asking how many eggs —” a long pause, tongue motionless and slightly protruding ” — or who’ll eat ’em?”
“The eggs, Pell. Just the eggs.”
Osric shook his head, creakingly. “Then no.”
Balen wrote something. Stopped. Looked at what he’d written. Crossed it out. Closed the ledger briefly, opened it again.
“Pell. Approximately how many.”
“‘Ow many, sire?”
Balen Filet, representative of the House of Coin, inspector of markets, keeper of the ledger, looked at the one remaining egg.
“I shall record it as miscellaneous.”
He moved on.
“No — it’s duck.”
He stopped walking. Did not turn around. Turned around.
“The egg, Pell, is duck?” He looked at it. Looked at Osric. “Duck eggs are a separate line in the ledger. Are any of the others duck?”
“Yes.”
“How many.”
“Well, as many as there are, there be.”
Balen Filet closed the ledger. Tucked it under his arm. Looked at Osric Pell for a long moment.
“Good day, Pell.”
He walked away with the careful dignity of a man who had decided that some eggs were simply beyond the jurisdiction of the House of Coin.
Three stalls back, Marlin had heard Osric mutter to nobody in particular: “‘Ow many is too many anyway. Ducks don’t know.”
She said nothing. But her shoulders moved once.