Wilm Garside’s Guessing Slate

The bell for the Foundry’s link had barely stopped when House Sec’s own glass flared, seventeen seconds behind it, and the lamp-floor at Hollin Scar gave a ragged laugh at the luck of it. Hale Corrigan didn’t laugh. Five links this Book, and every one felt borrowed.

He went down to the loading tally to see what they’d carried. Not much: the gates were thin today, and passage had crept to a drop and a bit a span, which counted as dear for a quiet afternoon. Four great bands in grey had taken most of the room, cloaks alike, so the manifest read like a hymn with one word.

The clerk, Wilm Garside, had a slate under his elbow. On it, in neat chalk, he had drawn arrows between the bands, guessing who handed what to whom by height, by limp, by which gate each band had queued at.

“There are men in Copperhythe who’d pay for a good guess,” Wilm said, not quite looking up. “We wouldn’t be naming anyone. Only guessing.”

Hale turned the slate in his hands. Oil from one link would barely buy the chalk. A guess sold twice became a name.

“We carry,” he said. “We don’t sort.” He wiped the slate with his wet sleeve, arrows and all, and handed it back blank. Then he docked Wilm a day’s oil, so the lesson would cost something in the Lit Lands’ own coin.