The sturdily built Varlish trader took his money, counting it slowly before placing each coin, one at a time, in a large box on his desk. He made no attempt at conversation. Once he had finished counting he scrawled a signature at the bottom of a check list and handed it to Kaelin. The young Rigante scanned the document.
‘It says here fifteen sacks of salt,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Only fourteen were loaded.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘Then let us count them,’ said Kaelin.
‘Fifteen were counted out of the storehouse. If one has been lost that’s not my problem. Perhaps one of the workers stole one.’
‘If that is what happened then it was one of your workers, and that makes the loss your responsibility. That is the law.’
‘Don’t preach Varlish law to me!’ roared the man, rising from his chair, his face reddening. ‘I’ll not take that from a Kilt.’
‘Fetch another sack of salt,’ said Kaelin.
‘Or what?’ Grassman was a big man in his late thirties, with massive shoulders and a spreading gut.
Kaelin looked around at the office. ‘In the south,’ he said, keeping his voice even, ‘all the warehouses are built of stone. This one is timber. I hope your fortune is not entirely held in such a building.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘A fire in such a place would be hard to extinguish. A man could be left penniless.’
The trader blinked. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘A Kilt threaten a Varlish? How foolish would that be? I am merely pointing out the dangers of having a wooden warehouse. A lantern falling from its bracket, a lightning strike, a disgruntled customer. So many perils.’
‘You are threatening me. By the Sacrifice, I’ll have you thrown into gaol.’
‘And all my men? My but that will make for an interesting trial,’ said Kaelin. ‘Perhaps you will then round up all the Kilts of Black Mountain who know me. And while we sit in the barracks jail, eating the Moidart’s food, you can stand in the ashes of your life, among the blackened timbers.’ He stepped close to the astonished man and smiled. ‘Now fetch me my salt, or refund the price, you gutless sack of horse shit!’
For a moment it seemed the man might strike him, but then he just sagged into his chair, reached into the money box and counted out five daens. ‘Take it and be damned to you,’ he said. ‘And from now on you can trade elsewhere.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Kaelin. ‘I’ll come here. At least until another trader arrives.’
Kaelin left the warehouse and climbed to the wagon. Flicking the reins he moved out onto the main street and down to the barracks. Jaim had advised him to pay his respects to the colonel. ‘I have no respect for beetlebacks,’ Kaelin had objected.
‘Then have respect for intelligence,’ snapped Jaim. ‘You don’t have to kiss the man’s boots, but it makes sense to keep him on amicable terms. You might need a friend among the beetlebacks one day.’
‘When did you ever pay your respects to a beetleback?’ argued Kaelin.
‘I’m not running Maev’s enterprise. I’m not the highlander who shot a pistol in front of a crowd of onlookers. You are right, though, Ravenheart, offering such advice does stick in my craw. Yet it is still good advice.’
Kaelin had to admit that it made sense, though it was still needling him as he drove the wagon across the lowered drawbridge. Two beetlebacks bearing muskets stepped out to block his way.
‘What is your business?’ asked the first.
‘I have come to see the colonel,’ he told them, ‘to … pay my respects.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘An appointment? No. Where do I go to make one?’
‘Leave the wagon here and walk to the keep. See the clerk at the duty desk.’
Kaelin drew the wagon to the left and applied the foot brake. Then he climbed down. ‘You can leave that hunting knife here as well,’ said the guard. Kaelin drew it and tossed it to the driver’s seat.
He strolled to the keep, and in through a massive door, studded with iron. A clerk was sitting at a desk, scribbling on parchment with a long quill pen. The man glanced up. ‘Yes?’