during the past three months, the prices rising in direct proportion. It was a simple economic law, Pooris knew, that when demand outstripped supply prices would take off like startled pigeons.
The young cleric returned, and looked surprised to see Pooris sitting at his desk. ‘Is there anything I can help you with, councillor?’ he asked. Pooris glanced up, and saw the nervousness in the man.
‘I was just studying the shipments,’ he said. ‘We are fast approaching famine status.’
‘I’m sure the Duke will think of something, sir,’ said the young man, relaxing. ‘May I offer you another mug of tisane?’
‘No, I must be going.’ Once more they shook hands. ‘What is your name?’
‘Cellis, sir.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Cellis.’
Pooris wandered along Warehouse Street, cutting through the narrow alleyways to the central avenue and thence to the palace. Ensconced in his own small office, he called in Niro, a spider-thin cleric with close-cropped, spiky black hair. ‘What do you know of the man, Cellis, who works at the warehouse guard gate?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, sir. But I shall find out,’ Niro answered.
‘Do it now, as a matter of urgency,’ said Pooris, removing his coat and hanging it on a hook set in the wall. For just over an hour Pooris worked through the tasks he had set himself for the day, compiling a list of armourers, and the various orders for swords, spears, crossbow bolts and armour placed with them, along with the delivery dates promised. He was almost finished when Niro returned.
‘I have some of the information you require, sir,’ he said. ‘Cellis has been working for us for two years. His
father was a cobbler in the Southern Quarter, his mother a seamstress. He was educated by the Aver monks and passed his examinations with honours. He is not married, and lives in a hill house in Quarter Street. Was there more you wished to know, sir?’
‘A cobbler, you say?’
‘His father . . . yes.’
‘Does he own the house?’
‘I … I don’t know, sir.’
‘Find out.’
Once again Pooris returned to his work. He called in a cleric and dictated several letters, including one to Lunder asking why the number of flour wagons had been fewer than expected.
When Niro returned just before noon, he looked cold and his lips were blue. ‘Sit you down, man,’ said Pooris. Niro rubbed his thin hands together. Moving to the small stove, Pooris flicked open the door, allowing a rush of heat into the room.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Niro. ‘Yes, he does own the house. He bought it four months ago for two hundred gold. It is a fine house, with stables in the rear and an apple orchard.’
‘How did a cobbler’s son raise the capital necessary?’
‘I thought you’d ask that, sir; that’s why it took me so long. He borrowed the money from . . .’
‘.. . the merchant Lunder,’ finished Pooris.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Niro, surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘Cellis wears a gold ring, set with an emerald the size of my thumbnail. No cleric could afford such a bauble. Go to the Hall of Records and find out how many warehouses Lunder owns or rents. Do it slyly, Niro. I want no-one to know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Pooris shut the stove door, put on coat and gloves and left the building, trudging through the snow towards the southern gate. A quarter-mile from the gate, he stopped at a row of terraced houses. They housed retired soldiers and their wives, and were a gift from the Duke – a reward for loyal service. Moving to the first he rapped on the door. There was no answer, and he walked to the second. When he knocked, an elderly woman called out from within, ‘Who is it? What do you want?’
‘I am the councillor, Pooris,’ he told her. ‘I would appreciate a moment of your time, lady.’
He heard the bolts being drawn back, then the door groaned inward. Stepping inside he bowed to the frail, white-haired old woman. ‘They said I could stay here till I was dead,’ said the woman. ‘Said it was my right. I won’t live in no poorhouse. I’ll kill myself first.’