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Official.
“Dia ár sábháil,” Tadhg muttered, then followed it up with the more declarative Saxon, “Fuck me.”
They were heading straight for the port reeve’s office.
Chapter Two
“IT’LL COST YOU A SOU.”
Magdalena tried to stifle the anger that threatened to well up in her chest as the words sunk in. Anger would not serve here. There was nothing to be done but pay the fee. But one did tire of being extorted. By port officials.
She did not even rate the head reeve himself this time. Only his ruddy-faced, fat little assistant, Bayard.
But this…this was too far.
“Twelve deniers?” she repeated, incredulous. A basket of Yuletide greens swung dangerously off her arm. “An entire sou to claim my shipment, in addition to the usual fees?”
He nodded complacently. The package she’d been waiting for was thrust under his arm, a fat little green bundle of decorative buttons to affix to the cloaks she’d just finished stitching, a special and expensive order. If this order was found satisfactory, others might follow. Why, she might be able to heat the house to full warmth. Might be able to keep sewing until her neck ached and her back burned and her fingers tightened into knots from stiffness and pain for years.
She stuffed down the despair that rose inside her and stared at the little pouch under his arm. It was so close she was tempted to snatch it and run.
But then what? One did not just grab and run, no matter how much bribery was required to grease these wheels.
But she was angry.
“That is robbery, sir,” she announced. “You are no better than a brigand on the highway.”
Bayard’s shiny round head turned to her. “I suppose I’m a bit better, as I can hold your shipment until you pay.”
“But I have already paid the custom,” she insisted.
He stuck his pudgy hand under his cloak and extracted a key. “Consider this an additional custom, Mistress Thread. A surcharge, if you will.”
“That was a surcharge,” she said coldly. “Over and above the usual fees. Paid directly to your master.”
He grunted and moved toward the office door. “I collect my own surcharges now.”
The long, wide quay was growing cold as twilight descended. The winter’s su
n had left behind nothing but a weary pink glow on the horizon. There were a few distant calls from the far-off boats, and the creak of rocking wood and thick ropes, but almost everyone had retreated indoors as the sun went down. Along the quay, it was only Magdalena, the port reeve’s assistant, and his extortion of her.
A scuff from behind barely drew her attention as she stepped forward.
“Methinks the mayor would be interested in knowing your practices,” she announced.
Bayard gave a burst of laughter. Likely because the mayor was the most corrupt official in all of salty, seedy Saleté de Mer. If her case weren’t so dire, Magdalena would have been tempted to laugh with him, at the absurd notion that she had any recourse available to her at all.
Still, one must try.
“Or perhaps the guild court?” she said sharply. “Yes, I think I shall visit them first thing in the morning.”
Bayard turned suddenly, the hump of his belly pressing against her as he grabbed her elbow.
“You wish to see the guild about this? I’ve something better for you to see.” He fumbled at his belt, then held up one of several leather pouches that dangled there. He yanked on the string at the top and drew out a little mottled bronze key, and thrust it in front of her nose. “See that?”
“I certainly do, as you are holding it so helpfully close.”
“Then see how helpful you find this, Mistress Thread. That’s the key to the coffer that holds the mayor’s seal. One of those gets affixed when the merchant paid the custom, going out or coming in. If you want your goods, you pay the fee, you get one of these. You don’t, no goods. ”
