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As I reach the door, I give my hands a furtive wipe against my trousers, drying the sweat that isn’t only because of the day’s heat. My heart is still thumping twice as fast as it ought to.
I have no idea how Ivy manages to stay so cool under pressure, dealing with the unnerving trials the conspirators have forced on her. I’m nervous enough just having a chat with a quarry manager.
But maybe if I can handle this conversation well, she won’t have to endure any more of those trials. The evidence of the scourge sorcerers’ ultimate plans could be right here.
I knock on the door. After a moment, a burly man with a face nearly as ruddy as his clay opens it. His expression flickers between respect for my refined clothes, wariness at the sight of my mask, and a general air of confusion.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your work,” I say quickly but smoothly, willing any sign of my nerves out of my voice. “I’m Aleksi Antoniek of Dovia, a scholar from Sovereign College, and I’m conducting a study of mining activities in Silana now compared to under Darium rule. I’d simply like to ask a few questions and take a quick look around—I won’t interfere. I have a letter from my supervising professor if you’d like confirmation.”
I fish out the small scroll and hold it out to the man. He takes it and scans the contents.
His gaze sweeps over me again, and my skin itches with the sense that he’s assessing me as not much of a threat. He rubs his jaw, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “Our operation could be part of a royal study? That’s pretty impressive. Come on in. I can give you a few minutes.”
He motions for me to follow him into the building. Just beyond a small fore-room, he steps into a large office with a boxy wooden desk. The papers scattering its surface in apparent disarray have my fingers curling against the urge to straighten them out.
The rest of the space is filled by several shelves of paper records, a few books, and various odds and ends that I can now recognize are parts of mining equipment. Probably saved as mementos to mark significant milestones of the business.
There’s only one chair, behind the desk, where the burly man promptly sits. Even though he’s now much lower than me, he gazes up at me with an imperious air. “My name is Nomar Pavelek, and I’m the manager of the Earthshine Quarry. Worked here for nearly three decades now, manager for two of those. What do you need to know?”
“I’d love to take a look at a few months of sales records to get an idea of where most of your materials end up,” I say, with not a little relief at the idea of being able to dive into written accounts rather than trying to cajole information out of a person. “And it’d be helpful to know if there have been any particularly notable transactions or incidents during your time here.”
Like, say, a new client suddenly demanding huge amounts of clay materials for some mysterious business they haven’t clarified.
I can’t say that last part out loud without potentially raising his suspicions, though.
Nomar leans back in his chair, his eyes going distant. After several seconds, he shakes his head. “I can’t think of any ‘incidents’ that’d be of scholarly interest. It’s a pretty steady business, not much in the way of dramatics. But I don’t mind you taking a look at our books. We don’t keep sensitive information in the ledgers, only names and amounts.”
I offer an ingratiating smile. “That’s all I’d need.”
The manager propels himself out of his chair again and strides across the room. He pulls a sheaf of loose papers off one of the shelves and hands it to me. “That covers the first three months of this year. I’d prefer it stayed in this room.”
“That’s totally fine,” I assure him. “I’ll look through it and take whatever notes I need to right here.”
I retrieve a paper, a small quill, and a tiny pot of ink from my carry pouch to look appropriately scholarly and sit on the floor with my back against the wall as if it wouldn’t have occurred to me that I’d need a desk. Nomar goes back to whatever work he was taking care of in his own seat, shooting occasional evaluating glances my way.
Unfortunately, for all my hopes, the ledger papers don’t reveal anything particularly enlightening. There are regular shipments of various amounts to the craftsmen’s guilds in a few different cities, to a couple of townships presumably for building materials, and to an assortment of smaller clients.
Nothing jumps out at me as reason for concern, although I jot down all the names to look into later. But as I tabulate the figures in my head, my forehead furrows.
I wouldn’t call myself an expert after seeing a grand total of three previous quarries, but I’ve noted certain patterns. This particular operation—the size of the building, the number of vehicles, and the sprawl of the quarry itself—gave the impression of being larger than the other three.
And yet it appears they’ve been sending out significantly less clay than those others, at least in the past few months. Strange.
I look up from my reading. “Would it be possible for me to examine a ledger from, say, ten years ago?”
Am I being paranoid, or does the manager hesitate for a second before answering. “I don’t see why not. Let me find it…”
He skims through the records and offers me another sheaf after I return the first to him. When I scan the new set of figures, certainty congeals in my gut.
There are several substantial clients listed here who were no longer receiving shipments in the more recent records. Some of them might no longer have any need for clay… but a few I recognize from the list of current clients at the other quarries I visited.
“It appears you’ve lost a number of customers in the past decade,” I say in an off-hand tone.
I’m almost certain Nomar’s posture goes a tad rigid at the remark. “Oh, our production has slowed a little over the past several years. And tastes change no matter how good our product is.”
I suppose that could be the true explanation. I don’t know how to prove itisn’tby talking to this man. He’s obviously not going to appreciate me accusing him of lying.
The scourge sorcerers have proven incredibly adept at hiding all evidence of their activities—even the sacrificial accomplices they’ve mutilated to bolster their magic. I have to handle my investigation with all due care, or a lead could slip right through my fingers.
