AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Pretending to accept the answer at face value, I jot down a few more notes and then return the ledger to its place.
“Thank you so much for your help,” I tell the manager. “Would it be a problem for me to take a quick look around this end of the quarry? I promise I’ll take care not to fall in.”
It’s not much of a joke, but it gets me a chuckle out of Nomar. He waves me out. “Take your time. I don’t know how interesting it’ll be for a scholarly type, but we’re proud of the work we do.”
Outside, I wander around the side of the building where I saw the wagons. A couple of men are hauling sacks that are presumably full of the clay base onto one of the smaller vehicles.
I amble over to them, my mouth going dry as I scramble to think of how to approach a conversation. I didn’t see enough reason for suspicion at any of the other quarries to feel the need to chat with the lower-level workers.
Why would manual laborers want to reveal anything to a privileged scholar from the capital city?
My thoughts trip back to the moment when Ivy presented me with that very provocative book of poetry—to her embarrassed remarks when I told her what it was. Her fear that I’d think she was stupid for making an overture to a noble.
But I assured her that I wasn’t a noble in the first place.
I’m not, after all. I’m the son and grandson and great-grandson of merchants.
I might not have any idea what it’s like to make a living digging minerals out of the earth and loading them into wagons, but I know a fair bit about goods and customers, production and distribution.
I do my best to loosen my posture as I come around the wagon, letting go of my meticulous academic airs. One of the men heaves the last sack into the back of the wagon and wipes his hands on a rag, peering at me.
With the sort of wry grin I saw my brothers often make when they spoke with the smiths my family employed, I pat the side of the wagon. “Another load about to go out? I hope it’s a customer who gives more compliments than complaints.”
The other man snorts. “Oh, they all find something to complain about now and then. This one’s not so bad.” He lifts his chin toward me. “You have some business here?”
I make a flippant gesture with my hand. “I’m just learning about the clay business—finding out how it’s changed over the years, what goes into it, that sort of thing. You do important work. It should be recognized. And I know dealing with the clients is probably the hardest part of the job, not hauling the materials around.”
The first man lets out a wary chuckle. “You’re not wrong about that. Do you have clients to deal with too?” He takes in my fine clothes with obvious skepticism.
“Not recently,” I admit. “But I grew up in a family of weapons merchants. Never heard my dad curse so much as when a customer came to him asking him to replace half the merchandise because the shine wasn’t quite right on the steel or some other absurd excuse.”
To my relief, it seems as if my gambit is working. The worker’s stance relaxes a little as he gives a more open laugh. “There are always a few with bizarre requests like that. We had someone last week try to return an entire shipment because they found a pebble in one of the bags. And then there’s the client who’s so concerned about keeping the purchases quiet that—”
His colleague cuts in with an urgent sound. “Jevam, that’s enough.”
Jevam shuts his mouth with an abashed expression that only fans the flames of my curiosity.
Someone buying the clay who’s being secretive about it? That sounds like exactly a subject I should pursue.
I let out a guffaw as if I’m not taking any of it too seriously. “I wouldn’t have thought clay would be a product requiring much secrecy.”
The second man waves off my statement. “It’s not. He’s just exaggerating.” He narrows his eyes at Jevam. “We should get back to work. I’ll bring the horses around.”
He stalks off toward another building that must be the stable. When he’s disappeared into the building, I raise my eyebrows at Jevam. “Seems like he’s all about keeping things quiet too.”
Either I’m not being convincingly uninvested about the topic or his colleague’s admonishment has really gotten to him. Jevam simply shrugs. “Not much to tell about it anyway.”
I can’t let this opening go. I grope for the right way to loosen his lips. “A case like that could give me a new understanding of the trade. That’s the whole reason I’m coming out to talk to people like you.”
In an instant, I realize I’ve made a misstep. I’ve separated us into people like me and people like him.
Jevam’s mouth tightens, and he glances away. “Like I said, there isn’t much to tell.”
Maybe if I show I can relate to his situation, that’ll smooth over my stumble? “You can probably imagine we had a lot of hush-hush dealings in the weapons business. I don’t know how many times we supplied someone and then the next day armed whoever our first customer was going to go up against.” I raise my hands in the air. “That’s business for you.”
“Yeah,” Jevam mutters. “It doesn’t make much sense to me when it’s just clay.”
But then he clams up again. He rubs the back of his hand, pushing up the loose sleeve of his shirt from his wrist, and I notice a ruddy, almost scaly patch of skin there. The thin cracks rippling through it shine an angry pink.
