Roo held it close to his chest and hunched over in an attempt to keep it as dry as possible as he ran to the back of the wagon. He pushed it under the tarp and then loosened the two end tie-downs. Holding the canvas up with one hand, he climbed awkwardly into the back of the wagon, making sure he didn’t touch the precious silk. He motioned to the nearest porter and said, “Climb up here, but be cautious you touch nothing. Get any mud on this cloth and you’ll be discharged without pay.”
The porter knew from the exchange in the hall that this boy knew a thing or two and that one of the Porters’ Guild’s reasons for existing was for goods to be carried without damage, so he was cautious enough to be almost slow in getting up next to Roo.
“Hold the canvas so it keeps this dry,” Roo said, pointing at the silk. Roo tried to examine the balance of the cargo, which was difficult in the dim afternoon light of this heavy storm. After a moment, he was convinced it could withstand a little water. He unfolded the table cloth and made sure that only the clean side, not the mud from his tunic that had gotten on it, touched the silk. It took him nearly ten minutes to get the entire bundle covered and turned over and covered again by the large linen cloth, but when it was as protected as it was going to be, he said, “Now untie the rest of the tie-downs.”
The other porters hurried to obey, and when the job was done, he said, “Wrap this canvas around the bundle.”
Two porters jumped into the wagon and did as instructed, while Roo jumped down and started across the street. “Bring it here!” he shouted to the porters, urging them to move as quickly as possible.
He reached the door of the abandoned building and saw that there was a small, decorative lock on the door. He inspected and then rattled it. With no idea how to pick such a lock, he sighed, raised his boot, and kicked as hard as he could. The lock remained intact, but the small hasp’s four screws pulled from the wood as the door swung inward.
Roo stepped inside the abandoned house. The faded grandeur of the entrance was nothing short of spectacular to Roo. A large staircase wound up from the hallway to a railed landing on the second floor, and from the vaulted ceiling of the entranceway a large crystal chandelier hung, dust dimming whatever sparkle the faint afternoon light might have imparted.
The sound of the porters coming up behind him caused Roo to forgo exploring the upper hall for a moment as he crossed the entranceway and opened a large sliding door. A formal sitting room, devoid of furnishings, lay below the balcony. But it was dry, as both large windows on the opposite wall were intact.
Roo told the porters, “Bring that in here, and put it against this wall.” He indicated the farthest wall from the windows, just in case someone managed to break one of them. Salvaging this silk would be worth something to him only if he kept it undamaged. The porters put the bundle of cloth down and Roo said, “Get the rest of the cargo and haul it over here.”
It took the eight men less than a half hour to unload the wagon. Roo had opened the wallet and found the inventory list, as he had expected, but with one significant difference: there was no bill of lading for the bolts of silk. Each of the boxes bore a customs stamp and had a corresponding paper also bearing a stamp and signature. But as far as the Royal Customs were concerned, that silk did not exist.
Roo considered this, and after the last load was brought into the building, he had the workers pick up the silk again and move it to another room, a small storage closet under the stairs, next to an old metal pail and dried-out mop.
He led the men back outside and secured the door by pushing the hasp screws back into the stripped-out holes in the wood. There was no security in it, but any casual passerby might think the lock still intact.
By then Jason had returned with a sausage maker and a half-dozen apprentices and workers, as unsavory a band as Roo had seen this side of the war in Novindus. Leading the porters over to where Jason stood, now as drenched as Roo was, he said,’ ‘Remember to tell me where you got this crew so I never buy sausage there.”
Jason made a face. “One step inside his shop would do it.” He watched in revulsion as they set to the horse with large knives. “I may never eat a sausage again, even if it’s from the King’s own table.”
Horses, dogs, and other animals died in the streets of Krondor often enough that the bloody spectacle of the sausage makers cutting up the horse did little but cause a few passersby to look twice, but it would have been a major embarrassment for Barret’s to have its customers have to move around a dead animal to enter or exit. Over his shoulder, the sausage maker shouted, “Do you want the hooves, skin, and bones?”
“Take it all,” said Roo as the lead porter came up to tap him on the shoulder.
“You owe us eight sovereigns,” said the porter.
Roo knew better than to argue price. The guild official working behind the desk might try to net a little extra gold out of him, but this worker would be quoting guild rates and no merchant in the Kingdom would get the guild to come down a copper piece from those rates.
Roo said, “Not quite yet.”
He motioned for the porters to follow him back to the wagon. “Pull this out and get it to that courtyard behind the building where we put the cargo.”