Gerren zu Holdorn folded the market slip once, then again, and tucked it into his sleeve. He could not hide the complications of his birth. While his merchant's charter was indeed stamped by a neighboring domain, his given name had been stamped on it as well. Technically, he was a merchant from Pharae, but in Bren he was treated like a spy regardless. The zu Holdorn name had already marked him as a threat the moment the guards inspected his entry papers at the gates.
Gerren was directed to the registration office nearest to Bren's southern gate.
"Next!" a clerk behind a wooden desk shouted.
Gerren stepped forward and walked toward the counter.
"Merchant's charter, please."
Gerren handed over the papers and the registration fee, which was two vatts.
The scribe looked at the seal first. He nodded once, then again, tracing the lines with his quill.
Then his eyes dropped lower.
"Zu Holdorn, huh?" The clerk looked up, eyeing him with slight apprehension.
Gerren said nothing.
The scribe set the paper aside instead of stamping it back. "Wait a moment."
Gerren saw ten different stamps on the desk. To him, they all looked the same. The scribe copied the details of his merchant's charter. He grabbed a stamp, dipped it in ink, and pressed it onto the bottom right corner of a new form where a blank box sat.
Gerren noticed that the clerk wasn't writing on blank parchment. While this same process existed in other cities, the form here was pre-printed. The text looked perfectly uniform, with little to no shift in the ink. The clerk didn't need to copy everything—just the vital details. Gerren watched the man tick a box under the words charter type. The meanings weren't written out, but the clerk ticked the bottommost one, then placed the paper on a shorter stack.
Gerren thought about how many clerks Castle Blackfyre had to employ to process things this way. Then again, he had been briefed that Bren possessed a contraption that made copying handwritten things faster. He just didn't understand how those neat, uniform letters could be achieved without massive amounts of labor.
A worker approached the desk. The clerk stopped to address the newcomer.
"Okay, you're going to get the press copies, right? You look new."
The messenger nodded earnestly. He was quite young. In Gerren's estimation, he looked about eight or ten years old.
"That stack," the clerk said, pointing to the taller batch of papers. "You should do three copies."
"This one should have five copies," the clerk added, gesturing to the shorter stack. "Make sure you tell the runner to send a copy to the Keeper of the Peace after it gets pressed, alright?"
"Yes, I will, Master Clerk." The child nodded, scooped up both stacks, and left.
This left a particular impression on Gerren. The boy handling the papers didn't seem to be Kanzlei. He wore plainer clothes and lacked the usual arrogant air. Normally, the Kanzlei gave apprenticeship duties only to their own sons to acquaint them with paper handling.
Gerren watched the child disappear through a doorway.
"Sit and wait there, please," the scribe said, pointing to an empty row of benches.
Gerren waited. After a while, a different clerk in different robes approached him.
"Hello, Master Gerren." The scribe dipped his head and passed a stack of papers over. "These will be your papers of identification for the rest of your stay in Bren."
Gerren took them. The sheets were stiff.
"If you are just transient, you do not need to renew this for up to two weeks," the clerk said, tapping the lower corner with one finger. "If you stay on a more permanent basis, we will issue you a different set of identification papers. Those will carry a more permanent standing."
Gerren frowned, but nodded and turned the top sheet over. This was more procedure than he was used to, even in Holdorn.
"With your current identification level, you will be unable to enter the inner ring," the clerk added. His finger moved to a small mark near the middle of the page.
Gerren's eyes dropped to the mark.
"Also," the clerk said, folding his hands, "you will need to present these to the innkeepers if you want to spend a night inside Bren."
Gerren didn't say a word as he browsed through the papers. There didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary—just a slightly different stamp in the middle.
"Thank you for waiting, Master Gerren. If everything is in order, I will escort you outside. I hope you have a pleasant stay in Bren."
Gerren was led outside by the clerk, where two guards met him. They did nothing but look at him, but from that moment on, Gerren felt he was being watched.
The first thing Gerren did was head for the nearest merchant district. The closest one lay near the southern gate.
A herald stood on the low stone lip of a square well. He held a stiff wooden board. A pressed sheet of paper was pinned to the wood. He took a deep breath to project his voice over the crowd.
Gerren eyed the board with interest. In Holdorn, heralds usually brought rolled scrolls. That clearly wasn't the case in Bren.
"By order of Castle Blackfyre," the herald shouted. "Copy requests shall be processed in the district office located in each of the administrative sections."
The herald paused, lightly glancing at the board to jog his memory.
"Merchants seeking arithmetic lessons shall register before second bell."
A few merchants in the crowd stopped to listen with interest. Gerren was among them, while others went about their business, having already heard the news.
"Those requesting books are to bring paper according to number," the herald continued, raising his voice again. "Castle Blackfyre says that those who bring their own paper will have their requests prioritized."
Gerren watched for anything out of the ordinary. He counted how many heralds were walking out of the inner ring. He tracked how many messengers were running to and from the administrative buildings. He opened his wax tablet and quietly logged the counts.
He already had allies inside the city, but he had been strictly ordered not to contact them unless absolutely necessary. There had already been instances of factors from Loria being caught and expelled. For now, his cover was good. He had what Bren needed most: paper. Loria had sequestered several deliveries bound for Bren and repurposed them for his cargo.
His identification papers labeled him a merchant from Pharae selling assorted goods, mostly paper. While the guards eyed him with suspicion, his cargo at least guaranteed his welcome.
Gerren had been sent here to establish an information network. Once they had someone in their pocket, everything else became easy. But a merchant from Loria randomly talking to citizens would draw suspicion. He needed a contact that prying eyes would ignore.
He watched heavy carts being delivered to specific sections of the outer district. Tracking their routes, he followed them. A section of the outer ring had been walled off. The barrier wasn't thick, but it was enough to funnel people toward a single gatehouse.
Before he could enter, a guard stepped into his path.
"Papers," asked a clerk, flanked by two guards. The guards were not trueborn, but commoner men-at-arms.
Gerren handed his sheets to the clerk.
The clerk frowned. "Master Gerren, I am afraid your papers do not permit you entry to the smithing district. It says here you are a paper merchant."
"Yes, but I wanted to do business with the smiths of Bren. I heard they were offering respectably priced iron."
The clerk smiled. "Ahh, very well, Master Gerren. You have heard true." he nodded, "however, I am still unable to clear you for entry. If you want, you may appeal to the registration office. They would be happy to assist you if they know you would like to purchase steel."
"I just saw someone get inside," Gerren pressed. "He was a merchant as well. Why did you allow him entry and not me?"
"Ahh, forgive me, Master Gerren. I am unable answer that." the clerk chuckled, "You had best take it up with the registration office. They may clear any misunderstandings you have."
Gerren considered making a scene for a beat, but decided against it. It would be stupid. He didn't protest further, simply turning and walking away.
"Very well, I will take it up with the office," he said. He didn't mean it. He knew exactly what would happen if he filed an appeal. He wouldn't be considered, his entry papers would likely be revoked, and he would be politely asked to leave Bren within the week.
He stayed back a few moments to observe the gatehouse. There were two queues: one for merchants, one for residents. The residents just came and went with a flash of their papers.
He clicked his tongue.
With the clothes he was wearing, it was obvious he wasn't a resident. While he could theoretically change clothes and try his luck sneaking inside, it was too risky. His pre-mission reports warned that Bren citizens frequently reported suspicious individuals. During the spy purge two years ago, the Castle had issued bounties for verified reports.
Bren was large, but he could easily be caught if he said the wrong words—like claiming to live in a district where no one could vouch for him. His cover would blow instantly.
He clicked his tongue again and decided to call it a day. His wagons were already secured by his stewards, but he still needed to find the inn where he was supposed to stay.
With his current credentials, he was barred from the inner ring, where the more expensive and secure inns were located. As he walked down the street, he caught the eye of a curious child tilting his head.
Gerren paid him no mind at first, but the child's eyes kept tracking him.
As far as Gerren knew, he hadn't done anything suspicious, but the child traced his movements no matter where he stepped.
Annoyed, he walked over to the boy. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"You're not from Bren," the child said.
Gerren, taken aback, stopped for a moment before nodding. "What of it?"
It wasn't exactly a secret. His clothes made it obvious.
"You're from Loria," the child said.
Gerren's eyes narrowed. The administration knew his birth origins, but this street child shouldn't have.
"I am a merchant from Pharae," Gerren corrected him smoothly, though the boy's confidence made him uneasy. In Loria, he would have simply slapped the child for his insolence. In Bren, as a scrutinized foreigner, that could backfire instantly.
"My name is Demis," the child introduced himself. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
"What?"
"I've seen your sort. I saw a man get thrown out of Bren," Demis continued. "I heard in other cities they just behead them. Is that true in Loria, Master Merchant?"
Demis's innocent-looking eyes pierced right through him.
"Again, I am a merchant from Pharae." Gerren's gaze sharpened with sudden intensity. Even he didn't fully understand what he was trying to prove to the boy.
"See?" Demis sniffed again. "That thing you do with your 'o' and your 'a'—you kind of mix them together."
Gerren scrunched his brows. He decided to ask a question, instead of insisting his innocence . "Are you from Bren, then?"
Demis looked away, acting as if he'd lost interest in the conversation. But he still replied. "Yes, but I don't know, really. I'm an orphan. I got here with a merchant caravan when I was smaller."
Demis kicked a stone into the gutter and watched it rattle against the curb.
"Also, Master Merchant," Demis said, looking back up. "I can tell you for sure how they know you're from Loria. I can prove it if you want."
"What?"
"You have those papers with you, right?" Demis asked gleefully. His eyes dropped to Gerren's sleeve.
"Yes. How do you know this, boy?" Gerren asked, his tone turning stern.
"Demis. It's Demis, not boy. I'm gonna leave now. I don't like your tone, and I don't like being hit." Demis turned to walk away, but Gerren quickly stopped him.
"Stop."
Demis, slightly startled by the sharp command, halted and tilted his head. "Why?"
Gerren quickly calculated his options. "I will pay you if you tell me."
Demis paused. A slow smile spread across his dirty face. "You really will, Master Merchant?"
Gerren paused for a beat. He made his decision. "Yes, I will. I will give you one vatt because I am generous." He forced a smile.
"I don't know, Master Merchant..." Demis rocked back on his heels. "I think you will just beat me after. Best to just go."
He turned his back again.
"I will give you two vatts and my word."
Demis tilted his head, considering it. "You can say that now. Means nothing after." He started to walk away again.
"How about I give you one vatt now, and the other after you tell me?" Gerren offered.
"You'll just beat me afterward." Demis shook his head.
Gerren was at a loss.
But then Demis turned back, looking contemplative. "Master Merchant, I think I got a way to make sure you won't beat me."
Gerren's ears perked up. "Oh?"
"I have a friend named Cerulle. You can give him the money, then I tell you." Demis sniffed.
"This Cerulle, where is he?" Gerren asked. "Lead the way."
Demis nodded. "They're in the merchant district nearby."
Gerren followed the boy. He stayed cautious, knowing Demis could be bait leading him into an alleyway trap. If they took a turn into a deserted street, Gerren planned to stop.
But they didn't. The street remained busy. Hawkers shouted over one another. A cart wheel scraped violently against the stone. A woman hauling a heavy basket of river fish brushed past them with a curse.
Suddenly, Demis stopped dead in the middle of the crowded street.
"What are you doing?" Gerren furrowed his brows.
"I think this is far enough, Master Merchant," Demis said.
Gerren tensed, scanning the crowd. But there were too many people for an ambush.
"I think we don't need my friend now. You can just give it here."
Bewildered, Gerren looked around. Then he spotted it. A short distance away stood a trueborn guard, resting near a bread stall with his spear butt planted firmly in the dirt.
Gerren shook his head and smiled dryly.
The boy just wants to be sure he can call a guard if I try to hit him.
"Very well, boy. I mean, Demis." Gerren reached into his pouch and tossed him a vatt.
Demis caught it with both hands. His face lit up instantly.
"That paper of yours. You see the stamp on the bottom right corner?"
Gerren nodded.
"There's also a marking on the boxes called charter type, right?"
Gerren widened his eyes. "You can read?"
Demis nodded. "Yes, a little." He sniffed again. "Anyways, that's what they're checking. The guards have a paper they use to match the symbols. The form looks the same for everyone, but those little details are different. It tells them what you are." Demis smiled from ear to ear, thrilled with his coin.
Gerren frowned. It wasn't because he doubted the boy, but because of the sheer efficiency of the system.
"How do you know this?"
"I live inside those docks, Master Merchant," Demis said happily, rolling the copper coin across his knuckles. "Sometimes I stand next to the clerks just to watch what they are writing. They don't really mind us children, you know?"
Demis's giggle reverberated through the air. He looked like he had just won a grand prize.
"Bye, Master Merchant. I'll be on my way now." Demis prepared to bolt.
"Wait," Gerren said.
He tossed a second vatt through the air. Demis scrambled and caught it against his chest.
The boy's eyes grew massive. He clearly hadn't expected Gerren to actually pay the second half. "Wow! I thought you wouldn't give me the second vatt."
"But you told me the truth, did you not?"
Demis nodded, tilting his head again. "How did you know it was true?"
"I saw the clerk at the gate look closely at the stamp," Gerren smiled.
Demis paused, looking at the coin, then back at the man. "Thank you, Master Merchant. I will be on my way."
"It's Gerren."
Demis blinked, taken aback. He hadn't expected the merchant to actually introduce himself.
"You like making coin?" Gerren asked.
"I do, Master Merchant," Demis said, nodding violently now, his grin returning.
"It's Gerren," he corrected again. "Well, I need you to help me understand things about Bren from now on. Can you help me? I can pay you one vatt a day."
Demis contemplated the offer for a moment, then nodded. "Alright... but I'll take my vatts home first."
Gerren chuckled. The boy was sharp.