Luck in the Shadows

Rhнminee and this is my brother Alsander. We've come to track down a shipment that went astray some three years back."
    The woman shook her head with a dubious frown.
    "You've got a job ahead of you, then. Do you know how many ships go through here in a season?"
    "We have the name of the ship, and the month she came through, if that's any help," Alec offered. "It was the White Hart , a square-rigged trader of the Tyremian Line, Cirna registry. She'd have docked here sometime in early Erasin."
    "Ah, well that's a start, anyway." Opening a side door, she led them into a room filled from floor to ceiling with ranks of scroll racks.
    "If we've still got the manifest it'll be in the back there somewhere. They'd generally have been chucked out by now, but the old harbor master died in the middle of the job and I've never gotten around to finishing it."
    At the back of the room she scanned the racks, then extracted a document at random. The movement disturbed a thick layer of dust that set both her and Seregil sneezing.
    "Push open that window just beside you, young sir, before we all suffocate," gasped Katya, brushing at her nose.
    Alec threw back the shutters. Shaking the scroll out again, she held it up to the light.
    "You see how it's laid out, sirs. Here's the ship's name and the captain's at the top, followed by the date she put in and a detailed listing of cargoes delivered and taken on. These seals at the bottom belong to the captain of the vessel and the various merchants involved. This big one here in the lower right corner is the harbor master's. I'll leave you to it. Mind you close the shutters when you leave and tuck things back where you found them."
    There was no system to the storage of documents except a rough chronological layering.
    Pulling scrolls and checking dates, they narrowed their search down to a few likely shelves. Powdery clouds of dust roiled about them as they sorted and sneezed their way through pile after pile of musty, yellow parchments.
    The writing, done aboard ships rolling at anchor, was a challenge to decipher—especially for Alec, whose skill at reading was still far from accomplished.
    Gnawing absently at his lip, he puzzled his way through a confusing succession of scrawled names: The
    Dog, Wyvern's Wing, Two Brothers, Lady Rygel, Silver Plume, Coriola, Sea Mist, The Wren —
    Engrossed as he was in mastering the differing hands, he nearly lay aside one with the smudged entry:
    White Hart.
    "Here, I found it!" he exclaimed triumphantly.
    Seregil sneezed again and wiped his nose inelegantly on his sleeve. "I've got one, too. The Hart was a short hauler, working the northern coasts on either side of the Canal. That means there are likely to be a number of manifests around that date. Keep looking until we're well past the time she was lost. We don't want to miss any."
    They found eight in all, and spread them out side by side according to date.
    "That's what I was afraid of," muttered Seregil, reading them over. "For the most part the Hart had a series of regular runs. Let's see—miscellaneous provisions to these three little towns to the west, with trade cargo back-leather goods, horn, some silver work. The eastern runs seem to have been mostly to mines on the north coast of the Inner Sea: tools and supplies, oil, cloth, medicines. Same here, and here."
    "What about odd runs?" asked Alec, hunkered down beside him.
    "Good point. There are a few. Poultry to Myl, wine to Nakros, silk, and a load of scented wax. Three large tapestries to a Lady Vera at Areus, one hundred bales of woolen yarn—"
    "It would be hard to mistake any of that for a couple hundred weight of gold baps."
    "Quite right, and I suspect our Leran friends were wise enough to stick their gold in where something heavy wouldn't attract any attention. Here are iron goods, tools, lumber—"
    "That's not much help," said Alec. "After three years, how can we guess which one it was? It's impossible!"
    "Probably." Walking to the window, Seregil gazed out over the darkening harbor, then sneezed again.
    "Bilairy's Balls! No wonder we can't think straight! Pocket those papers, Alec. It's fresh air we need. We'll take a walk to clear our heads, then rinse our dusty gullets with a good deep mug of Cirna ale!"
    Night fell quickly in the shadow of the cliffs, but a three-quarter moon lit their way as they meandered through the streets behind the docks. Lost in thought, Seregil was for once disinclined to talk, so they wandered on