Raymun liked Duskendale for one simple reason.
It was complicated.
The Briar Hearth could sometimes fool him into thinking he understood Westeros.
There were rooms, meals, horses, suppliers, travelers, fields, and accounts.
Problems were usually small enough to fit inside a ledger.
Duskendale cured that illusion immediately.
“Stay close.”
“I am close.”
Mara looked over her shoulder.
Raymun was perhaps ten paces behind her, staring at a cooper’s stall.
“That is not close.”
“It’s visible.”
“Raymun.”
He hurried forward.
Ellyn rode on the cart beside Garran, swinging her legs and singing something about a knight being eaten by a goat.
Raymun had no idea where she’d learned it.
Probably a traveler.
Hopefully not one they wanted back.
They had come for flour, salt, lamp oil, nails, cloth, and several other supplies.
Raymun had come with a separate objective.
He wanted to understand the market.
Not conquer it.
Not revolutionize it.
Just understand it.
That was proving difficult enough.
Prices changed between stalls.
Weights changed too.
A sack described as a sack at one merchant was not necessarily identical to another.
Quality varied.
Credit terms varied.
Delivery mattered.
Relationships mattered.
Even time of day mattered.
Raymun watched Mara negotiate with a flour merchant.
“You charged less last month.”
“Last month I paid less.”
“Then I’ll buy from Renn.”
The merchant snorted.
“Renn’s flour is half husk.”
“Not half.”
“A third.”
Mara shrugged.
“Still cheaper.”
“You’ll be back.”
“Perhaps.”
She turned.
The merchant sighed.
“Mistress Mara.”
She stopped.
Raymun smiled.
Negotiation had resumed.
He stayed silent.
That was another thing he was learning.
Sometimes the smartest contribution was shutting up.
They moved deeper into the market.
Fish.
Vegetables.
Leather.
Tools.
Cheap pottery.
Used clothing.
Animals.
Spices Raymun recognized beside others he didn’t.
There were craftsmen whose work would have looked primitive beside modern manufacturing and craftsmen who could do things Raymun couldn’t begin to reproduce with his own hands.
That distinction mattered.
Earth had given him access to the products of an industrial civilization.
It had not personally taught him how to create one.
He knew what a steam engine was.
He could not build one.
He understood that crop rotation mattered.
He couldn’t look at unfamiliar Crownlands soil and magically know which field should grow what.
He knew sanitation saved lives.
That did not make him a physician.
The System didn’t change those facts.
It merely made them harder to ignore.
“Ray!”
He turned.
Ellyn was gone.
Raymun’s heart stopped.
“Ellyn?”
Garran turned from the nail merchant.
“What?”
“Ellyn was—”
“Here!”
A small hand appeared from behind a stack of barrels.
Raymun rushed over.
Ellyn had somehow climbed into an empty one.
Only her head remained visible.
“What are you doing?”
“Hiding.”
“Why?”
“So you can’t find me.”
“I found you.”
Ellyn considered this.
“I’m still hiding.”
Garran arrived.
He stared at his daughter inside the barrel.
“Your responsibility.”
“What?”
“You found her.”
“That isn’t how parenthood works.”
Garran froze.
Raymun froze.
That had sounded far too adult.
His father slowly raised an eyebrow.
Raymun corrected himself.
“I mean…
she’s yours.”
“Excellent argument.”
Garran lifted Ellyn out.
She immediately tried climbing into another barrel.
“Ellyn.”
“No.”
Garran caught her by the back of her dress.
Raymun laughed.
Then noticed the barrel-maker watching them.
The man looked deeply amused.
“Good barrel,” Raymun said.
The cooper nodded.
“Kept the girl in.”
“Nearly.”
“That’s quality craftsmanship.”
Garran groaned.
They ate near the market square.
Bread, cheese, and thin slices of roasted meat.
Raymun sat beside the cart while Ellyn attempted to feed crumbs to a bird that clearly wanted the entire loaf.
Across the square, two merchants were arguing.
Not loudly.
Seriously.
Raymun listened.
Something about damaged cargo.
One claimed the goods had already been damaged before delivery.
The other insisted responsibility transferred only after unloading.
Raymun’s attention sharpened.
There.
A real dispute.
Not theoretical law.
Actual commerce.
He edged closer.
Mara caught his sleeve.
“No.”
“I just want to listen.”
“You just want to interfere.”
“I wasn’t going to interfere.”
Mara looked at him.
Raymun sighed.
“I was probably going to interfere.”
“Eat.”
He sat again.
But he listened.
Eventually another merchant joined the dispute.
Then a market official.
Witnesses were questioned.
The agreement had apparently been verbal.
That complicated matters.
Raymun quietly opened the Lawbook.
Commercial dispute — damaged goods.
Questions:
When does responsibility transfer?
Does local custom distinguish loading from delivery?
How are verbal agreements proven?
Who has authority to settle disputes inside the market?
The System added no answers.
Good.
Raymun would have to learn them.
Later, Mara brought him to Edwyn Cale.
The clerk looked up from his desk.
Saw Raymun.
And immediately said:
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re holding parchment.”
“I often hold parchment.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m generally pleasant.”
“You’re never pleasant when you come here.”
Raymun placed his notes on the desk.
“I saw a dispute in the market.”
Edwyn stared at the parchment.
Then at Mara.
“Why?”
Mara smiled.
“He was born like this.”
“I wasn’t,” Raymun muttered.
Technically true.
Edwyn reluctantly read the first question.
Then the second.
His annoyance faded slightly.
“Who told you responsibility transfers at unloading?”
“One of the merchants.”
“Which one?”
“The one who wanted it to transfer at unloading.”
Edwyn’s mouth twitched.
Raymun noticed.
“Very.”
“Because he’s biased.”
“Because everyone is biased when coin is involved.”
Edwyn tapped the parchment.
“You don’t write something into your little book merely because someone says it.”
Raymun straightened.
“What should I write?”
“Who said it.
Where.
Under what circumstances.
Whether anyone agreed.
Whether you’ve seen the rule applied elsewhere.”
Raymun stared at him.
That was—
Excellent.
The System responded almost immediately.
LAWBOOK RECORDING STANDARD UPDATED
Suggested fields:
Source
Location
Jurisdiction
Directness
Corroboration
Confidence
Raymun almost smiled.
Edwyn narrowed his eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that means you’ll come back.”
Raymun grinned.
“Good morning, Master Cale.”
“Get out.”
They left Duskendale late in the afternoon.
The cart was heavier.
Their purse was lighter.
Ellyn fell asleep against a sack of flour before they cleared the town.
Raymun sat beside Garran.
Fields slowly replaced buildings.
Behind them, Duskendale’s walls grew smaller.
Raymun thought about everything he’d seen.
Hundreds of people.
Thousands of transactions.
Craftsmen.
Laborers.
Merchants.
Officials.
Carters.
Sailors.
Customers.
Debts.
Promises.
Customs.
Disputes.
No System controlled any of it.
No single lord truly understood all of it.
Yet somehow, most days, bread reached bakers.
Ale reached inns.
Horses found feed.
Ships found cargo.
People found work.
Civilization wasn’t one great machine.
It was millions of agreements between people who needed one another.
Raymun looked toward Garran.
“Father?”
“Hm?”
“How much would another acre near the inn cost?”
Garran sighed.
“There he is.”
Raymun smiled.
“I’m only asking.”
“You’re always only asking.”
“That’s how learning works.”
“No.
That’s how headaches work.”
Raymun laughed.
Then Garran surprised him.
“Depends on the acre.”
Raymun turned.
His father kept his eyes on the road.
“Good soil costs more.
Road access matters.
Water matters.
Buildings matter.
Who owns it matters.
Whether they actually want to sell matters.”
Raymun listened carefully.
“Don’t decide you want land before knowing what land you’re buying.”
Another lesson.
Raymun recorded it.
But he didn’t ask another question.
Not yet.
Instead, he leaned against the side of the cart and watched the Crownlands pass.
There would be other market days.
Other questions.
Other journeys to Duskendale.
He had time.
For once, Raymun was beginning to understand that having time did not mean he needed to use all of it immediately.