Hollow Grains Float

"This is the way out."

The courtroom stayed quiet for a long while even after the priests had gone.

Lysias was gathering the depositions scattered across the table.

"…Inspector."

It was Eunomia. She hadn't left yet.

"Yes."

"Wasn't that a bit much?"

Lysias's hands stopped sorting the documents.

"…In what way."

"Tearing apart all six of their calculations in front of them. You could have summoned them one at a time. That would have let you preserve their dignity, wouldn't it?"

Lysias thought for a moment.

Ah. Is she scolding me?

…No.

If she wanted to scold him, she'd have stopped him back when the priests were still in the room. She'd said nothing then and was only asking now, which meant—

…She's testing me.

"…No." Lysias gathered up the depositions. "It wasn't excessive at all."

"…Not at all, you say?"

"Yes."

Eunomia tucked her wax tablet under her arm.

"Do you know what happens when you summon them one at a time? By the third one, they arrive already knowing what you intend to ask."

"And by then they've rehearsed their answers on the way over. Exactly like the six identical sheets last time."

Lysias set the wooden tablet on the table.

"These are the men who met the terms in three days last time. Three days is all it takes — so if I split my questions into six rounds, all I'm doing is handing them time. That is why I did it in one sitting."

Eunomia looked at him.

"…Then what of their dignity?"

"Their dignity is not mine to preserve. I'm an inspector, not an advocate for the priests."

Eunomia said nothing for a moment.

Then she asked,

"Inspector. Do you know what happens when a person's name is entered into a temple register?"

"…They'd be treated as clergy, wouldn't they?"

"That is when it is entered in good faith."

Eunomia's voice lowered slightly.

"Those six have held their seats for thirty years apiece. And today, they very nearly lost them."

"If six temples enter the same name into the same slot, not even this Court can stop it."

…She's coming at me hard.

Lysias listened to every word to the end.

…But that genuinely isn't a threat, is it.

A threat would have been made in front of the priests. One word added back then, and this side would have collapsed entirely. She hadn't said it.

…It's a test.

Lysias tidied his depositions.

"Yes. You could certainly do that."

"But then all six names go up alongside it."

"…Pardon?"

"If you intend to enter my name, you must state the reason for entering it. And what was calculated today would go up on the record with it."

Lysias tapped the wooden tablet.

"I didn't write that part. But if you write it first, then all I have to do is verify it. And verifying happens to be my job."

Eunomia adjusted her grip on the wax tablet.

"…You are an amusing human."

…Ah. Was that her laughing?

"Submit the depositions. I will judge upon reading them."

"…Yes."

Eunomia left.

From the next day on, Lysias dug into the procedure.

Eunomia had written him five lines the day before.

…Wasn't five lines supposed to be the whole thing?

It wasn't. Clinging to the underside of those five lines was more. He had to confirm whose land the temple would stand on, which meant consulting the land registry, which was under the jurisdiction of the civil office, which meant filing a formal request with the office—

Within two days, the list had swollen to more than thirty items.

…Wait.

…I thought they said there was no procedure for this.

There was no procedure — that is, no single procedure for founding a temple. Land verification, personnel registration, the receiving of offerings — each had its own separate process, fully intact.

They were simply scattered everywhere.

I've seen this before.

Running in circles through six different departments to obtain a single permit.

…Now, how did I used to handle that again?

Swish—

Lysias pulled out a blank tablet.

Batch whatever can be batched.

Land verification and personnel registration were both civil-office business. So he wrote both on one sheet and filed them together.

…And why on earth is the order like this?

The procedure had the offering regulations drawn up before the temple site was confirmed. But until the site was settled, you couldn't know how many worshipers would come — and until you knew how many worshipers would come, you couldn't draft the regulations.

It's backwards.

Lysias swapped the order of those two lines.

…And this one is flat-out unnecessary.

There was an item requiring the enshrined deity's genealogy traced back three generations. Dike was the daughter of Lady Themis. Two lines. Done.

…All right, but why does this one exist?

He worked like that for three days.

The thirty-some items shrank to eleven.

"…Hey." Dion had been watching him. "…What is this. Is that really the thirty-something-item monster from earlier?"

"Yep."

Dion picked up the tablet and opened it.

He stared at it for a long while.

"…Hey. You reordered these?"

"Yep. Two of them."

"…And the reason for the change is written right there."

"Because otherwise the next person just shoves it back the way it was."

"…"

Dion set the tablet down.

"…I'm going to ask you one thing, and I'm serious. Where the hell did you learn to do this?"

"…Well, you know. Life and—"

"That's the third time with that line."

"But — once this is all done, the temple actually gets built?"

"Most of it's resolved."

Lysias flipped the tablet over.

"But this one doesn't work."

"…Which is?"

Lysias tapped the line in question.

"…Offering regulations?"

"Yep. It says to specify how much will be taken."

"…What's hard about that? It's a tenth, isn't it?"

"Exactly."

Lysias set down his brush.

"But a tenth of what?"

"…What?"

"I know I can simply write 'one tenth.' The question is how that tenth gets measured. Fine — it's measured with the peck. But which peck? How do you fill it? What happens when it comes up short?"

"All of that is what has to be written down. If it isn't, then from that point on, it's whatever the collector feels like that day."

Dion chewed on that for a moment.

"…Ah."

"Yep."

"…That's what the Western District is doing right now, isn't it."

"Yep. And it's all because none of it is written down."

Lysias tapped the tablet.

"So I have to write it."

…He needed a standard.

Lysias filed a request for the regulations of all six districts.

They arrived in three days. Six sheets.

…Oh. These I can reference.

He opened the first one.

He opened the second.

The third.

Offerings shall be one tenth of the harvest.

All six sheets were identical. One line apiece.

…This is it?

Lysias flipped the sheet over.

Nothing. It really was just the one line.

…And this is called a regulation.

It said only "one tenth" — nothing about who did the measuring, or how.

…At that point it's whatever the measurer wants.

…So how much are they actually collecting?

Lysias pulled out the registers.

Last year's offering records for all six districts. Broken down by village.

And beside them, he laid the land registry.

…Compare the harvest against the offering. That should do it.

Agria first.

Calculating by field area, the annual harvest came to roughly eight hundred bushels. The offering: eighty-six.

…A bit more than a tenth.

Charon Ferry.

Six hundred bushels. Offering: sixty-two.

…This one too.

Milea.

Nine hundred bushels. Offering: ninety-four.

Lysias laid the three figures side by side.

Eighty-six. Sixty-two. Ninety-four.

…But they're all slightly different.

…How different, exactly?

Lysias picked up his brush and divided by the harvest.

Agria: six bushels over a tenth.

Charon: two over.

Milea: four over.

…Why are they all different?

It was the same regulation. All six sheets said "one tenth" without a single character differing between them.

And yet what was actually collected varied from village to village.

…Is my harvest calculation wrong?

Lysias went back over the land registry. The field areas were right. The harvest figures followed exactly what he'd learned in school.

…Then what is it.

…Could it be the spoiled grain mixed in?

If grain got adulterated, farmers ended up paying two and three times over, so what actually left their stores would be more.

But that never entered the register. The register recorded only what was received.

…Then the register numbers should still come out to exactly a tenth, mixing or no. But they don't match.

He spent three days on it.

Lysias regrouped the registers by village. Re-tabulated them by year. Re-split them by district.

He could see that the numbers didn't match. What he couldn't see was why.

…Ugh, come on.

This had happened a few times in his past life. A ledger that wouldn't balance, with no sign of where the imbalance lived. In his experience it was almost always one of three things.

One. A number transcribed wrong.

Two. Something left unrecorded.

Three. Different counting standards.

Not the first — he'd cross-checked three times over.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

…If it's the second, it's the adulteration, but that doesn't go in the register.

…Then is it the third?

Different counting standards.

…But they measure with the peck.

The peck was singular. It sat at the temple; Lysias had examined it with his own eyes. Wooden, smooth on the inside, nothing remotely odd about it.

…If the peck were the problem, inspecting the peck would show it.

…I looked. There was nothing there.

Lysias set down his brush.

…Blank wall.

"Hey. How many days have you been at that now?"

It was Dion.

"…A few days, isn't it?"

"…Four."

…Four already?

Lysias rolled his neck. It was stiff.

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"What's not working?"

"The standard."

Lysias pushed the tablet across.

"All six sheets say one tenth. But what actually gets collected differs by village."

"…By how much?"

"A little. But consistently."

"It's not the adulteration, the harvest math isn't wrong, and it's not the peck."

Dion leaned in over the tablet.

"…But isn't this always a little different ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠anyway?"

"…What?"

"The offerings. They differ from village to village. Everybody just accepts it."

"…Why would they differ?"

"…Beats me. They just always have."

Nobody questions a thing that has always been that way.

In his past life, he had printed every document in triplicate for ten years. He never once asked why three — and even if he had, nobody would have known the answer.

Because it had always been three.

…Wait, why was it three copies?

…No. Not the point right now.

"…I should go back to one of the villages."

Lysias looked out the window.

"…I need to ask how much people actually paid. Not the register — the people."

"…Right now?"

Dion looked at the desk.

Three piles of tablets. The jurisdictional depositions, the procedure reorganization, and the requests still to be filed with the civil office.

"…Hey. When exactly were you planning to finish all that and then go?"

"…Exactly."

"I'll go."

Lysias looked up.

"…What?"

"I'll make the rounds. Charon needs a second visit anyway, and Agria's on the way out."

"You're the one who has to do all this, though."

Dion jerked his chin at the piles of tablets.

Lysias stared at them for a moment.

…You little.

"…Thanks."

"Yep."

Dion grabbed his coat.

"So what should I ask them?"

"…How many installments they paid in last year. And how much the last payment was."

"Yep. Got it."

Dion left.

Lysias opened a tablet again.

…Though even that probably won't turn anything up.

People speak from memory alone. Nobody holds anything.

…Seriously, what is this.

That evening, Lysias put in overtime yet again.

…Why won't the workload shrink?

He'd cut the procedures down to eleven. Cut them, and the work should have shrunk — instead, fresh work arrived in exactly the proportion he'd trimmed away.

Three piles of tablets sat on the desk.

…How long until quitting time?

He looked out the window.

The sun had already gone over.

…Ah. Already past.

…This cursed world.

Lysias opened the register one more time.

Eighty-six. Sixty-two. Ninety-four.

His fourth day staring at these numbers. He could recite them now without looking.

…So WHY do they differ.

Whoosh.

Lysias lifted his head.

The scent arrived first.

"Oh! You're still here!"

"…Yes."

It was Authea.

"What are you working on?"

"This."

Lysias held up the tablet.

"Ahh—"

Authea looked it over.

"Inspector, have you had dinner?"

"…No."

"Figured as much."

Authea beckoned.

"Follow me."

"…Pardon?"

"There's something I want to show you."

…Ah. What now.

Lysias set down his brush and followed.

It was the floor beneath the courtroom.

Partway down the stairs, a smell reached him.

…Huh?

Bread.

He opened the door, and the room beyond was bright.

…Whoa.

A kitchen.

Three hearths, only one of them lit. Some twenty jars hung along the wall, and something was spread out across the table.

"Have a seat."

Authea pointed to the bench beside the table.

Then she rolled up her sleeves.

…Huh?

"…Um. Lady Authea."

"Yes?"

"…What are you doing?"

"Warming the bread."

"…Yourself?"

"Yes."

Authea crouched down in front of the hearth.

…What am I supposed to do when a goddess crouches down like that?

Having no idea what to say, Lysias simply stood there.

"Inspector, I told you to sit."

"…Ah. Yes."

He sat.

Authea brought down one of the jars and lifted the lid.

Oil.

Then she scooped up a fistful of something from beside it. Wheat.

…Huh?

A little oil in the pan, the wheat on top, and she began stirring with a wooden spatula.

No…

The soft scrape of the spatula filled the room.

Lysias watched for a while.

…She really is doing it herself.

A goddess was roasting wheat. Sleeves rolled up, crouched before the fire, stirring steadily so nothing would scorch.

For the first time in four days, the tablet did not cross his mind.

"…What do you do once it's all roasted?"

"Cool it and grind it. Then you spread it on things and eat."

"…Ah. I see."

…Far more hands-on than I imagined.

Authea set down the spatula and reached toward the table.

There was a bowl of water there.

And beside it, about a peck of wheat.

"Have to do this part too."

Authea took a handful of wheat and dropped it into the water.

…?

…She's putting wheat in water.

Lysias watched.

The grains sank into the water.

But a few of them didn't.

They floated on the surface.

"…"

"What's that for?"

"Picking out the floaters."

Authea skimmed the floating grains off with her fingers and set them aside.

"These are hollow inside. They never roast up nice and nutty."

…Hollow?

"…You can't see that just by looking?"

"Nope. They look exactly the same on the outside."

Another handful went in.

A few more floated up.

"But in water, you can tell. The empty ones are lighter, so they float."

Lysias stared at the bowl of water.

The empty ones are lighter, so they float.

…Huh?

Lysias's hand stopped.

Wait. Just a moment.

They look exactly the same on the outside.

But the weight is different.

Something shifted in his head.

Something that had not moved for four days.

Then measuring with the peck—

…Catches nothing at all.

Lysias rose from his seat.

"…Inspector?"

Ah, damn it.

This is it.

The peck measures volume. One peck is one peck; four pecks make a bushel, and volume does not lie. Fill the peck level and full, and it is full.

But whatever is inside the grain never gets measured.

A bushel of solid wheat and a bushel of hollow wheat hold the same volume. Measured with the peck, both come out to a bushel.

But the weight is different.

Lysias looked at the water bowl.

The floaters had gathered to one side. About a handful's worth.

What fraction does a handful come to?

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No — more than that. Listen.

If you collect with full, solid grain, and remit with the light, hollow kind—

The ledger balances.

Perfectly.

Record eighty-six bushels received; record eighty-six bushels remitted. Measured with the peck, it genuinely is eighty-six.

And the difference—

Exists only in weight.

Lysias stood there for a moment, silent.

…That's why no one ever caught it.

Inspect the peck, and nothing turns up. The peck is the genuine article.

Audit the ledgers, and nothing turns up. The ledgers balance.

This world has never once weighed its grain.

So you skim by whatever is never measured, and you're untouchable.

…So this was it.

"Lady Authea."

"Yes?"

"May I ask one favor of you?"

"…Yes! Anything at all!"

"That water bowl there."

Lysias pointed at it.

"Lend me that one, please."

"…The water bowl?"

"Yes."

Authea looked at the bowl.

Then she looked at Lysias.

"…What are you going to do with it?"

Lysias finished the last of the bread and brushed the crumbs from his hands.

"I'm taking it to a temple."

"…To the temple?"

"Yes."

Lysias gathered up his tablets.

"Tomorrow, I'm going to the Western District."

"There's wheat sitting in their warehouse."