Blessing Last, Ledger First
"What is it?"
The second time Lysias went to Agria, the doors opened.
It started with the very first house. Before he could even knock, the door swung wide.
"You've come again?"
"Yes. I still have twelve households to go."
"…Come in, then."
His attitude's different from yesterday.
Lysias crouched down in the courtyard and asked.
"So, um… did you happen to hear something? You wouldn't even open your door for me yesterday."
The old man fetched a bowl of water.
"The man next door was saying. That inspector of yours doesn't come at night. He comes in the day and leaves before sundown."
"…I'm sorry, what?"
That's the bar?
"Do the temple people come at night?"
"They come at night. Never in the day. If they came in the day, everyone would see them."
He finished the remaining twelve houses that day.
Every single one had been levied. One levy at three houses, twice at six, three times at three.
There was one thing Lysias kept pressing on.
"But why not just refuse? If they take your grain, don't bring any more next time."
The old man laughed.
"Mr. Inspector, the sowing can't begin until the offering is finished."
"…What?"
"The year's farming doesn't start until the temple accepts the offering. Otherwise you'd be sowing seed into land that's still impure. Miss once and you lose half a month, miss twice and it's a month. Push spring back a month and the whole year is gone."
…Ah.
Lysias stopped writing on his tablet mid-stroke.
Wait. Then this—
This isn't something they can refuse at all.
And what do you call it when you take something from someone who has no choice but to hand it over?
…That's not an offering.
On the walk back, that thought was all Lysias had.
He'd seen this before, in his past life.
Squeeze the unit price on a vendor whose payroll is due next month, and ten out of ten will stamp the contract.
Not because they can't do the math. A few taps on the calculator and they know exactly how badly they're getting burned. They stamp anyway, because they can't hold out until next month.
And the people who know that always show up at exactly that moment.
It's never a coincidence.
Oh. So this was never something they could just decline to give.
That annoyed Lysias a little.
Up until yesterday he'd wondered why nobody filed a complaint — turns out the system simply never gave them time to.
…Well designed, actually.
Whoever built it had good hands. They understood that the easiest people to strip are the ones in a hurry.
Back at the courthouse, he spread out his tablet.
Summarized, it went like this.
The temple makes the measure. The temple measures with that measure. The temple rules on any shortfall. The temple takes whatever is seized. And nowhere, in any record, is it written how much was actually taken.
And if you don't comply, your year's harvest is forfeit.
Flawless.
Lysias set down his brush.
But who decided all this?
Everyone said the temple had. That since offerings went to the gods, the temple naturally set the standards.
…But did a god actually decree it?
If a god had, it would be written somewhere. On a pillar, in a registry, anywhere.
It wasn't.
The pillars carried verdicts, not regulations. Not a single pillar bore the standards for offerings carved into it.
Then who made it up?
One lesson from years on the job: a regulation with no basis was written by someone who didn't need one.
Just then, a clerk held out a tablet.
"This came for you."
The Western District Temple requests the presence of the Inspector, at his earliest convenience.
"What's this?"
"A summons from the temple. When a new inspector is assigned to a district, they call you in once. A courtesy visit."
"…And what happens after I go?"
"Eh, nothing much."
What kind of reaction is that?
Lysias looked at the tablet again.
Well, I'd have to go anyway.
To cross-reference the registries, he needed the temple's records, and those could only be seen at the temple.
No reason to refuse an invitation, either.
Lysias gathered up his tablets.
The Western District Temple, three days earlier.
The priest Anton was listening to a report.
"The inspector went out?"
"Yes. He spent two days in Agria. Eleven households the first day, twelve more yesterday, I'm told."
Anton set down his cup.
"…Two whole days? In that mudhole of a village?"
"Yes."
"How old was he again?"
"Eighteen, they say. Joined this year."
"Hah."
Anton laughed.
"The courts must be short-staffed indeed. Loosing an eighteen-year-old on a whole district."
A green boy. They were all like that at that age — run around desperate to prove something, then go quiet after six months or so.
…Besides, what could he have seen out there?
Those villagers would never open their mouths. Illiterate peasants — what would they tell an inspector?
Eleven households visited means eleven doors slammed in his face, at best.
Anton had never once believed himself in the wrong.
You could not offer a flawed thing to a god. A limping lamb would rouse His wrath; wheat speckled with blight would dry up the year's rain.
Sorting the pure from the flawed — that was his office.
If I don't sort it, who will? Those peasants?
What became of the rejected goods was another matter entirely.
Impure things couldn't be left in the village, so they had to be brought to the temple. But burning them seemed a waste, and since they were wasted anyway, the grain found its way somewhere it could be of use.
…It's a waste, truly. Good clean wheat.
Granted, there were places where the books didn't quite agree.
…Well. So what.
Show me one man who lives off the establishment and keeps his ledgers perfectly square. Those above all know it. They know, and they choose not to ask.
Anton had watched it for thirty years.
His superiors' books were even less honest. Far less.
…Mine is a modest case, by comparison.
Anton raised his cup. His second.
It was true that the rate of levies had crept up these past two years. He'd been given one more district last year, after all.
…If they gave it, it deserves a return.
They hadn't expanded his jurisdiction for nothing, had they?
"Call him in. The inspector. Let's at least exchange greetings."
"Yes."
Anton lifted his cup again.
All his predecessors had come. They'd sit, drink tea, receive a blessing, and leave. And afterward, their reports said nothing at all.
It had gone that way three times. One lasted two years, one a year, one four months.
…That last one at least had some spine.
Four months meant two seasons turned. Long enough to learn a face.
…And at eighteen, easier still.
How many men that age had ever received a temple blessing? A single story like that could fill a tavern table for the rest of his life.
Anton drained his cup.
If this one passed without incident, the district could grow again.
An inspector visits, nothing happens — that itself is permission. Those above would read it the same way.
…Three more villages, I'd say.
Anton did the arithmetic as he set his cup down.
Three more villages meant another two hundred bushels of wheat.
…No. If levied, four hundred.
He did not particularly trouble himself to suppress the curl at the corner of his mouth.
The Western District Temple was large.
Far larger than Lysias had expected.
Six columns, a stair of twenty-odd steps. Twenty-some people moved about the forecourt, every one of them hauling something.
Lysias paused at the foot of the stairs and looked up.
Hold on, this place is bigger than Agria.
The village had been twenty-three households. Here there were twenty people or more, and that was just the yard.
Climbing the steps, he glanced to the right.
Storehouses. Not one — four, five, six.
A lock hung on every door.
That's what was in the report.
He counted them with his eyes as he climbed.
Under his arm, five tablets. That was all he carried.
"Welcome, welcome."
Inside, the hall was broad and quiet.
Anton looked every year of fifty. His posture was upright, his hands clean. He swept his gaze over Lysias once, head to toe.
"Just as I heard. Sit."
Lysias sat. Tea was served.
"You've had a hard road of it, I hear. Two days out to a village and back. No inspector does that these days."
"Ah — yes."
How does he know that.
"Were the roads not rough?"
"They were fine."
"Agria has broad wheat fields. About this time of year, they'd be green as far as the eye sees."
"Yes. They were green."
Has this man actually been to Agria?
"Which academy did you come out of? An inspector must have graduated from somewhere."
Lysias named his school.
Anton's eyebrows rose.
"That one?"
"Yes."
"Hah."
Anton set down his cup.
"I went there myself, you know. That's my alma mater. What year did you finish?"
"This year."
"This year! Hah. Then I'm well above you, aren't I."
No, what is this.
"Well, this is a pleasure. You don't often meet a fellow graduate out here. There's a well behind the dormitory, isn't there? Is it still there?"
"Yes. It's still there."
"Hahaha. Still standing, is it."
Anton leaned forward.
"I hauled water from that well and studied through the nights, you know. Three hundred case precedents."
"That must have been grueling."
"You worked hard enough yourself, I'm sure. Welcome, junior."
Somewhere around the second cup of tea, Anton raised a hand.
"Tell me, have you received the blessing? The temple blessing."
"No."
"Hah, then receive it before you go. It's nothing. We offer it to every guest who comes to our temple."
Am I allowed to accept this?
Lysias considered it for a moment.
Well. He's offering.
"Ah — yes. Thank you."
Anton rose from his seat.
"This way, please."
Anton had kept this exact sequence for thirty years.
Seat the guest, pour the tea, chat about the academy, and give the blessing last.
The order matters. Give it up front and you're paying for a thing; give it at the end and you've granted a grace.
…Young ones are better.
Older men accepted and then calculated. What this was worth, what they'd owe in return.
Young ones were simply grateful. And a grateful man cannot be pressed into service the next time around.
Anton laid his hand on Lysias's forehead.
…Worn thin, this one.
He'd been up all night, clearly. Two days tramping around a village — no surprise there.
…So why does he bother with such foolishness?
All that walking, and nothing to show for it but sore legs.
The blessing was finished.
"There. Done."
Anton returned to his seat.
From this moment, this boy was a guest of this temple. A debtor. A man who had received grace.
Human nature being what it is, a man who has received believes he must repay.
…And at eighteen, more than most.
Anton raised his cup.
"Now then — is there anything you need?"
…Huh?
Lysias opened and closed his fist.
He'd pulled an all-nighter last night. Washed his face in cold water in the morning. Then walked half a day.
I'm… fine?
His throat didn't feel like it would split. His eyes didn't sting. His feet didn't ache.
…Wow.
In his past life he'd once gone to work after taking a cold shot. A deadline left no choice. Even that hadn't felt like this.
This is a cold shot. No — a strictly superior cold shot.
"Thank you."
Lysias bowed his head deeply. It was sincere.
…Could I get one of these every month?
"Ah, well then — I should get to work."
Lysias drew the tablets from under his arm.
Five of them. He'd brought them that morning.
Anton's hand stopped above his cup.
"…What did you say?"
"Work. That's why I came. And thank you again for the blessing. It really was something."
Lysias opened the first tablet.
"Our registry records the offerings collected, but not what actually arrived at the temple. The temple side would have records of receipt, yes? I'd like to see them."
Anton did not answer.
…What is this.
"Junior."
"Yes."
"You received a blessing just now, did you not."
"Yes. I did, and I'm grateful for it."
Lysias slid the tablet a little closer.
"I'd like to see the records."
…This little—
Anton set down his cup.
"…Those are the temple's records. There's no reason they should be shown to a court."
"Ah, but then there's no way to cross-check. We only have the collection side; we need the receipt side to match them up. If the two sides don't agree, that's a problem — but right now we can't even compare them, so we can't tell whether there's a problem at all."
"…"
What is this creature saying.
"…I'll send them over later."
"Ah, then when might that be? We have to write down a deadline. Without one, we can't tell whether something never came or simply came late."
"…"
Anton studied that face.
It wasn't smiling. It wasn't glaring. It simply waited, brush in hand.
"…Ten days."
"Ten days. Thank you."
Lysias wrote it down.
No, this is happening right now.
"And second. I'd like to see the measures you use at the measuring basin."
"…I'm sorry, what?"
"The measures. The ones used when offerings are apportioned."
"…Why do you need those?"
"There's no reference set in the villages."
Lysias turned to the next tablet.
"Proper practice is to make two sets of measures — one held by the party measuring, one held by the party giving. Otherwise there's no way to verify whether the measuring side's measures are true. But the village didn't have one."
There was a regulation like that?
Anton thought for a moment.
There wasn't. He'd never heard of such a rule in his life.
But what would happen if he said so?
It would become the question of why there was only one set of measures in the first place.
"…They're in the storehouse."
"Ah, then I'll look on my way out. And one more request, if I may."
"…Now what."
"Please write down the date the measures were made, and by whom."
"…"
"Measures are supposed to be documented every time one is made. Otherwise, later on, no one can tell whether this is the original or something swapped in midway."
Anton's fingertips slipped from the cup.
…Is he asking whether I swapped them?
"…Is that an accusation, or—"
"No. It's a required entry. I'm only asking because the rules say it must be written."
Lysias kept his eyes on the tablet.
"If there's no record, I'll record that there is none. In that case, the question of when those measures became the measures will simply stand as unverifiable."
"The third item is the goods you brought back after levying."
There's more?
"…Speak plainly."
"When an offering is rejected as impure, you carry it back here. Where is it?"
"…It was burned."
"Ah, you burn it. Then I'd like to see the records of the burning."
"…I beg your pardon?"
"The burning records."
Lysias raised his brush.
"When a thing arrives and then ceases to exist, the record has to show where it went. If it was burned, it gets written down as burned. When, what, and how much."