The Carpet Makers (12 page)

“Now bring me the Book of Changes,” Kremman ordered when the city elder had placed the sealed ledger on the table.

“I will have it brought immediately,” the man mumbled.

Kremman smiled maliciously as the city elder shambled through the door. He had surely planned to distract Kremman from his work with these tales. And now he was disappointed, because it had not worked.

He would get them. Sooner or later he got them all.

Then he set to work. First he had to determine whether the seal of Yahannochia’s tax book was really intact. He carefully felt the bands of the seal that encircled the book; they were undamaged. On to the seal itself. He hefted it thoughtfully and looked it over with a critical eye. In his lifetime, he had broken and attached thousands of seals, but at this point he always paused and did not allow himself to fall into a routine. The seal of the tax ledger was the most sensitive point in the system. If they should ever succeed in faking a seal without his noticing it, then they would have him. If that were to become public, it would cost him his head. And if it did not become known, then they would be able to blackmail him to the end of his days.

The youth who had opened the window—probably the town page—entered and brought the city’s Book of Changes. Kremman indicated with an ungracious nod of the head that he should lay it on the table, and when he noticed the boy’s curiosity, he stared at him so venomously that the boy decided to disappear as quickly as possible. He needed no spectators for this work.

Kremman cautiously pressed his signet over the wax seal. To his relief, it fit. Even a careful examination with a strong magnifying glass revealed no irregularities.

They would not dare. They hadn’t forgotten that it was he, as a young tax collector, who had discovered the counterfeit tax seal in Three River City. They had not forgotten the harshness with which he had reassessed the entire city and had imposed a supplementary tax penalty so severe that the eyes of the townspeople had filled with tears.

Now the last test. After a short glance at the door to ensure that there was really no one watching, he took a small knife and began to scratch the image on the seal carefully. That was the secret, which no one had discovered by breaking or melting down the seal: under the first image there was a second one, which could be revealed only by dexterous and experienced fingers. Kremman scraped away with infinite care until an unremarkable shift in color in the sealing wax indicated the line of separation. And now with just a small twist of the knife, which had taken him years to learn, the upper layer of the wax split away cleanly. There lay the secret seal, a tiny signet imprint known only to the Imperial tax collectors. Kremman smiled in satisfaction, reached for a candle, and melted the seal completely away. He let the wax drip into a small iron bowl; when his work was finished, he would fashion a new seal from it.

Then he opened the book. This moment had electrified him as long as he could remember, this moment of power. In this book were recorded the belongings of all the townspeople, the riches of the rich and the scanty property of the poor; in this book, he determined with the stroke of a pen the hardship or the well-being of an entire city. Almost tenderly, he turned the pages, which crackled with age, and with his eyes, he caressed the faded sheets filled with ancient entries, numbers, signatures, and stamps. The city elders might wear their beautiful robes for show and fluff up their feathers before the people—but, with this book and his legal authority to write in it, he was the one who held true power in his hands.

He could hardly tear himself away. With an almost inaudible sigh, he picked up the second book, the city’s Book of Changes. Immediately, this felt much more common, almost ordinary. He could literally feel that everyone was allowed to write here; it was a whore of a book. With some disgust he opened it and looked for his last entry. Then he skimmed the subsequent pages with all the changes, the births and deaths, the marriages, the moves into and out of the city, and the changes in vocation. After such a long time, there were not as many as he had feared. He would soon be finished with the assessments and then enough time would remain for some spot checks. He wanted to find out whether everything in this peaceful city was really on the up and up.

With a slight wrinkling of his nose, he read the last entry. Recently they had stoned to death their only teacher, apparently on the command of an itinerant preacher. The charge formulated against him after the fact was for doubting God. Kremman did not approve of unknown preachers from who-knew-where taking on the role of judges. And in a city without teachers, sooner or later, the tax revenues decreased; experience had shown that over and over again.

It was pleasantly quiet in the cellar vault. Kremman heard only his own breathing and the quill scratching across the paper as he drew up his lists. He would give the first list to the city page; it contained the names of all the people who would be summoned to the City Elders Hall for interrogation, people whose property ownership or marital status had changed since the last time. On the second list, he noted the names of those he would visit himself for an on-site assessment. A few of the names came from the Book of Changes—when the situation made a personal assessment imperative. The rest of the names were prompted by his intuition, his feel for corrupt intrigues, and his instinctive understanding of the human desire to keep as much as possible while giving out as little as possible and to cheat one’s way around one’s lawful responsibilities. He trusted this instinct absolutely, and it had so far served him well. He read the registry of the city residents, read their profession, age and position, and their last assessment, and with some names he felt something like an inner alarm. Those were the names he wrote down.

He could well imagine what was going on the city right now. Already the word of his arrival had surely spread to every last hut, and they were all discussing anxiously whether it was their turn this time. And of course, they were busy hiding all their valuables: jewelry, new clothes, good tools, smoked meat, and crockery filled with salted meat. While he sat here and wrote his lists, they were putting on their oldest clothes—gray, worn-out rags; they were rubbing their hair with fat, their faces with grime, and the walls of their houses and huts with ashes; and they were bringing manure into the houses to attract vermin.

And he would see through their masquerade. They thought they could trick him with unkempt hair and dirty faces, but he would examine their fingernails and check their hands for calluses and would know the truth. He would find things under the straw of their bedsteads, behind cabinets, under rafters, and in cellars. There were not really so many hiding places, and he knew them all. On days when he was in a good mood, he could enjoy the sport, the challenge of it. However, such days were rare for him.

When he had finished the two lists, Kremman closed the General Tax Ledger and rang for the town page.

“Are you familiar with the procedures of a tax levy?” he asked him. “You’re very young, and I don’t know you. That’s why I ask.”

“Yes. That is, no. It’s been explained to me, but I’ve never personally—”

“Then do what I tell you. Here’s a list of names of the city residents I will assess here tomorrow. I have divided them into four groups for morning, late morning, afternoon, and early evening. You have to see to it, that they’re all here on time. Do you understand?”

The young man nodded tentatively. He’s a real greenhorn, Kremman thought disdainfully. “Can you manage that?”

“Yes, of course!” the page hastened to assure him.

“How will you proceed?”

He had him. Kremman saw him swallow and look back and forth around the floor with wide eyes, as though the answer might be found someplace there. He mumbled something incomprehensible.

“What did you say?” Kremman persisted with cruel satisfaction. “I didn’t understand you.”

“I said I don’t know yet.”

Kremman looked him over as he would examine a repulsive insect. “Do you know the people on this list?”

“Yes.”

“What about dropping in on each one of them today to inform him?”

The boy gave a tense nod, but still didn’t dare look him in the eyes. “Yes, yes. I’ll do that.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bumug.”

Kremman handed him the list. “It’s your turn in the afternoon.”

“Afternoon?” Now he looked at the tax collector again, confused. “My turn? What do you mean?”

Kremman smiled sardonically. “Naturally, you’re on the list, too, Bumug.”

*   *   *

As always, the Imperial Tax Collector moved into the guest quarters of the City Elders Hall. Every city he visited found itself in a quandary in respect to furnishing this apartment and feeding the guest. On the one hand, everyone was anxious that he not lack any amenity, so as not to rouse his displeasure; on the other hand, nobody wanted to give him the idea that he was dealing with a wealthy city.

To his good fortune, the need to bribe him usually won out, including here in Yahannochia. He found a clean room, a bed worthy of a king, and a richly supplied table. He placed the General Tax Ledger under his pillow before sitting down to eat. As long as the book remained unsealed, he wouldn’t let it out of his presence for a moment.

When he walked over to the City Elders Hall the next morning, clasping the book under his arm, there was already a long line of people waiting respectfully. Kremman took a breath and strode out with an especially severe, determined gait, in order to drive every weakness out of himself—every trace of sympathy, good humor, or other emotions that did not suit a tax collector. An exhausting day awaited him, a day during which he would have to listen to piteous tales from morning until evening. And he could not allow himself a moment of inattention, a moment of weakening, without betraying his duty: his sacred mission to collect taxes for the Emperor.

So he strode past the rows of local citizens. With no look of acknowledgment in their direction, he sat down at the table prepared for him with writing material and a jug of water. He opened the General Tax Ledger and called out the first name on his list. “Garubad!”

A sturdy man with a weathered face and gray hair, the personification of sheer physical strength, dressed entirely in well-worn leather, stepped forward and said, “I am Garubad.”

“You are a stockbreeder?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of animals do you raise?”

“Mostly keppo sheep. Besides that, I have a few baraq buffalo.”

Kremman nodded. All of that was recorded in the General Tax Ledger. The man made an honest, God-fearing impression. Not a difficult case. “How many keppos? How many baraqs?”

“Twelve hundred keppos and seven baraqs.”

Kremman consulted his book. “That means the number of sheep has increased by one fourth; the number of baraqs has stayed the same. So I will raise your taxes by the same percentage. Do you have any objections?”

The breeder shook his head. “No. I give it for the Emperor.”

“I accept it for the Emperor,” Kremman responded with the ritual phrase and made a corresponding notation. “Thank you—you can go.”

That had been a good start. The tax collector loved it, when an assessment day started out this way. Here, too, he relied on instinct to tell him when he had to place someone on his list for random property checks and when he could accept what they said at face value.

It turned out to be a busy but, all in all, agreeable day. Naturally there were the usual heartrending laments about ruined harvests, perishing cattle, dying children, and runaway husbands, but not as many as he often heard, and Kremman even believed some of the stories. With a trace of kindness that even surprised him, he granted in one case a refund to a woman whose husband had died. Let it not be said that tax collectors are monsters. He was just doing his duty, nothing more—his sacred duty in the service of the Emperor.

It was late evening when he wrote the last entry by the glow of a tallow lamp and excused the last man. He looked with satisfaction at his second list, which contained five names. He would need no longer than one day for the random property checks, and then it was just a matter of adding up all the figures.

Just as he slammed the book closed, the city elder arrived again in his untidy ceremonial robe. “May I remind you, that we still have this evildoer in our dungeon and—”

“First the taxes,” Kremman advised him wearily, and stood up. “First the taxes and then everything else.”

“Of course,” the old man nodded submissively. “As you wish.”

*   *   *

He entered the first house without advance notice. For the random checks, it was important to show up without warning, even though he had no illusions in this regard: his progress through Yahannochia’s side streets was watched furtively by many eyes, and everything he did was immediately passed along in whispers.

But this couple was genuinely surprised. They jumped up in shock when he came through the door. The woman hid her face and disappeared into another room, and the man positioned himself, as though by chance, in front of the tax collector so that his view of the woman was blocked. Kremman knew why: a beautiful, young woman in a house was a reason for many a tax collector to impose a painfully high assessment—only to offer a reduction in exchange for the woman’s favors. But Kremman had never done that. And besides, the city elders of Yahannochia had, with wise forethought, brought him a young woman last night, a very young woman—they knew his predilections—and he had been satisfied in this regard.

“I am Kremman, tax collector of the Emperor,” he announced to the young man who looked just as angry as he was fearful. “According to my records, you married last year. I have to make a valuation. Show me everything you own.”

The woman had already disappeared when they entered the next room. The sharp eye of the tax collector noticed that the window was slightly ajar. Kremman gave a grim smile. She must have fled through the window.

He opened cupboards, looked in jugs, tested the straw of the bed with his hands, and knocked on wooden beams and on walls. As he had expected, he didn’t find anything in particular. Finally he entered a figure in his list that seemed appropriate.