Not all fortunes, be it understood, were declining. Melilot's was an instance.Then years earlier he had owned nothing but his clothing and a scribe'scompendium; then he worked in the open air, or huddled under some tolerantmerchant's awning, and his customers were confined to poor litigants from out oftown who needed a written summary of their case before appearing in the Hall ofJustice, or suspicious illiterate purchasers of goods from visiting traders whowanted written guarantees of quality.
On a never-to-be-forgotten day, a foolish man instructed him to write downmatter relevant to a lawsuit then in progress, which would assuredly haveconvinced the judge, had it been produced without the opposition being warned.Melilot realized that, and made an extra copy. He was richly rewarded.
Now, as well as carrying on the scribe's profession - by proxy, mostly - hespecialized in forgery, blackmail, and mistranslation. He was exactly the sortof employer Jarveena of Forgotten Holt had been hoping for when she arrived,particularly since his condition, which might be guessed at from his beardlessface and roly-poly fatness, made him indifferent to the age or appearance of hisemployees.
The services offered by the scriptorium, and the name of its proprietor, wereclearly described in half a dozen languages and three distinct modes of writingon the stone face of the building, a window and a door of which had been knockedinto one large entry (at some risk to the stability of the upper floors) so thatclients might wait under cover until someone who understood the language they