5E 724, p2

One Mer after another delivered the lines to the old woman on gatekeeper duty.

“I swear an Oath to Almsivi, its Temple, and the Order of Endless Day, to uphold my duty as an inhabitant and servant of Vivec: unconditional obedience to the laws of Vivec, unconditional willingness to neutralize dissidence, unquestioning and unwavering devotion to Almsivi. The Oath spells Almsivi.”

These were the words required to pass gate-check. There was no risk of forgetting them, even if one never heard the Oath before arriving. Given an hour of hold-up and listening to promise after promise, in every tone, pitch, and dialect imaginable, the Oath was a brand on the brain.

Transporting belongings was the real challenge. Handcarts, paddlecarts, crates, paper, fingerpresses, quills, chalk, paint, and slaves were subject to special procedures. One had to engrave the Oath somewhere visible on any of these items, a skin brand in the case of slaves. But laymer never brought these—sensitive items, called “apos,” were reserved to Temple Curates at least. “Apographs” were reserved to the even higher ranks. Sul was unsure what these ranks were. Nobody spoke openly about the nature of apographs, but Sul had overheard the guess that they were confiscated apos, foreign items, old items, printing presses, contraband, and the like. He did not remember the voice, only that he had never heard it since.

Ekem, Hefhed, Geth, Hekem, Iya, Jeb… Sul was still mentally reciting. The profane syllables conformed to the rhythm of the Oath. He liked to believe that while the gatekeeper was oblivious, a fragment of her mind recognized his dissent, and neither she nor the mass of writhing, servile tongues could do anything about it. He felt a stare latch onto him from somewhere to his right. Sul waited for the staring feeling to die down before averting his gaze to the property gate. It was a Saxhleel slave who had looked at him. A woman who wore the ear bells of a prostitute, she was showing the inscription on her arm. A few other Saxhleel plus a Suthay-Raht followed, but their master was already out of sight. There was a way that Sul envied the slaves. They were property and knew no law. No legal freedom either, but Sul questioned the worth of that.

The feeling of the Saxhleel’s eyes was still there on his skin. It was not the fact that the slave looked at him, but the possible reasons she had to do so.

“Your Oath,” the gatekeeper creaked in a mechanical mutter.

Sul pulled the scarf from over his mouth.

“Stop—yes, stop. Try again.” It was not only the first time Sul had botched his Oath, but the first time he had heard anyone botch it. The noise around him died down a little. He deliberately coughed to focus the blame on his ash cold and started again.

The old woman gave an agreeing nod. “Good enough. Go ahead.”

Sul, agitated, sunk his face back into the scarf and approached the Gateway Canton. Luckily he carried little besides clothing, so the city-check wouldn't be long. The gate led directly into north tunnel of the Canton Canalworks, where most of the common checks took place. Sul could hear the mysticom booming a gravely saccharin announcement overhead:

“Mer of Vivec. The Temple Mystics predict: ash winds. Four thirty to: Nine fifty-five. After-noon. Please remain inside during the predicted hours. This announcement spells Almsivi!” The female voice resonated from the ceiling in Dunmeris. Sul had wondered who the voice was when he was younger, until he learned that it was magically generated based on the average vocal structure of the Hierographa Department.

Sul approached the circle of desks and filing cabinets. He removed the badge from his pocket and slipped the rucksack off his shoulder, brain swirling with thoughts about slaves.

Edit: changed peddlecarts to paddlecarts. They are like a combination of cycles and wheelbarrows.