EFB Chapter 24 Temporary Work
Chapter 24 Temporary Work
"Temporary work?" Fafner asked, somewhat curious.
Mr. Victor moved slightly closer to Fafnir: "It's nothing really. They need manpower in Ryan Harbor. The night patrols under the Security Bureau are currently arresting a group of smugglers, um... they're probably too busy."
"Little Fafnir, if you'd like, I can put in a word with Kingsley, and you could work as a clerical assistant."
"Clerical assistant?"
"Yes, registering seized items, checking invoices, calculating customs duties, and other similar tasks," Mr. Victor smiled. "You got a perfect score on your bookkeeping test, better than those fourth or fifth graders who are almost ten years older than you."
Just what I needed.
"But... I'm only eight years old." Fafnir hesitated for a moment.
"So what if you're eight years old?" Victor stood up from his chair. "Although you're young, your magical foundation is solid, little Fafnir, do you know that?"
Your bookkeeping skills are outstanding, and your fireball spell yesterday was at a level that could pass the entrance exam for the Holy Kingdom's top university. Seriously, I'm not kidding.
Although the First University of the Holy Kingdom probably wouldn't test such basic magic.
Fafnir bowed slightly to Mr. Victor: "Thank you, Mr. Victor, thank you so much."
Fafnir thought to himself that he could try something new, and of course, it would be even better if he could help Mr. Victor.
I don't know how to thank Mr. Victor for always helping me.
"Since we're not on holiday yet, come with me to the logistics department tomorrow to get a new set of clothes. You can't be dressed like this then."
……
It's Sunday again, and Fafnir is unusually not going home today; he had already sent a letter to his parents explaining the situation.
Mr. Victor was wearing the same formal attire he wore to the opening ceremony today, with gold stripes on the cuffs and the insignia on the chest indicating his status as a bishop.
Fafner was also wearing a brand-new black robe, with a raven feather embroidered in brown silk thread on the chest, but the cuffs were plain.
I must be cosplaying. Well, Mr. Victor told me to publicly declare myself as a second-level assistant priest of the Church of the God of Death, and he specially got me a formal priest's robe from the logistics department.
The weather is quite cold now, so this robe is very warm.
But I'm not!
Fafnir inwardly wanted to complain: Didn't this also violate the fifth commandment of the Church of the God of Death, "Honest Record-Keeping"? Uh…
"Little Fafnir, come on, get in the carriage... What are you thinking about?"
……
The buildings along the road gradually thinned out, replaced by rows of warehouses, barns, and stables.
The air was filled with the fishy smell of the Ryan River, mixed with the odors of tobacco, leather, and animal dung.
This is the easternmost part of Ryan City, home to Ryan Port, a well-known port in the Elven Holy Kingdom.
Every day, a large amount of cargo is transferred here, and ships dock here and depart from here.
"We've arrived." The driver reined in the coach.
The carriage stopped in front of an iron gate, and a bronze plaque was nailed to the stone wall beside the gate:
"Ryan Harbor Inspection Team - Directly under the Lorraine Territory Security Department of the Church of the God of Death".
Two guards in leather armor approached. Victor pulled out his work ID from his robe, and the guards glanced at it before saluting and letting him pass.
The courtyard was larger than Fafnir had imagined. On the east side was a row of two-story office buildings, on the west side were several large warehouses, and in the center of the courtyard were several horse-drawn carriages being loaded and unloaded.
Sawdust and straw were scattered on the ground, and the air was filled with the fishy smell of the river, as well as the smell of tea, spices, and some other indescribable odor.
Several uniformed men were unloading wooden crates from a horse-drawn carriage. The crates had numbers and dates written on their sides in charcoal.
A gray-haired man stood to the side, holding a splint in his hand, writing and drawing on paper while referring to it.
Victor led Fafnir into the office building. The first floor was a spacious hall with several long tables pushed together, covered with documents and ledgers.
In the corner was a small, separate table, on which sat an oil lamp that had not yet been extinguished and a small stack of blank forms.
"Little Fafnir, your seat is over there," Victor pointed to the small table. "Sit down and wait a bit. Someone will assign you tasks. I'm going to find Kingsley."
Just as Fafnir sat down, a middle-aged man with a round face and thinning hair came out of one of the offices inside.
When he saw Fafnir, he paused for a moment, then walked over and glanced down at the brown raven feather on his chest.
"A new assistant priest?"
"Yes, sir, I am Fafnir Beckett." Fafnir stood up.
"Hans," the man said briefly, his gaze lingering on Hans's face for a couple of seconds. "How old are you?"
"I'm eight years old," Fafnir replied.
Hans grunted in response, showing no surprise, and simply moved a stack of documents from the chair next to him and placed it in front of Fafner:
"These are the invoices and seizure lists for the past week. Match them by date and find any discrepancies."
Ask me if you don't understand.
After saying that, he returned to his office.
The pile of documents was mixed up in a mess, probably because the night patrolman who was conducting the on-site audit didn't sort them out.
Fafner sat down and opened the documents.
The handwriting on the delivery note was messy, but the format was uniform: product name, quantity, weight, unit price, total price, and customs duty.
The seizure lists are handwritten records, usually much shorter, some only saying "suspected contraband" without even specifying the quantity.
He compared them one by one according to the date and time, marking the differences with a pen.
The entire morning slipped by amidst the rustling of papers. Fafner checked over forty invoices and found several discrepancies.
Most of the errors were in the quantity or the product name, but there were a few things that caught his eye—the invoice said "textiles," while the seizure list said "undeclared spiritual materials."
He separated these few copies and set them aside.
At lunchtime, Hans came out of his office, picked up the list marked by Fafnir, flipped through it, and then looked at the few bills of lading that had been pulled out.
"Not bad efficiency," Hans put down the list, his gaze lingering on the "textiles" invoices for a moment. "Come with me to the warehouse this afternoon; there are a few batches of goods that need to be checked on-site."
The warehouse was located on the north side of the courtyard. It was a stone building without windows, and the main gate was secured with two large padlocks.
The old man in charge of warehouse management, named Igor, was sitting on a bench by the door, eating a piece of wheat bread.
"A new guy?" Igor glanced at Fafnir, his gaze sweeping over Fafnir's face. "A ratman?"
"Hmm." Fafnir was already used to this direct way of asking questions.
"Rare indeed," Igor said, stuffing the last bite of bread into his mouth. He stood up and pulled a large bunch of keys from his waist. "Two people are required to enter the warehouse. That's the rule. You stay with me and don't touch anything."
The warehouse was dimly lit, and the air was filled with a strange mixture of various smells.