PH 1

Nile Giles was a young man with the kind of face that naturally made people feel favorably toward him, even when he was doing nothing at all.

With soft, light brown hair and eyes of the same hue, this young man’s face always carried a gentle light, his voice was clear, and his demeanor was calm and composed.

His overall impression was affable and warm, which was all the more so because of the smile that always hung at the corners of his mouth. The young man was kind, tender, and quick to smile. That was why people often said Nile resembled the spring sunshine.

Nile Giles was tall and good-looking enough, so he was rather popular among women. —Even if for no other reason than that he was the only man who never raised his voice at a woman, Nile was bound to be popular.— He was neither the handsomest young man in town nor the strongest, but if ten women gathered, one or two of them were sure to like Nile. They just didn’t show it.

Nile’s job was assistant to the harbor administrator. Galen, located in the central part of the Empire, was a city famous as a seaside resort adjacent to the sea, and being adjacent to the sea also meant it had a harbor.

Nile was involved in a wide range of tasks, from checking the list of cargoes on incoming and outgoing ships and operating the freight storage, to minor matters like assigning berths for ships, all the way up to detecting contraband.

The administrator only had to sit in his office and sign documents, but the assistant who produced those documents had to involve himself in much more trivial and miscellaneous chores.

Harbors invariably attracted drifters, swindlers, con artists, and vagabonds, and people wondered how that genial Nile could hold his own among those rough men.

A kindly butcher had once suggested that Nile come work at his shop. It would be better, he said, to slaughter animals than to deal with those bastards.

Most of the sailors at the harbor were perpetually angry. They loathed the word “dockage,” and regarded terms like “overloading tax,” “administrative fee,” and “storage charge” as if they were mortal enemies who had killed their parents.

So how do you think they looked upon an administrative assistant who showed up laden with all those taxes?

Since they couldn’t very well go to court over a few coins, harbor business tended to operate in a somewhat rough-and-tumble, rule-of-thumb fashion.

The assistants had monthly quotas they had to meet, and they had no choice but to descend to a level similar to that of their clients.

If they were threatened, they threatened back; if fists were used, they used fists too. Otherwise, they couldn’t collect the fees.

What was astonishing was that Nile Giles always met his quota without ever resorting to such threats. And not only that—he was always the first in the harbor to do so, and far exceeded his quota to boot.

People were baffled every time they saw Nile at work. No matter who he was dealing with, he always wore a smiling face. His manner was relaxed, and his voice as he explained the taxes was clear and low.

The captain and Nile, exchanging tax bills, were as natural as close friends, and the captain always meekly placed the dockage fee in Nile’s hand. It was always like that. No shouting, no quarrels.

Another assistant, curious, summoned a sailor who had reported to Nile and asked him about it. The man scratched the back of his neck and answered like this:

“Well, I was definitely asking him not to impose a surcharge on the cargo coming in tomorrow. But next thing I knew, I was telling him about my mother.

That assistant named Nile hadn’t said anything special. In the middle of talking about taxes, he just suddenly asked me, ‘By the way, Mr. Weasel, what made you go to sea?’ It was a question no one had ever asked me before.

At that moment our eyes met, and I got to thinking that the assistant’s brown eyes were a lot like my late mother’s eyes. Strange, isn’t it? Because my mother’s eyes were blue.

Anyway, before I knew it, I was telling him about my mother’s last words. That assistant listened to my rambling story all the way to the end. That was all. After I’d finished my story, I just didn’t feel like being stingy over a little money.”

So saying, the sailor gave a hollow laugh. The listener felt like laughing hollowly too.

That was it. Nile Giles was unmistakably a kind man. And his gift lay in being able to soften even the hearts of those rough seafarers.

Time and again, if one caught hold of that affable-looking assistant and launched into a long-winded tale about the hardships of voyaging or the ups and downs of trade, before one knew it, one would have placed the dockage fee squarely in the young man’s hand.

At first, of course, one would have intended to pour out one’s grievances and then ask for a reduction in fees because of the difficult circumstances—but when the young man listened attentively to one’s words with those kind, warm brown eyes, and one held his gaze for a while, strangely enough, one no longer wanted to make things difficult for him.

Of course, one couldn’t say there were no conflicts at all, but Nile was certainly the only assistant in Galen’s harbor who met his quota while “getting hit the least” and “without ever raising his voice.”

Thus, people liked Nile, and they also liked to confide in him at length. Thanks to this, Nile was able to have a second job—that of an information broker.

If one says he bought and sold information, it sounds somewhat mysterious, but the kind of information a commoner like him could handle was really just gossip.

For example, rumors that a certain wife had given birth to an illegitimate child behind her husband’s back, or that a certain household’s sow had farrowed and the owner had hidden the piglets to pay less tax. Or rumors—quite close to the truth—that a certain young nobleman liked to drink women’s urine every time he had intercourse.

Entertaining stories were welcome wherever one went. People would invite Nile to dinner, expecting to hear amusing tales, and Nile could get free meals by selling gossip.

During meals, the hosts would naturally share stories themselves, goodwill would develop, and then Nile would receive a third kind of job request.

Nile was handy. He could fix broken plumbing, sharpen metal blades, mend the clasps of pearl necklaces, make wooden dolls with detachable joints, and even bake bread—traditionally women’s work.

The stories heard during meals—things like “Come to think of it, I heard so-and-so’s drain is clogged,” or “I heard the herbalist on such-and-such street is looking for an errand boy”—were very useful to Nile. Having heard the news, Nile could go to those in need faster than anyone else and bargain for his wages.

Nile truly did everything. He crawled through other people’s sewers, of course, and even worked as a barker for a theater troupe, turning his hand to anything. Thanks to this, Nile could earn nearly ten pence a week in side income.

A kind man with good business sense. A man kind to women and children.

A diligent man with a head for work, who seemed likely never to let his wife and children go hungry for life.

Tall, and with a fairly passable face, parents with marriageable daughters would look upon Nile with very warm eyes. In fact, the town’s wealthiest tanner once called him in and discreetly broached the subject of his daughter’s marriage to him.

If only he hadn’t had such an unusual sexual proclivity, Nile Giles would already have married and had two or three children. Despite his obscure background and even his debts.

The problem was Nile’s proclivity.