The Distant Complaint

In a city where scribes kept the records of trade, a young man had built his name carefully over seven years. His seals were trusted. His work was considered careful. One winter he received word from a cousin in the eastern quarter: there was talk, in the record halls of a neighboring city, of a disputed document. The name attached to the dispute was like his own name, though not exactly.

He spent three days making inquiries. He sent letters of introduction to men with connections in the east. He studied the charter of the neighboring city's hall. He consulted a colleague about the penalties for disputed seals. He wrote a clean draft of his practices, his methods, his record of accuracy, and kept it in readiness.

On his desk during those three days sat a single contract waiting for his seal. His client had submitted it a week earlier. It was straightforward. He had read it twice. Everything was in order. He had only to press the seal. Each morning he sat down, glanced at the contract, found a reason to attend to the distant matter first, and rose.

On the fourth day a message arrived. The complaint was against a different man. The name was similar, not the same. The dispute had nothing to do with him.

He sat down at his desk and pressed his seal on the contract. The work of a moment.

Outside, his client was already walking home.