Fees, Licenses & Red Tape

I was reviewing the previous day's applications for vendor licenses. Most vendors, by nature, are of low caste. When we receive an influx of peddlers, sutlers, traders and the like, it makes sense to peruse the type of vendors that are entering the city. If too many are sellers of goods of the like that can already be purchased in the city, the licenses are denied or, if already granted, revoked. Those that sell a unique product are generally welcomed into the city. The bulk of fees for this administrative work finds its way back to the Office of the Magistrate to pay the various clerks and record-keepers. It has been my policy to redistribute the surplus evenly amongst the lower castes, sometimes defraying their tax or other various fees for doing business. It is generally not much more than a goodwill gesture, a show of faith that the administration, at my end of it, is not trying to turn a profit at the expense of the people it serves.
From time to time, we welcome vendors that can only be described as unique. Charlatans, tricksters and tellers of hoaxes to name a few. Some sell unseemly things such as hair-dyes and love tonics. Others sell bina, trying to pass it off as bana. From far off parts of the world, the distasteful practice of domesticating animals is brought to Ar, hobbling tiny Schendian birds in cages, for example, just to have their warbling on demand. The citizens are generally sharp enough to spot the less-than-genuine sorts, so most licenses are approved and then brought to my attention the following day. If something is out of the ordinary, I will send out a revoke notice and have the person escorted from the city. Other times, something will simply catch my eye as odd, but not warrant immediate action.

"Wait a moment," I said to the functionary, delivering the previous days applications for license.

"Magistrate?" he asked, pausing.


"This one," I said, holding up the license which was stamped for approval, the fees accepted. He leaned in a bit closer, scanned the document and nodded.


"Older woman. Called herself an al-kem-ist," he answered. "Seller of herbs or something. Al-kem-i-cal products. Medicines."


"Should irk the Physicians, but I doubt they will lend her much credence," I posited. "She was assigned slot 1301. Where is that?"


"The Great Square, Magistrate. Northwest corner. High Street," he answered.


"Alright then," I nodded. "Keep an eye on her."