"So, you've found a new aquifer then? Let's see them papers."
Jig glanced at the chronicler, who patted their clothes down before producing a notebook. "Page forty three, sir. I can open it for y' if y'please?"
"That won't be necessary, thank you, Mx Carif. I'll take that." The watermaster reached out his hand, and Carif gave him the notebook - not without a little hesitation, Jig noted. Parting with the notes was always hard for a crew, and especially the chronicler. The watermaster pulled his eyeglasses to his face and flicked through the book.
"Hmmm, all seems to be in order - the south flats, you say? Rumor had it they lost their water before I was born."
"With respect, sir, per'aps they warn't lookin' 'ard enough." Jig smiled. "Nothin' like a fresh pair o' eyes."
"Aye to that." The watermaster picked up his stamp and brought it down hard on the page. Kerthump. "She's yours to do with as you will, minus the levy. And might I congratulate you, Carif, on an excellently presented chronicle."
Record-Keeping, That's The Way Of It
There's plenty out in the wilds what makes a body wonder if its eyes ain't workin' right. Maybe y' been drinking a mite too much ale, not sure if it's real. Big snakes in the clouds, towns not on the map, even that elusive glitter they be callin' skydust. That's what yer chroniclers for. Sober ones, they are, and they'll keep yer head in check. Incidentally, y'ever want t' know something 'bout a ship? Y' ask the chronicler first. They know the woman better than the captain does, most days.
O' course, the chronicler ain't only there for sanity's sake, though they're certainly a bit o' help in that regard. If y' don't remember things so well, getting them writ down right and proper ain't never a bad idea. Chroniclers can write, would y' believe it? Well, more often than not now y' have a few bodies on a ship what can read and write, but a chronicler can write nice, y'see. And draw, too, if y' found a beastie or few y' want to record but can't be takin' with y'. That's the way y' can prove to the folks back home that y' weren't exaggeratin' the size o' that serpent you tangled with.
Got t' be Learned, Though
See, 's not any ol' body what can write can be a chronicler. Got t' be good at it, for a start, and most o' th' time y' average body with a pen ain't quite up to standard. But more'n that, y' got to be good at drawin', too, and most o' all bein' accurate-like. No sense havin' a chronicle if it's full of faerie stories, an' that's the truth of it. An' see, I know I'm halfway-honest, and I'd wager if y' know me y' would be saying the same - but what about those what y' don't know? Why would they trust y'? That's why them chroniclers got to go and get certified. There's a certification office in just almost every town of any size, but y' got to be known by a few bodies first.
Gettin' the Badge
Certification offices ain't the friendliest of places, but y' got to go to get y' badge. Y' got to be bringin' no less than three others with y' too, and they can't just be nobodies - got t' be known figures in the town, or from near enough around, y'see. They got t' vouch for y', say y' a trusty being. Then y' got to do their little test, do some writin', some readin', some drawin', and make sure that y' ain't blind nor deaf nor hard of remembering things. Then they give y' this little 'erb thing to check if y' been drinkin', and if y' have it'll make y' feed the gulls somethin' awful, that's why they puts y' in the outhouse first. An' if y' chuck up, y' won't be comin' back.
So that's about the size o' it, ain't that the way? But they're good bodies, chroniclers, not a one of 'em I've sailed with who I'd be castin' aspersions on.
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