The timing was a fortuitous coincidence. He had just returned from a long lunch, and short inspection, with one of the regular merchant captains when a note came in from Chosen Màtic in the Prelate's private office, giving advance notice of the proclamation. So he was able to seamlessly add that under the fees section of the Captain's bill and whip up an appropriately official-looking certificate for the man to show any crown inspectors who complained. 

If there had been anyone in a position to question this, he would have been genuinely flummoxed at the idea this was somehow corrupt or unlawful (bribes came under a separate line item afterall).

When the Crown says that something is illegal, that obviously means illegal, except for sufficiently important people. That's what banning something means.

Members of the high nobility or the priesthood have privileges, and these can be extended to those under their protection, at their discretion. (And if those people fuck something up enough to upset someone more important, then well, they probably don't have permission after all)

The Senior Presbyter was, everyone would agree, a very important man who, in his wisdom, had delegated much of his authority to Orgull. Who could therefore make such decisions on his behalf.

The value of the radios to shipping had been self-evident from the beginning. It would be putting Chelish captains at a major disadvantage if they were the only ones who lacked up-to-date information on prices and weather. Obviously that was not the crown's intention when banning them.

The only thing that gave him a moment's pause was that this was a Crown proclamation, and they were the Church Customs Office. But the issue at stake was obviously protecting the spiritual health of the Chelish people, so it would be under their purview. And, more importantly, nobody in the Archduke's Port Inspectorate had been fast enough to think of it first. 

He's acquired his own radio some weeks earlier, confiscated from an Osirian captain with a very annoying voice. The business justification for it was obvious, knowing the accurate prices for goods meant they could tell how much the ships cargoes were worth, and charge appropriately. 

The junior clerks had started scheming amongst themselves for who got the honor of doing the radio transcription that day. Partly for the novelty of it, partly because it gave them a headstart on selling the prices onward.

They were, frankly, terrible at it, but watching  them try to flatter him and undermine each other was almost adorable. (One had told him, entirely unprompted and straight faced, that his hair looked very nice that day. He’d given the man the next day’s slot just to see what he’d come up with next.) Pastoral work had never appealed to him, but if this was what non-Chosen scheming always looked like he was beginning to see the appeal. 

Speculation was rampant in Ostenso about where the radios had come from. Nobody believed it was really the Abadarans, they just weren’t creative that way. (They were using them for grain prices for Mammon’s sake. You could be broadcasting sermons and propaganda to all of Avistan and you were telling people “Today Taldane turnips are tuppence a ton!”. For free? Really?) 

It was obviously a wizardly kind of invention (even if their staff wizard wasn’t skilled enough to detect the magic on them), and everyone knew Cheliax had the best wizards. So those with a very specific balance of patriotic and conspiratorial mindset were claiming that a Chelish wizard must have invented them, and the Crown (or possibly Church) had used the Abadarans as a fence, because otherwise the rest of Avistan would refuse to use them. 

After being bought a few drinks, in thanks for his tip-off, Chosen Màtic had tapped his nose knowingly, explaining that the ban of the radio proved this theory beyond all doubt. Because it was exactly what you’d do if you were trying to sell the lie. ("And note! If you are observant! Neither Church nor Crown has ever denied knowing the origins of the Radios on the record have they?") Orgull smiled and nodded, and commended his companion for his perceptiveness, but, in his heart, he didn’t think the Crown could really pull off that level of deception at scale. (Did that mean it was a Church plot against the Crown? Best not to say that out loud…)

Even the Senior Presbyter had his own wild theory, which went something like: 

“If you read this stupid boring Azlanti epic that doesn’t even have good fight scenes...

no not that translation, that’s old Arodenite nonsense, this one I had commissioned, you see the declensions....

blah blah blah I am old and boring and my assistant does all the real work and doesn't get paid enough...

Asmodeus only choose me because Pharasma doesn't let Him drop cleric circles on rocks, so I was the next best thing to load into a catapult and fire at Isarn... 

...we can conclusively demonstrate that the Azlanti, as well as being Asmodean, and the exact kind of Asmodean I am, all had radios everywhere!”

But thankfully everyone had learned to ignore him by now.