touched his forehead
dutifully anyway before turning toward the money changers.
Their booths lined the side walls of the temple,
each one marked with familiar symbols—the cock-and-hens of Areill,
the rose and wine-cup of Pajot Soeurs—but he made his way to the
biggest booth, the one marked with the ram’s head of Areton’s own
priesthood. Enough of Areton’s old servants retired from soldiering
into banking, drawing on the sense of value and exchange gained
over a lifetime’s fighting in every kingdom from the petty lands
west of Chadron to the Silklands themselves; their commissions
might be higher than some of the others who rented space in the
temple, but the rates of exchange tended to be better.
“ Wait for me here,” he said to the
boys who were standing wide-eyed, staring at the thanks-offerings
of guns and swords pinned like trophies to every pillar, and took
his place in line at the table marked with the ram’s head. The
clerk at the next table, a pretty, dark-skinned boy, smiled at
him.
“ I can offer good rates, sir, and
no waiting.”
Eslingen shook his head, but returned the smile. The
clerk’s hands were painted with a pattern of curving vines, black
picked out with dots of red and gold, vivid in the candlelight If
that was the fashion in Astreiant now, Eslingen thought, it was a
handsome one, though hardly practical. Then the man ahead of him
had finished his business, and he stepped up to the table, reaching
into his pocket for one purse, and under his shirt for the other.
The clerk—greying, one-eyed, ledger and tally board in front of
him, abacus laid ready to a hand that lacked part of a
finger—looked up at him shrewdly.
“ And what do you have for
me—sergeant, isn’t it, from Esling?”
“ From Esling, yes, but I earned my
commission this season,” Eslingen answered, and set the purses on
the table.
“ Congratulations,” the clerk said,
busily unfolding the letters of credit, and Eslingen allowed
himself a sour smile. Words were cheap; the ephemeral commission
was unlikely to get him an improved exchange rate for the Leaguer
coins.
The clerk poured out the small horde of coins—the
gold disk of the royal crown that had been this season’s wages,
warm in the candlelight; the heavy silver square of the pillar that
was Bathias’s gift; a pair of Altheim staters hardly bigger than
sequins, but bright gold; a scattering of miscellaneous silver,
Chadroni, League, and Chenedolliste equally mixed. The clerk
grunted, fingering them neatly into the holes of the tally board,
then spread the letters of credit beside them, bending close to
read the crabbed writing. He grunted again and flicked the beads of
his abacus, the maimed finger as deft as the others, then chalked
something on his slate and flicked the abacus again.
“ You have four crowns and three
pillars by my reckoning, sergeant—lieutenant—all good coin of Her
Majesty. Do you want it now, or do you want to bank it here and
gamble on the exchange?”
Eslingen sighed. One did not bargain with the
ram’s-head bankers the way one bargained with other merchants; if
one tried, the clerk was as likely to push the coins back to you
and send you searching for another broker. The only question now
was whether he would take the cash—and its attendant worries, theft
and loss—or take a letter of credit on the Astreiant temple and
hope that the exchange between the written amount, the monies of
account, and actual coin shifted in his favor. And when one thought
about it, it was no choice at all.
“ How’s the exchange been so far?”
he asked, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when the clerk
shrugged.
“ Up and down, sergeant, up and
down.”
“ Give me two pillars in coin,”
Eslingen said, “and a letter for the rest.”
The clerk nodded, put two fingers—the undamaged
hand—into his mouth and whistled shrilly. A junior clerk came
running, carrying a case of seals. Eslingen waited while the letter
was
dutifully anyway before turning toward the money changers.
Their booths lined the side walls of the temple,
each one marked with familiar symbols—the cock-and-hens of Areill,
the rose and wine-cup of Pajot Soeurs—but he made his way to the
biggest booth, the one marked with the ram’s head of Areton’s own
priesthood. Enough of Areton’s old servants retired from soldiering
into banking, drawing on the sense of value and exchange gained
over a lifetime’s fighting in every kingdom from the petty lands
west of Chadron to the Silklands themselves; their commissions
might be higher than some of the others who rented space in the
temple, but the rates of exchange tended to be better.
“ Wait for me here,” he said to the
boys who were standing wide-eyed, staring at the thanks-offerings
of guns and swords pinned like trophies to every pillar, and took
his place in line at the table marked with the ram’s head. The
clerk at the next table, a pretty, dark-skinned boy, smiled at
him.
“ I can offer good rates, sir, and
no waiting.”
Eslingen shook his head, but returned the smile. The
clerk’s hands were painted with a pattern of curving vines, black
picked out with dots of red and gold, vivid in the candlelight If
that was the fashion in Astreiant now, Eslingen thought, it was a
handsome one, though hardly practical. Then the man ahead of him
had finished his business, and he stepped up to the table, reaching
into his pocket for one purse, and under his shirt for the other.
The clerk—greying, one-eyed, ledger and tally board in front of
him, abacus laid ready to a hand that lacked part of a
finger—looked up at him shrewdly.
“ And what do you have for
me—sergeant, isn’t it, from Esling?”
“ From Esling, yes, but I earned my
commission this season,” Eslingen answered, and set the purses on
the table.
“ Congratulations,” the clerk said,
busily unfolding the letters of credit, and Eslingen allowed
himself a sour smile. Words were cheap; the ephemeral commission
was unlikely to get him an improved exchange rate for the Leaguer
coins.
The clerk poured out the small horde of coins—the
gold disk of the royal crown that had been this season’s wages,
warm in the candlelight; the heavy silver square of the pillar that
was Bathias’s gift; a pair of Altheim staters hardly bigger than
sequins, but bright gold; a scattering of miscellaneous silver,
Chadroni, League, and Chenedolliste equally mixed. The clerk
grunted, fingering them neatly into the holes of the tally board,
then spread the letters of credit beside them, bending close to
read the crabbed writing. He grunted again and flicked the beads of
his abacus, the maimed finger as deft as the others, then chalked
something on his slate and flicked the abacus again.
“ You have four crowns and three
pillars by my reckoning, sergeant—lieutenant—all good coin of Her
Majesty. Do you want it now, or do you want to bank it here and
gamble on the exchange?”
Eslingen sighed. One did not bargain with the
ram’s-head bankers the way one bargained with other merchants; if
one tried, the clerk was as likely to push the coins back to you
and send you searching for another broker. The only question now
was whether he would take the cash—and its attendant worries, theft
and loss—or take a letter of credit on the Astreiant temple and
hope that the exchange between the written amount, the monies of
account, and actual coin shifted in his favor. And when one thought
about it, it was no choice at all.
“ How’s the exchange been so far?”
he asked, without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when the clerk
shrugged.
“ Up and down, sergeant, up and
down.”
“ Give me two pillars in coin,”
Eslingen said, “and a letter for the rest.”
The clerk nodded, put two fingers—the undamaged
hand—into his mouth and whistled shrilly. A junior clerk came
running, carrying a case of seals. Eslingen waited while the letter
was
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