Cold Copper Tears

by Glen Cook

  “The Karentine mark has a five-hundred-year history, as commercial league coinage, as city standard, then as the imperial standard, and now as the Royal. From the beginning it’s been permissible for anyone to mint his own coins because it began as a private standard meant to guarantee value.”

  “Why not start with my coins?”

  “Because they don’t tell us much.” He snagged a shiny new five-mark silver piece. “Just in. One of one thousand struck to commemorate Karentine victories during the summer campaign. The obverse. We have a bust of the King. We have a date below. We have an inscription across the top which gives us the King’s name and titles. At the toe of the bust we have a mark which tells us who designed and executed the engraving for the die, in this case Claddio Winsch. Here, behind the bust, we have a bunch of grapes, which is the TunFaire city mark.”

  He placed my gold coin beside the five-mark piece. “Instead of a bust we have squiggles that might be a spider or octopus. We have a date, but this is temple coinage so we don’t know its referent. There are no designer’s or engraver’s marks. The city mark looks like a fish and probably isn’t a city mark at all but an identifier for the temple where the coin was struck. The top inscription isn’t Karentine, it’s Faharhan. It reads, ‘And He Shall Reign Triumphant.’ “” Who?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t say. Temple coinage is meant for use by the faithful. They already know who.” He stood the coins on edge. “TunFaire Type Three reeding on the five-mark piece. Used by the Royal Mint since the turn of the century. Type One on the gold. All Type One means is that the reeding device was manufactured before marking standards were fixed. Minting equipment is expensive. The standardization law lets coiners use their equipment until it wears out. Some of the old stuff is still around.”

  I was intrigued but also beginning to feel out of my depth. “Why city identification by marks and reeding both?”

  “Because the same dies are used to strike copper, silver, and gold but copper coins and small fractional silver aren’t reeded. Only the more valuable coins get clipped, shaved, or filed.”

  I got that part. The little lines on the edge of coins are added so alterations will be obvious. Without them the smart guys can take a little weight off every coin they touch, then sell the accumulated scrap.

  The human capacity for mischief is boundless. I once knew a guy with a touch so fine he could drill into the edge of a gold coin, hollow out a quarter of it, fill the hollow with lead, then plug the drill hole undetectably.

  They executed him for a rape he didn’t commit. I guess you’d call that karma.

  The old man turned the coins face down and went on about the markings on their reverses. They told us nothing about the provenance of my coins either.

  “Do you read?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Most people don’t.

  “Good. Those books over there all have to do with temple coinage. Use your own judgment. See if you can luck onto something. We’ll start from the ends and see what we can uncover.”

  “All right.” I took down a book on Orthodox emissions just to see how it was organized.

  The top of each page had an illustration of both sides of a coin from a rubbing of the original, lovingly and delicately inked. Below was everything anyone could possibly want to know about the coin: number of dies in the designs, the date each went into service, the date each was taken out and destroyed, dates of repairs and reengravings on each, quantities of each kind of coin struck. There was even a statement about whether or not there were known counterfeits.

  I had a plethora of information available to me for which I could see little practical use. But the purpose of the Assay operation is partly symbolic. It is the visible avatar of Karenta’s commitment to sound, reliable money, a commitment which has persisted since before the establishment of a Karentine state. Our philosophical forebears were merchants. Our coinage is the most trusted in our end of the world, despite the absurdities of its production.

  I spent an hour dipping into books and finding nothing useful. The old man, who knew what he was doing, moved from the general to the particular, one reference after another, narrowing the hunt by process of elimination. He came to the wall I was working, scanned titles, brought a ladder from a corner, went up, and brushed a century’s worth of dust off the spines of some books on the top shelf. He brought one down, placed it in his work table, flipped pages.

  “And here we are.” He grinned, revealing bad teeth.

  And there we were, yes. There were only two examples listed, one of which matched the coins I had except for the date. “Check the date,” I said.

  It had to be important. Because according to the book these coins had last been struck a hundred seventy-seven years ago. And if you added one hundred seventy-six to the date pictured you got the date on the gold piece I’d brought in.

  “Curious.” The old man compared coin to picture while I tried to read around his hands.

  My type of coin had been minted in TunFaire for only a few years. The other, older type had been minted in Carathca... Ah! Carathca! The stuff of legend. Dark legend. Carathca, the last nonhuman city destroyed in these parts, and the only one to have been brought low since the Karentine kings had displaced the emperors.

  Those old kings must have had good reason to reduce Carathca but I couldn’t recall what it was, only that it had been a bitter struggle.

  Here was one more good reason to waken the Dead Man. He remembered those days. For the rest of us they’re an echo, the substance of stories poorly recalled and seldom understood.

  The old man grunted, turned away from the table, pulled down another book. When he moved away I got my first clear look at the name of the outfit that had produced the coins. The Temple of Hammon.

  Never heard of it.

  The TunFaire branch was down as a charitable order. There was no other information except the location of the order’s temple. Nothing else was of interest to the Assay Office.

  I hadn’t found the gold at the end of the rainbow but it had given me leads enough to keep me busy-particularly if I could smoke the Dead Man out.

  I said, “I want to thank you for your trouble. How about I treat you to supper? You have time?”

  Frowning, he looked up. “No. No. That’s not necessary. Just doing my job. Glad you came in. There aren’t many challenges anymore.”

  “But?” His tone and stance told me he was going to hit me with something I wouldn’t like.

  “There’s an edict on the books concerning this emission. Still in force. It was ordered pulled from circulation and melted down. Brian the Third. Not to mention that there’s no license been given to produce the ones you brought in.”

  “Are you sneaking up on telling me I can’t keep my money?”

  “It’s the law.” He wouldn’t meet my eye.

  Right. “Me and the law will go round and round, then.” “I’ll provide you with a promissory note you can redeem —”

  “How young do I look?”

  “What?”

  “I wondered if I look young enough to be dumb enough to accept a promissory note from a Crown agent.”

  “Sir!”

  “You pay out good money when somebody brings you scrap or bullion. You can come up with coins to replace those four.”

  He scowled, caught on his own hook.

  “Or I can take them and walk out and you won’t have anything left to show anybody.” I had a feeling they’d constitute a professional coup when he showed them to his superiors.

  He weighed everything, grunted irritably, then stamped off through the rear door. He came back with one gold mark, two silver marks, and a copper, all new and of the Royal mintage. I told him, “Thank you.”

  “Did you notice,” he asked as I turned to go, “that the worn specimen is an original?”

  I paused. He was right. I hadn’t noticed. I grunted and headed out, wondering if that, too, had been part of the message I was supposed to get.

  I
didn’t want to go anywhere near the kingpin but I was starting to suspect I’d have to. He might know what was going on.

  25

  It had turned dark. The rains had gone. My pal Mumbles hadn’t. He was right where I’d left him, soggy, and shivering in the breeze. It was cold. A freeze before dawn wouldn’t be a surprise.

  I passed within two feet of him. “Miserable weather, isn’t it?” I wish there’d been more light, the better to appreciate his panic.

  He decided I was just being friendly, that I hadn’t made him. He gave me a head start, then tagged along. He wasn’t very good.

  I wondered what to do with him. I couldn’t see him as a threat. And he couldn’t report on me while he was on my trail — if he wasn’t just a drunk who liked to follow people.

  I thought about going back to the Blue Bottle to check him out but couldn’t bring myself to go nose to nose with Big Momma again. I thought about giving him the shake, then reversing our roles. But I was tired and cold and hungry and fed up with walking around alone in a city where some strange people were taking too much interest in me. I needed to go somewhere where I could get warm, get fed, and not have to worry about watching my back.

  Home and Morley’s place recommended themselves. The food would be better at home. But at Morley’s I could work while I loafed. If I played it right I could get my job on Mumbles done for me. The disadvantage was the food.

  It was the same old story. The crowd — down a little because of the weather — went silent and stared when I stepped inside. But there was a difference. I got the feeling that this time I wasn’t just a wolf from another pack nosing around, I was one of the sheep.

  Saucerhead was at his usual table. I invited myself to join him and nodded politely to the cutie with him. He has a way of attracting tiny women who become fervently devoted.

  “I take it Jill Craight didn’t get in touch.”

  He wasn’t pleased by my intrusion. The story of my life. “Was she supposed to?”

  “I recommended it.” I had the feeling he was surprised to see me. “She needs protection.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Too bad. Excuse me. Morley beckons.” I nodded to his lady friend and headed for Dotes, who had come to the foot of the stairs.

  Morley looked surprised to see me, too. And he was troubled, which wasn’t a good sign. About the only time Morley worries is when he has his ass in a sling. He hissed, “Get your butt upstairs quick.”

  I went past him. He backed up the stair behind me.

  Strange.

  He slammed his office door and barred it. “You trying to start a riot, coming around here?”

  “I thought some supper would be nice.”

  “Don’t be flip.”

  “I’m not. What gives?”

  He gave me the fish eye. “You don’t know?”

  “No. I don’t. I’ve been busy chasing a two-hundred-year-old phantom charity. Here’s your chance. What gives?”

  “It’s a marvel you survive. It really is.” He shook his head.

  “Come on. Stop trying to show how cute you are. Tell me what’s got your piles aching.”

  “There’s a bounty out on you, Garrett. A thousand marks in gold for the man who hands over your head.’’

  I gave him a hard look. He has the dark-elfin sense of humor.

  He meant it.

  “You walk into this place, Garrett, you jump into a snake pit where the only two cobras that won’t eat you are me and Tharpe.”

  And I wasn’t so sure about Morley Dotes. A thousand in gold can put a hell of a strain on a friendship. That’s more than most people can imagine.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “He calls himself Brother Jerce”. Staying at the Rose and Dolphin in the North End, where he’ll take delivery anytime.”

  “That’s dumb. Suppose I just waltzed in to take him out first?”

  “Want to try? Think about it.”

  There’d be a platoon of smart boys hanging around figuring I might try that.

  “I see what you mean. That old boy must be worried I’ll get next to him somehow.”

  “You still not working on something that’s going to get you killed anyway?”

  “I’m working now. For myself. Trying to find out who wants to kill me. And why.”

  “Now you know who.” He chuckled.

  “Highly amusing, Morley.” I dragged one of my copper temple coins out. I hadn’t shown them all at the Assay Office. I sketched what I’d learned. Then, “Carathca was a dark-elfin city. Know anything about it? This thing seems to go back there.”

  “Why should I know anything more about Carathca than you do about FellDorhst? That’s ancient times, Garrett. Nobody cares. This thing keeps yelling religion. Find your answers in the Dream Quarter.” He studied the coin. “Doesn’t say anything to me. Maybe you ought to have a skull session with the Dead Man.”

  “I’d love to. If I could get him to take a twenty-minute break from his crusade against consciousness.”

  Someone pounded on the door. Morley looked startled, then concerned. He indicated a corner. “What is it?”

  “Puddle, boss.”

  Morley opened a large cabinet. It was the household arsenal, containing weapons enough to arm a Marine platoon. He tossed me a small crossbow and quarrels, selected a javelin for himself. “Who’s with you, Puddle?”

  “Just me, boss.” Puddle sounded confused. But life itself confuses Puddle.

  Morley lifted the bar and jumped back. “Come ahead.”

  Puddle came in, looked at the waiting death, asked, “What’d I do, boss?”

  “Nothing, Puddle. You did fine. Close the door and bar it, then fix yourself a drink.” Morley replaced the weapons, closed (he cabinet, and settled into his chair. “So what do you have for me, Puddle?”

  Puddle gave me the fish eye, but decided it was all right to talk in front of me. “Word just came that Chodo put a two-thousand-mark bounty on that guy who put the thousand on Garrett.”

  Morley laughed.

  Great. “It isn’t funny.” Here was a chance for the daring to make a truly outrageous hit by selling my head to Brother Jerce, then taking his and selling it to Chodo.

  Morley laughed again, said, “It is funny. The auction is on. And this Brother Jerce would have to be awful naive to think he could outbid the kingpin.”

  TunFaire is full of people who want to do favors for Chodo.

  Puddle said, “Chodo says he’ll give two hundred a head for anybody who even talks about laying a hand on Garrett. Three if you bring him in alive so he can feed him to his lizards.”

  My guardian angel. Instead of using guard dogs he has a horde of carnivorous thunder lizards that will attack anything that moves. He favors them because they dispose of bodies, bones and all,

  “What a turnaround!” Morley crowed. “Suddenly you’ve got everybody in TunFaire looking out for you.”

  Wrong. “Suddenly I’ve got everyone watching me. Period. And getting underfoot, maybe, while they wait for somebody to take a crack at me so they can snag him and collect on him.”

  He saw it. “Yeah. Maybe you’d be better off if everybody thought you were dead.”

  “What I should do, if I had any sense, is say the hell with it all and go see old man Weider about a full-time job at the brewery.” I got myself a drink uninvited. Morley doesn’t indulge but he keeps a stock for guests. I thought. Then I told Morley about Mumbles and how I’d like to know a little more about him, only I’d had about all I could take for one day and just wanted to go home and get some sleep.

  Morley said, “I’ll put a tag on him, see where he goes.” He seemed a little remote since Puddle’s advent, which is how he gets when he’s thinking about pulling something slick. I didn’t see how he could make things worse so I didn’t really care.

  “It should be safe now. I’m heading out.” I no longer wanted what I’d gone there to find. The quiet and loneliness of home had more appeal.

>   “I understand,” Morley said. “Keep Dean over and have him wait up. I’ll get word to you. Puddle, send me Slade.”

  “Thanks, Morley.”

  Things had changed downstairs. Word was out. I didn’t like the way they looked at me now any more than I’d liked their looks before.

  I went out into the night and stood a few minutes in the cold letting my eyes adjust. Then I headed for home. As I passed Mumbles I said, “There you are again. Have a nice evening.”

  26

  I strolled into Macunado Street daydreaming about a pound of rare steak, a gallon of cold beer, a snuggly warm bed, and a respite from mystery. I should have remembered my luck doesn’t run that way.

  The pill-brain microdeity whose mission is to mess with my life was on the job.

  There was a crowd in front of the house. Floating in the air around it were a half-dozen bright globules of fire. What the hell?

  I was running slow in the gray matter. It took me a minute to realize what had happened.

  Some fans of mine had decided to firebomb my house. The Dead Man had sensed the danger and wakened, catching the bombs on the fly and juggling them now, to the consternation of bombers and witnesses.

  I pushed through. The bombers were still there, rigid as statues, faces contorted into shapes as ugly as the gargoyles on Chattaree. They were alive and aware and as frightened as men can be. I stepped in front of one. “How you doing? Not so good, eh? Don’t worry. It’ll turn out all right.”

  The bombs began to sputter. “I have to go inside. Wait right here. We’ll chat when I get back.” I knew he’d be thrilled.

  Dean opened the door a crack. “Mr. Garrett!” Yeah. Right. I shouldn’t be playing with these guys. “See you in a couple.” I trotted up the steps. Dean let me in, slammed the door, secured all the bolts.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Garrett?”

  “I kind of hoped you’d tell me.” He looked at me like I was off my nut. He probably wasn’t far wrong.

  “So let’s see what Chuckles has to tell us.” I wouldn’t need to bust my butt and theirs if I could get the Dead Man to read their minds. It would save everyone a lot of trouble — except for him.