by Scott Warren
“We’d be lucky to get one,” I said. “But three wouldn’t be much better. Can either of you ride?”
Cas and Dannic looked at each other, then back to me.
“I can drive,” said Dannic.
“Ain’t much for animals,” said Cas.
With both of their admissions, it didn’t seem necessary to mention that I had never learned either. I tugged my boots back on, trying to ignore where the blisters rubbed against the leather. Reminding myself that it would have been worse if I’d absconded with my city shoes stemmed the pain somewhat. But mind over matter worked better when you weren’t reminded of the matter with every odd step. “Right,” I said, grunting as my heel slipped into place. “A cart then. Nothing fancy. Dannic, ask around. Maybe someone is selling.” I looked at the salted serpent my vagrant had adopted as a shawl. “Cas and I will get a few supplies and provisions. If we’re taking the fastest route back to Borreos, we aren’t going to enjoy the comfort of an inn every night.”
Dannic tugged a forelock at me and offered his hand. I took it, grateful for the assistance in climbing to my feet. It was difficult not to let my exhaustion show, and I doubt I was fully successful. If either of my companions noticed, they said nothing. For which I was also grateful. They say friendship is the child of shared hardship. I’m uncertain if “friends” was what we were becoming, but I was certainly beginning to see both men in a warmer light.
Once my driver left, Cas and I pushed deeper into the village. Borreos it was not, but I wouldn’t call it a one-horse town, either. At least four buildings on the main thoroughfare were two stories, and the tavern boasted a wing on stilts with a livery below. A blacksmith was present. An array of horseshoes outside his shop spoke well to the presence of draft animals in the town, and I spied a general wares storefront. I headed that direction and pulled Cas along with me.
The gentleman behind the counter listened patiently as Cas outlined a series of supplies for travel by road, writing none of it down. I don’t doubt the man had his letters; he was simply blessed with an admirable short-term memory and ample opportunities to sharpen it. At the end of the list, we walked out of the shop with two sturdy packs. Mine was stuffed with a tent, hard bread and sausages, flint, a pot, a small hatchet that could double as a hammer, stakes for the tent, a coil of rope (for some reason), a quill and roll of parchment (at my insistence), and two empty water skins. I also had a coat on my back once again and five fewer silver pennies in my pocket.
Cas watched as I counted the remaining money. It did not take long, and at the end of it he did not seem enthused. “We might get a goat to pull a sled, but not much else, wager.”
I smiled. A banker can do more with five silver pennies than a sergeant can with five able-bodied soldiers. The goods in our bags alone would have fetched two times their cost in Borreos, maybe even closer to a full silver mark. Dannic was waiting for us, and I was delighted to learn he had located a mule and two-wheeled cart that may just have been within our budget.
The soon-to-be-prior owner of said conveyance was a half-hour east of town, which conveniently happened to be the direction we needed to go. As we walked, I took stock of the fields of squash and pumpkins on either side of the dirt road and marked where the field began. I compared stand counts to the length of my stride and passed the time by making a rough estimate of the field’s yearly yield and sharing the calculations with my companions. By the time we reached the farmstead, I had a rough idea of the worth of the entire farm. It was not a small number. Despite that fact, I doubted there was anything resembling a gold dinar anywhere on the premises. “A farmer’s gold is in his land,” I told Cas and Dannic. I wish I could have offered the lecture to Alkazarian as it was a perfect illustration of the non-capital wealth that he seemed to have trouble grasping.
Before we reached the house, I removed one of the hoops in my ear. I wanted to look as though I could afford the finery of silver but not the extravagance of a mirrored set, lest our patron take it as initiative to raise his prices. We were, for all intents and purposes, paupers here. Any man is a king on his own land—even if this land was most likely owned by a landed baron sixty miles or more away.
Two boys were dueling out front with a broomstick and the handle of a pitchfork, offering pitched battle to each other with a good deal of clacking wood. On seeing us, each dropped his weapon and raced to be the first inside at the expense of the other. Their shoving resulted in our gaining the porch boards before one managed to make his ingress. He began shouting for his mother and father before I could knock. Ever I am announced by children, it seems.
Heavy footsteps resounded inside, and the father appeared in the doorway. Filled it, rather I should say, as he was as broad over the shoulders as myself and either of my companions side by side. He was stripped to the waist, and he bore tight white scars on his wrists and forearms under a pair of thin copper bracelets that contrasted with skin even darker than mine. Weapon scars, I believed. The man had either been in the Borrean Guard or had tried to wrestle a reel of barb fence. I tugged a lock in his direction.
“Good morning, sir,” I said. “Sorry to trouble you so early.”
The man closed the door behind him and stepped out on the porch, his eyes never leaving us. “’S no trouble, I’m up with the sun,” he said, drawing a square of cloth from his belt to dust off his hands before offering one. “I’m Jo Drover. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
I took his hand without compunction and gestured to my companions. “Sailor Kelstern, and these men are Cas and Dannic. We heard you have a horse and wagon you’re trying to sell.”
Jo cocked an eyebrow and half-smiled. “I think you maybe heard wrong. I ain’t got a horse and wagon I want to sell, but I got a mule and cart I’d be willing to part with. Come on back.”
It was not, strictly speaking, true what I’d told Jo. It was a simple negotiating tactic. If a man thinks you are not getting what you want, he may part with it for less.
Jo gestured around the back of the farmhouse and followed us around the corner where the cart leaned on its yoke in the shade of a clay-roofed stable. The tiles were homemade, judging by their irregular shape and variation in red hues. The cart as well showed signs of home repair, so it seemed Jo was very much one for solving his own problems. We walked past the two large wheels on the cart, and Dannic stopped to inspect the condition of the axles and linkages while Cas and I dropped our packs with him and continued with Jo. For the first time, Jo was forced to show us his back as he swung open the gate on the stable. I was surprised to see no additional scars. It appeared the man was a stranger to retreat and had never earned his lieutenant’s whip. We followed him in, and the farmer led us past two draft horses that snorted and chuffed as we walked. One of the ill-tempered brutes even tried to nip at Cas.
“You’re certain these aren’t for sale?” I asked, knowing full-well I couldn’t afford either animal.
“Need Worthy and Thunder what to pull the plow,” said Jo. “Mercy is back here. ’Sides, she’s only one trained for the cart. Other two got to be led.”
The third and final stall contained a mule, dozing in the shade of the clay roof. Her ears pricked up at the mention of her name, but she hadn’t yet deemed the conversation worth her attention. At least enough to fully wake. I’m not the best judge of horse flesh, or mule flesh in this case, but even I could tell Mercy was past her prime. Which suited me as I only needed her for the next few days and then she could return to her life of leisure.
“Mercy?” I asked, nodding to the third stall.
Jo nodded. “She’ll do you fine,” he said, pride swelling his substantial chest even more.
“I imagine she will,” I said. “I’ll give you a silver penny for her and one for the cart.”
Jo Drover deflated somewhat. “Hold on now, the cart alone is worth two, and I ain’t aimed at providing charity.”
I frowned. “I imagine not.”
“Seven’s what I’ll take,” said
Jo.
Which meant two for the cart and five for the mule, which was practically picking our pockets. Not to mention more than we currently had. I brushed the hair out of my face and drummed the fingers of my other hand on the top of the stall.
“I’ll give you three now,” I said, reaching up to my ear. “And I’ll see that you get ten more in a month’s time.”
I unfastened the earing, pulled three silver pennies out of my pocket, and added the silver hoop to the modest collection. Jo looked at the offering, then up at me. The three pennies plus the hoop’s weight in silver was just shy of a fair price for Mercy and her cart. It would still be asking a concession of the man.
“Master Kelstern, I recognize you have a need,” said Jo Drover, “but I got nothing ’cept your word you’ll be back to pay those other ten. You might as well offer me a hundred as ten.”
I shook my head. “I won’t be back at all. Are you aware of the term ‘staple consumption’?”
“No, sir,” said Jo. I had thought not. While he likely knew the land and his trade, the complex tax codes raised by Borreos in all forms of commerce likely amounted to a man coming after every harvest to pick his pocket of silver. Silver that he might not always have to spare.
“What if I told you that I could write you a deed so that when the taxman comes around and takes your harvest money, he’ll have to give some of it back?” I asked. Technically, the document would be an affidavit, but I felt he might be more comfortable with the term “deed”.
Jo crossed his muscled arms, scars pulling tight as his fingers wrapped around his massive biceps. “I’d say that’s a fine idea,” he said, “but I won’t say I’m convinced.”
“Let’s go inside,” I said. “I’ll draft the deed for free, and at the end you can keep it and decide whether or not to keep the rest in exchange for Mercy and the cart.”
Jo mulled it around. I could see him rolling the idea from one side of his brain to the other. Words too soft to hear escaped his lips as he evaluated any downsides.
“Say I decide to keep the deed and the mule?” he asked.
I shrugged again. “Then I’m no worse off than I was this morning. But I don’t think you will. I do good work, and I like to think I’m good at knowing a fair man when one stands before me. Besides, that money is your right, and I want to see that you get it whether or not we make a trade.”
That seemed to convince Jo Drover, because he nodded and gestured for me to turn around. I did so, and nearly jumped when I saw Cas standing close behind. He was so silent I had almost forgotten that he was there, but he was looking at me with an unreadable expression. His thoughts must have been far away as he did not initially realize we were trying to leave the stable, but he made his way back into the yard and collected Dannic and the packs to bring inside.
The interior of Jo Drover’s house was sturdy, with rough juniper planks shoring up not only areas that had needed a patch but any joints or struts that might start to sag in the future. Decorations were in live-edged wood and hammered bits of tin where they existed at all. There was dust of course, but with uncovered windows in arid farmlands, such small nuisances were an inevitability. I brushed off a place at the table, and by the time I finished pulling out the quill and parchment I had insisted on buying, Missus Drover emerged with a pitcher of water that she served the four of us in small clay cups. Dannic thanked her for all of us as we sat, and I don’t mind saying that it was a relief to be off my battered feet for a time.
Ink is terribly expensive, and years ago I devised a method to never be without it. Where other men carry around their necks silver pendants or images of lost loves, I instead have a small vial. Stretched taut across the top of it is a small band of a pig’s bladder. Ink will not drip or sieve through it, but a slender quill may freely pierce it to draw some. The pen can sometimes be mightier than the sword, but only if sheathed in the fluid strength of the written word. A quill without ink is a sword hilt without a blade.
This ink I drew forth and began to pen the declaration. As I wrote, I began to explain. “The squash you grow here, not all of it feeds the village and your family, yes? I imagine most of it goes to the capital.”
Jo nodded. “Aye, eight of ten move east to Borreos. Used to take ’em on the cart, but Mercy can’t make the trip anymore fast enough to keep ’em fresh. They spoil in the summer heat. Now someone comes with a wagon train.”
“The majority of it is consumed in Borreos,” I said. “Squash is not a major export. Which means that it’s being grown as a staple consumption ware for the wellbeing of the realm.”
Unlike most men’s, my hand and my mouth are not completely interconnected, and so I was free to scrawl across the parchment as I continued to verbally illustrate. “Because of that, Queen Liza offers a credit of five percent—that is, one in twenty—to be returned for all growers tilling the capital city’s food. They have but to ask for it with the right words.”
“You said one in ten, not one in twenty,” said Jo.
“Indeed, I did. Starting this season and next, exchanging your reported precious metal profits for printed notes also garners a one-in-twenty refund. The taxman will have these new notes with him, and by law any deal or debt may be settled with them.”
“That new paper funny-money everyone been talking about?”
I winced somewhat at his description of my beloved new bank notes, but at least he knew what I was talking about. “Just so,” I said. “Based on what I saw in your fields, each of those refunds should offer you five or six silver pennies. Both together will more than cover the difference for Mercy.”
This was the reason I’d counted paces and juggled stand count figures in my head. Often times, the promise of more money in the future can be used to buy things in the present. But not without damn good convincing. This is the foundational concept of purchase on credit.
I cleaned the quill and handed over the deed. Jo squinted at it, and I wondered if he was plagued by nearsightedness. He might never be able to afford spectacles, even with this windfall, and it had probably never occurred to him to purchase them anyway. He sounded out some of the more difficult words under his breath, and some of the more delicate financial terms he gave up on entirely. But he made it to the end, and I worded it clearly enough that he caught the general gist.
Jo looked up at me after he finished. “So I give what I have to the taxman, and he gives some back? What if he don’t want to give what he took? He brings Queen’s Guard with him. Say he says no?”
“Want has little to do with it,” I said. “Keep in mind that it’s the Queen’s money, and the Queen’s directive that he should give some back to you. It’s the law and his sworn duty. The collector doesn’t keep any of it. Well, much of it. He just passes it along. As long as you have the paperwork, it makes no difference to him what you give and what you get back as long as his purse matches his books.”
Jo still looked dubious.
“Plus,” I said, “you can use that again next year. And the one after that. What can you do with an extra ten silver every summer come tax time?”
It seemed that thought hadn’t occurred to him. To a farmer, the concept of work now for profit later was completely and totally ingrained within his chosen profession. The handfuls of silver began to add up in his mind as he realized the true power of the deed in his hand, and it took so much mental effort to consider that his legs were left to buckle and wobble until he found his chair. Jo ran a hand over his smooth head and looked at me.
“And you’d give this to me even if I said no to your offer and asked you to take your leave?” he asked.
Some might have taken it as Jo lording his newfound power over a temporarily embarrassed banker. But it wasn’t. It was a test of my character. I could renege and say no, threaten to tear up the deed or burn it unless he gave us Mercy. But if I did that, Jo would almost certainly kick us out with such haste that it would make travel by dragon seem slow by comparison. Instead, I pulled out the m
odest handful of silver and the hoop from my left ear and put them on the table.
“That deed is yours to keep, Jo Drover. I only ask that you take the rest of it as well.”
It is good to know that in a world of killers and cutthroats there are still men who will treat fairly. Jo did not take the money. But he also didn’t keep the deed. He returned both to me with an apology. I understood, and I thanked him for his time.
My feet would allow no further travel that day, so I used one of our precious remaining silvers to rent a room in the inn where Dannic and I slept through the afternoon while Cas did whatever it was Cas does whenever he was out of sight.
When I awakened, there were six farmers in the common room with Jo. Each wanted one of the refund affidavits in their name. I could have knocked on a dozen doors offering these deeds and would have been turned away a dozen times. But Jo Drover was the sort they trusted, and he told them that he saw me for an honest man. I charged them each two silver pennies and used some of those to give Jo Drover his original asking price of seven silver pennies for Mercy and her cart. I also offered him a job on the spot, which he declined.
Chapter 19 – Early Closing
You might find it odd that I dedicated such a large amount of this accounting to such a trivial sum of six or seven silver pennies when just a few days prior I dealt in sums many thousands of times greater in value with much less detail. It is never the amount of a transaction that begets its importance, but what depends on that transaction. In this case, our timely return to Borreos hinged on those six silver pennies, and so they made all the difference in the world.
We traveled the rest of that day and into the evening with Mercy, my feet hanging off the back of the cart as it jumped and jostled down the road in its best effort to bruise my tailbone. My carriage had boasted goose-down cushions and dwarven suspension, which is hard to come by in Borreos as dwarves do not venture into warm climates like Borreos and Whadael. Instead, I contented myself with a thin, folded blanket for a cushion and a view of chimney smoke rising from Jo Drover’s village until the sun set and Dannic declared that it was no longer safe to travel until sunrise.
