048 – Silver

***

Traveling north, we came into view of the Highshield mountains rising up on the horizon. These white capped peaks rose above the snow line, and the frozen summits of the mountains helped to prevent hungry monsters from crossing into Sandgrave. Only a few passes cut through the mountain to the rest of the continent. At these chokepoints, the northern dukes constructed unassailable fortresses to guard from invasions.

The roads wound around rocky hills and canyons in the northern counties. Large swathes of vacant land lay between fortified towns. This region had a small population as most people did not want to live so close to the monsters on the other side of the mountains and the rocky terrain could support little agriculture. Goatherds grazed their animals on the sparse vegetation. Farmers grew patches of blade grass, retch pods, widow weeds, dogbane, and other half-domesticated plants from the continent, but no food crops. Most of their food was imported from the midlands.

Due to the ever present threat of monsters, the towns in the northern foot hills built exceptional defenses, more like forts than villages. The frontiersmen cemented together stone blocks quarried from the mountains. The walls were thick and the towers high.

The rough terrain made it hard for our horses to graze and find water. The animals plodded slowly over the winding roads, hungry and tired.

“According to the map, we’re almost to our destination,” Zambulon said. He examined the scroll that Luniquial had given us at the start of the mission. The map showed the network of towns and roads across Sandgrave, but it did not accurately represent distance or direction. Those were rough estimates. I would describe the thing as a flow chart, not a real map. And it didn’t mark every minor village or backwoods path. “This road should lead us to city of Drainditch.”

“Sounds like a lovely place,” I said.

“It’s the largest town in this duchy. We can meet our contact, Knogule, there.”

A small caravan of three horse-drawn wagons rolled down the road, coming from the direction of Drainditch and riding our way. Six horse riders escorted the wagons. A pair of them charged ahead of the group to meet us. Their horses kicked up a cloud of chalky dust as they approached.

“Clear the road!” one of the riders shouted. “Pull to the side. We’re coming through.”

“Why don’t you clear the road for us?” Zambulon retorted. “We have our own coach too.”

“What, are you blind? This is an official convoy. The duke’s knights have the right-of-way.”

The rider thumped his hand on his chest where he wore a bright blue surcoat over his armor, the livery of the local duke. I hadn’t seen anyone wearing full plate armor since the knights in Turnfield hunted the rampaging werewolf. Here in the frontier, people wore their protective gear daily. The knights had shields bearing the insignia of their lord.

“The road’s plenty wide for us both.”

“Don’t make trouble, outsiders. Everybody has to clear the road for an official convoy. That’s the law around here.”

“And what a friendly and welcoming place it is. Truly a beacon of civilization.”

“If you don’t like it, you can go back to wherever you came from. We’ve got too many migrants as it is.”

We obligingly pulled our coach to the side of the road. I dismounted and adjusted my mount’s riding tackle. The line of wagons rolled past us slowly in a haze of dust. Each wagon had a wooden roof enclosing its cargo. Blue flags and pendants waved from the top.

Two women on horseback rode along with the convoy, a pair of swordsmen carrying long, straight blades. They had on helmets and a few pieces of armor—breastplates, greaves, bracers—but not as much as the other knights. They gave us piercing looks as they rode past.

“A pair of ducal mage-knights. That convoy must haul something important to require such powerful guards,” Zambulon said. “Those covered wagons weren’t for passengers either. They carried some heavy cargo.”

“I thought we weren’t going to deal with other swordsmen on this trip.”

“That’s what the boss said. But that doesn’t mean other swordsmen won’t be around. We should do our best to keep out of sight and not pick any fights.”

No farms or houses surrounded the outer walls of Drainditch the way they did in the midlands. The town’s high walls arose from a barren field of gravel and boulders. All the man made structures lay inside the stone rings of defenses. The general layout of the town seemed to be a figure eight, with two separate areas enclosed in walls and a large castle at their meeting point. The south part was the town of Drainditch and the smaller northern section was the Duke’s Mint, an industrial area with belching smokestacks.

The guards let us enter through the main gate without subjecting us to onerous searches and tariffs. We didn’t pay anything. The town made its money through other means and did not want to discourage merchants from bringing vital supplies to this remote spot in the hills. Inside the walls, the town of Drainditch was exactly as pleasant as its name implied. Grime covered everything. Wet sludge flowed down the streets. The namesake ditch ran through the middle of town like a small canal, carrying polluted water from the Mint. Migrant workers packed themselves into overcrowded tenement buildings. There wasn’t a single tree or blade of grass in the whole place.

Drainditch did not offer much hospitality to tourists. We found a stables for our horses and got directions to the nearest inn.

“It’s a silver town,” Zambulon said. “This is where they smelt down all the ores from the nearby mines and then mint them into coins.”

“Ugh. And these people live right next to it? That is not healthy. I hope no one is drinking this water. It’s probably contaminated with heavy metals.”

We stepped into a hotel called the Queen’s Treasury. The building had the same grimy facade as all the other businesses in town, but made up for that with an opulent interior. A large chandelier of red lanterns lit the place with a pinkish glow. The garish furnishings had red paint, ormulo decorations, and brightly dyed twill upholstery. Large oil paintings depicted half nude women being chased by sabertoothed tigers through fields of roses. A bar stood at one end of the building and a stage with a drawn curtain at the other.

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“You stupid boys. You’ve brought us to a brothel,” Hwilla said.

“How were we to know? There were no girls advertising on the balcony.”

“We should have guessed by the name.”

Business had not reached full swing for the evening. Only a few customers stood around the bar. The working girls had yet to start their shifts. No one took the stage. The Queen’s Treasury satisfied several entertainment needs. Waitresses served food and alcohol as in a restaurant. Dancing girls held stage shows, like a music hall, while musicians played harps and zithers. And of course, all of the workers had a secondary role as prostitutes for those willing to pay. The Treasury also rented hotel rooms.

While Drainditch was an ugly, grimy town, a lot of money flowed through it. The independent miners sold raw ores for substantial sums. Migrants labored in miserable conditions year round, but then received lump payments every quarter. When workers got paid, they tended to blow all their money on frivolous things, such as trips to the brothel or casino. Due to all the silver floating around in town, everything cost three times as much as elsewhere on the peninsula. Silver coins had far less purchasing power in the town they were minted.

We took a small table at the edge of the room and sat down. I felt something rubbing against my shin.

“Gah! There’s a little creature in here. What is this thing?”

“It’s a cat,” Hwilla said.

“It’s making a weird noise. I think it’s diseased.”

“That’s purring. It wants to be petted.” Hwilla scooped up the feline. It continued to make a thrumming noise and went completely limp as she petted its neck, as if its bones suddenly turned to rubber.

“Why do they let this little monster roam around in here?”

“It’s not a monster. It’s just a normal house cat.”

“That is not normal. It has blue fur. That’s a clear sign of a daemonic stigma.”

The cats prowling the brothel had all sorts of unnatural colors: cobalt blue, chrome yellow, pink, aquamarine. A magenta cat with cyan tiger stripes sniffed my boots. The animals had short or long hair. Some had tufts at the ends of their ears like lynxes, others had fluffy manes like lions. These creatures couldn’t possibly be the result of domestication and a selective breeding program; they were tiny monsters. But modern people grouped things by what they were familiar with, so house cats got a pass. Despite their wildly different colors, the cats all had the same personality and only two moods: wanting to be petted and not wanting to be petted.

The rest of the place slowly filled up with people, dirty smelters and miners who had diligently scrubbed themselves down and put on their only clean clothes for a night out on the town. A serving girl brought us a bottle of overpriced wine.

A man dressed in white robes swaggered into the brothel. A fellow swordsman. He carried a war-sword over one shoulder. His fires burned hot enough for us to sense him across the room, which made him either careless or cocky. I felt a twinge of embarrassment thinking how I had unknowingly done the same thing when I first awoke from my long nap. The swordsman shouted at the serving girls by name. He ordered drinks and then settled into a semi private area near the stage. Two girls sat to either side of him as he reclined in a wide divan and a few more hovered around him.

Apparently Zvidsi had been right about swordsmen; they were very popular with the ladies. Zambulon sneered at the local womanizer in contempt.

Hwilla asked, “You boys aren’t considering paying for the services here are you?”

“When it comes to some things, I’d rather fail on my own merits than pay for a cheap imitation,” Zambulon said.

Yurk simply shook his head, and I added, “Do you know how many diseases must circulate through a place like this? It’s a public health hazard. I shudder to think what kind of horrific plagues have formed on the continent.”

“This is a business trip,” Zambulon said. “We’re not on vacation. And with this town’s prices, we probably couldn’t afford any entertainment anyway.”

The proprietress arrived to survey the main room. She was a middle aged woman, although the soft lighting and her thick makeup disguised the fact. She dressed more or less as the other girls, but with heavier jewelry and elaborate hair pins through her salt and pepper hair. On seeing our table, she came to greet us in person.

“Greetings, good patrons. I pray everything is to your liking. May I ask if you need anything further?”

“Yes. We’d like to rent to rooms for the night,” Zambulon answered. “No special services are required.”

“Of course. Since it’s your first visit to the Treasury, I’ll give you our finest rooms for the standard price. I’m always desirous of attracting new clients, especially foreign nobles.”

Our swords marked as part of the nobility since it was illegal for commoners to carry them. The only people who carried swords were later generation nobles from rich families, young sparks, swordsmen, or pretenders such as Belwane the Black, who posed as a swordsman to scare gullible victims. The proprietress tried to determine which category we belonged to. Our common mode of dress and unembellished swords suggested we were either sparks or total fakes.

“No need for that. Beds are luxury enough for travelers like us,” Zambulon said. “We are mercenaries who hope to gather our fortunes in Sandhurst, not lose them.”

“I see. I take clients from anywhere and gladly accept silver coins minted from here or from afar, but there are others in town with less tolerant views. You wouldn’t happen to be Loyalists would you?” She glanced over at the swordsman in white.

“We’re mercenaries. Our only loyalty is to silver and gold. In that regard, our profession is much like your own.”

“Ah. That’s good to here. There has been a great deal of arguing over politics lately, which has bled even into this sanctuary of delight where people come to forget their cares and worries.”

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman. “What friction reaches this place? The Loyalist ports are far away on the coast.”

“Our town relies heavily on foreign trade, so many merchants pass through, not to mention the migrant workers who come from all over the peninsula. But most of the conflict is between our county and the Traditionalists to the south of here.”

“And what faction is dominant in Dirtditch?” I asked.

“The people of the frontier support the king’s daughter Princess Kantha. They call themselves ‘the Realists.’ It may go against the king’s wishes and against tradition, but a mage-queen is the best choice as a ruler. Along the Highshield Mountains, people hold personal fighting strength in the highest esteem.”

“We will keep that in mind. As neutral parties looking for work, we don’t wish to cause any trouble with our potential employers… Or any trouble for your business.” Zambulon added. “But with the name of your establishment, we might have assumed you to be a loyalist.”

“I stay out of politics. This business is a hundred years older than the Queen Veffiana. It would be a shame if I had to change the name on her account.”

The proprietress brought us bottles of free wine, either hoping to earn our for repeat business or to pacify us into not making trouble. I imagine a bar fight involving swordsmen could level a typical business.

The brothel appalled me. All these young women risked their health and their lives selling sexual services. Modern medicine was pitifully useless for preventing or curing diseases. As awful as their job was, their clients had it just as bad. The men from the smelter and foundry had a horrendously dangerous occupation. Silver is usually found in ores along with other metals. Generally, it’s a byproduct from smelting lead ores like galena. This mint probably produced several kilograms of lead for every silver shekel it minted. Not only was lead toxic, the ores could also release arsenic and other chemicals.

This whole town was a death trap.

The only good thing I could say about the Duke’s Mint and Drainditch was that no children lived here. All the migrant workers had families from other places, mostly the midlands. So few young children were inhaling lead particles or getting punished for the folly of their parents.