Book 1: Chapter 40 - The Glitter of Gold [Part 1]

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“Coin, it is power and liberty alike, a gentle cushion beneath our weary heads, the silent root of all wickedness, and the bright sum of every earthly benediction.”

- The Human Question, by Gideon de Salavia 378 A.C.

Lehman’s Bank—Rashana’s family’s pride—was the only institution capable of converting large amounts of coin into Al-Lazarian promissory notes of such staggering sums. Entering its halls was a lesson in the correct use of wealth, a silent sermon on the way of gold.

Set on the fringes of Aran’s bustling heart, by the caravanserai and the lazy dark brown waters of the dockside river, it rose like a carved titan of commerce. Its marble façade—executed in the Quas style modeled after Greco-Roman elegance—almost gleamed in the late morning light. Light and shadow danced across carved pilasters and serpentine capitals as clouds moved across the sky, while the stony visages of stone lions and robed scholars surveyed the world below.

The interior was both masculine and feminine in its design elements. A colorful tiled mosaic in pastel blues on the floor drew the eye, but black tiles made from volcanic rock and edged in real gold spoke of imposing power. In short, a lot of time and effort had been made to give the establishment an air of understated power.

Like a hawk hiding its talons.

In the center of the foyer, a fountain held court, drawing her eye. There, a life-sized marble figure—a gentle woman draped in flowing robes—tilted a pot so that clear water streamed forth, the gentle burble echoing through the halls. Surrounding this masterpiece, common folk waited in mute patience, clutching their wallets and purses, each hoping their needs would soon be met by a patient clerk or kindly cashier.

For Seraphina, that sort of waiting was simply unthinkable. She let Rashana’s name slip from her lips and made it known that she was an acquaintance of the family. Almost at once, the staff of Lehman’s Bank bent to assist her, ushering her beyond the milling throng to an upper office—a private domain reserved for the favored and the powerful. She smiled to herself, Just like in her old world, it was who you knew that really counted.

“May the eyes of the hallowed gods rest lightly upon you,” said an old man, offering the customary Al-Lazarian greeting as he held the door open, beckoning Seraphina inside. His skin was dusky, darkened by the sun or his inherent genes, and his posture stooped, but there was about him a quiet dignity to him. She recognized him—dimly—from those distant afternoons at Rashana’s estate, when she herself had been a mere girl and he a dutiful servant carrying trays and smoothing linens with impeccable care.

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He introduced himself as Sajan, a former house-servant elevated now to the position of branch manager. With humble words, he attributed his learning and prestige to Rashana’s family, who had schooled their staff to standards few other households could match. As he spoke, he set a porcelain cup of jasmine tea before her. Its steam curled upward, a fragrant ribbon in the still air of the office.

“Lady de Sariens,” he said, inclining his head, “how may this one serve you today?”

A foreigner, his accent was thick, his grammar slipping and stuttering. After so long in Aranthia, one might have expected more refinement. But Seraphina suspected a clever ruse. Immigrants could be tricky like that. She leaned forward, her voice drifting into a gentle mockery of his manner of speech.

“This one”—she let the words linger, a note of delicate irony—“has come into a great deal of wealth recently. Sajan, is it? We both know the de Lehman family educates their servants more thoroughly than some academies do their scholars. Correct elocution would have been part of your training if you have risen this high.”

At that, he smiled, and when he next spoke, any trace of clumsy foreignness vanished. “Ah, milady Seraphina,” he said, his voice now smooth, urbane, “Truly, you are as wise and perceptive as you are beautiful. Would this influx of wealth have anything to do with the de Gazra family’s recent misfortunes at the gaming tables?”

Seraphina was inured to such compliments, especially one born from the needs of etiquette. She offered only a measured smile in return.

Taking out her mother’s fan that she “borrowed”—an exquisite piece painted crimson with the image of a foreign bird perched upon a slender branch—she waved it softly to gather her thoughts. The delicate flutter of its panels conveyed a subtle warning.

“If we are to do business together, Sajan, you will learn to keep certain questions to yourself,” Seraphina said coolly, sipping her tea. Her tone was smooth as silk, and the delicate cup never so much as trembled in her hand. “I value discretion.”

Sajan laughed softly, his eyes gleaming with some secret amusement.

Seraphina raised an eyebrow, envenomed sweetness dripping from every word that followed. “Is something amusing to you, Sajan? Do you treat all your clients this way? Lehman’s has struggled to gain footing in Aranthia against the other banks, and now I think I see why. Let me be perfectly clear: my father has no male issue, and as the future Duchess of Sarien, I have considerable influence. If I choose to bank with Lehman’s, others will follow suit.” Her voice grew sharper, an edge of steel beneath the polished veneer.

She snapped her fingers and Sergeant Frest strode forward with a heavy satchel. Opening it, he revealed a cascade of gold coins that spilled their glitter across the table. Sajan’s gaze flickered over the sparkling hoard, his gaze one of unfiltered greed.

Frest too was similarly affected, but his was an expression closer to pained regret.

“I had intended to convert these into Lazarian promissory notes,” she said, tapping a manicured nail against the teacup, “but now I think I’d rather open an account here—at Lehman’s. Of course, I will expect a favorable rate. What I do not expect are questions about where these funds came from. Also, I wish to keep this new wealth very well hidden.”

“Even from the Crown?” Sajan asked, arching a bushy eyebrow.

She met his stare with a practiced smile. “Especially from the Crown,” she replied. Her words fell like a thrown gauntlet, challenging the man to deny her.