Robert Adams - A Woman of the Horseclans

Upon removing the stitchings, she had discovered twelve thick, heavy discs of what could only be gold, all the space on both sides covered over in a tracery resembling intertwined vines. As a very young girl, she had seen coinage of gold and silver and copper passed between the Elder and the Patriarchs of the Abode of the Righteous when dealing with traders, so she was dead certain that she now held some variety of coinage, but there was no mark that she could read on it to tell her its true value. She had no slightest trust of any of the traders—none of the nomads (or the Dirtmen, for that matter!) trusted them—and chances were very slim that any of the Kindred clansfolk would know any more about the coins than did she, so she could only hope that Uncle Milo would be there.

He was, looking no whit different than she recalled of him from fifteen years ago. But he did not recall her, not immediately, and she quickly realized that she had been silly or foolish to suppose that he might, so much had time and age and circumstances altered her appearance.

“So you are the woman that that pitiful child became?” he said wonderingly, at last. “Poor, old Ehstrah—Wind keep her—always said that one day you’d be the very epitome of all the Kindred. Your husband—Tahm, was it?—he became chief of Krooguh, then?”

She shook her head. “Not yet, Uncle Milo, though he fills every function of that office, shoulders every responsibility; no, old Dik Krooguh still clings to life and his title.

“But … but, please, Uncle Milo, when did Ehstrah … go to Wind? She always was so kind to me, like a mother, she was.”

Milo sighed. “Yes, our Ehstrah was indeed a good, a very good woman, it was seven … no, eight years ago. I was off on a hunt and she was kicked in the back by a mule. No bones seemed to be broken, though she was winded, of course, and sore, but she went on about her usual tasks. Then, some week or so later, after I was returned from the hunt, she began to piss bloody urine, then pure blood. I suspect that mule’s kick damaged her kidneys, but whatever the cause, she continued to lose blood by day and by night, she weakened dramatically, then a flux took her and, weak as she was become, she died of it.

“Gahbee drowned during a river crossing ten yeas ago. But Ilsah still bides with me. She’s my first wife now, though I have taken two others to share the burden with her. You must come and visit our yurt, Behtiloo.”

“I will, Uncle Milo, and you must come to the Krooguh chief yurt, too. If old Chief Dik can remember you—for he recalls things and folks seldom anymore, and then only in brief snatches—I know that he’ll be mightily pleased to see you. Tim, my husband, will, too; and you must see my son, Hwahlis, and my other children.

“But here and now. I have some strange loot I would like you to look at, I need to know the true value of these pieces, for I mean to buy steel scale shirts for my husband and my eldest son. If possible, I also would like to get enough steel and brass sheets to fashion a score of helmets.”

Squatting, facing her in the dust, Milo Morai fingered the twelve discs of ruddy gold, each of them a good two inches in diameter. With his horny fingertips, he traced the weaving, cursive lines standing up from both obverse and reverse of the golden coins.

At length, he asked simply, “Where did you come by these?”

Briefly, she told him.

He nodded once, then said. “The design is not decoration merely, though it serves that purpose too, of course. No, the lines are letters in a very old language called Ahrahbik. This language was in fairly wide use even in the time before this time, and so little has it changed since then that these could well be from that long-ago period. But I think they are newer.

“For one thing, they are not much worn and have not been shaven or clipped at all, as most really ancient coins usual have been. The damage done to that one looks to me like sword or dirk cut, and the one there that is bent and almost holed, that damage was almost assuredly done by the point of an arrow or small dart point. Sewn into the quilting of a warrior’s gambeson, they could easily have been so abused over the years, totally unbeknownst to the erstwhile abusers.

“No. Behtiloo, I am of an opinion that these are coinage a kingdom that they say lies far to the east of this place beyond the Great River by moons of traveling. But let us now go to a trader I know of old and see if I’m right.”

The head and face of the trader, Flaivin did not match his beefy, muscular body, nor did his delicate hands with their long, tapering fingers. The head was small and almost completely round, the features sharp and vulpine, the eyes as black and glittery as bits of obsidian. But he seemed friendly enough greeting Milo warmly, like an old and much respected friend.

When he had served small measures of a bittersweet wine in tiny brazen goblets, he leaned back and eyed Milo, saying. “And just what can I do for you this day, Chief Milo?”

Milo smiled, “Put on your moneychanger’s hat, friend Flaivin. I’ve a few pretties for you to took at and value … and maybe, to buy.”

Flaivin’s only movement was a deep sigh. “Oh, my friend, my friend, you’d be better off to rebury your silver and bronze pieces for a while, that or use them to decorate a saddle or the like; when I left Ohyoh country last year, the value of silver was still plummeting, dragging bronze and copper bullion prices down in its wake. So whatever quotation I’d feel safe to give you would likely do nothing but infuriate you.”

“Not silver, Flaivin,” said Milo in a low tone, “ Gold .”

In a twinkling, or so it seemed to Behtiloo, the tabletop was cleared of bottle and goblets and crowded with various and arcane paraphernalia, all gathered around and about the broad goldpieces Milo had laid before the trader.

“Reddish.” The trader sniffed. “Not pure, then, But the black-skinned bastards seem to like their coinage that color, pure or not.

“These are ahlf-ryahrs of the Kahleefah of Zahnohgah , Milo. I’ve leaned, over the years, to read a little of their snaky script, so I can tell you that these are about seventy years old. They were minted just after the accession of Kahleef Moostahfah Itahlit, who only reigned four years before he was poisoned. Rulers seldom last long in that bloody land. Let’s see, now …”

After weighing and testing the coins, he sat back and said, “Well, friend Milo, each of these three weighs out at an even thousand grains—you see, no metal was lost or removed in the damage to these two—but of course only about eight out of every ten of those grains is gold; there was a heavy addition of copper and a little silver to make up this alloy.

“What were you thinking of trading these for? I could give the best part of a pipe of a nice little wine for these three … ?”

Milo chuckled. “I’ll bet you’d like to strike so shrewd a deal, Flaivin. No, two of them for two top-quality scale shirts of steel, as well as enough sheet steel and brass to make up twenty helmets of Horseclans pattern. The other goldpiece for one hundred and fifty gallons of decent-grade hwiskee, plus some oddments of this woman’s choosing. Done?”

The trader snorted, most of the friendliness departed from both voice and demeanor. “Chief Milo, to see the goods you desire for such paltry sums would be my utter ruination, as surely you must know. All three of these coins together would not cover the cost and freightage of the amount of steel you demand, especially not decent-quality steel.

“As regards the hwiskee, now, it’s devilish costly to carry it so far. We always lose about half of what we start out with in Ohyoh country, what with broken or leaking barrels, thieving wagoners and the like, so that’s why we have to set the prices so high, are we to make any profit at all. For two of the goldpieces, or their equivalent in furs or what-have-you, I could let you have a hundred gallons of corn hwiskee, but that’s all.”