Quest of the Five Clans

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The One True Currency

I climbed in weary pain. Not my fellow. He clambered up ivy, scrambled over the eves and out of sight. I considered his haste, and whether our pax held upon the roof. 'Course not. He waited above now, sword at point. Probably shoulder to shoulder with another half-dozen of Black's brigands.

I rested, holding fast to the ivy. Climbing higher meant death. But the fire below presented no better chance. To remain in the courtyard meant to be roasted. As well, something bloody whispered in my garden, hanging men. No point in going on, no point in going back. Naturally the vines holding me trembled, began to give.

Then a voice spoke above in stern reproof.

"Sir, this seating is reserved for private company." A lord or butler chiding impolite entry. At once I felt embarrassed to be climbing a wall in bare feet. Though it was my wall. The voice continued. I realized in relief, it did not address me.

"I must ask you to leave. Forthwith."

"No." Thus spoke the Sinister Sixth Man who fled with me.

"Hmm. Honestly answered. Can you pay admission?"

There came a laugh. "Certainly. Here's my ticket-price. Keep the change, lordship." There came the snick, snack of a crossbow. The thump of a strike. One groan, one tumble of a body.

The lordly voice again. "Quite rude how they interrupt. An insult to the performers."

I waited to hear who would answer. Someone did; not the Sinister Sixth.

"He was a performer, uncle." A woman's voice. "We were just watching him run circles about the tree, chasing the player shouting of tigers."

"Oh dear. Then I interrupted him? Tsk." An awkward silence. Then, "My apologies, sir."

The Sinister Sixth accepted the answer in silence. At least, he made no answer. I doubted he would.

"In any case he tendered false coin," brooded the man. "Death is not currency. It is produce."

"Hmm," said the woman's voice, disinterested. Then, to be polite she inquired, "How should he have paid?"

"In moonlight," answered the lordly voice. "You are young, over-used to modern barter in cold gold, red blood and black ink, the laugh of babies, diamond shine and dusty green bottles of fine wine. Ah, but in my day we kept a strict and absolute currency."

I listened to the speaker begin pacing the slates of my roof. He cleared throat. I knew without seeing that the man now put hands to the lapels of his coat. Horrors. He prepared to deliver a lecture on economics.

"Moonlight, my dear. All the world once recognized the moon's untarnished beams for the one true and universal standard of worth. Every race of clay traded in moonlight. We measured the value of our eternal souls and daily bread upon standard weights of moonlight. For only the light of the moon is incorruptible, eternal, a thing of beauty and worth surviving empire and pocket."

I heard him thump fist upon palm in declamatory gesture. Around me the air became thick with smoke. I began to climb. Perhaps I could slip past during the lecture.

"Moonlight! Of source celestial, of worth undeniable. And our greed? Insatiable. We chased the Moon by night across the hills, holding up our cups and bags, nets and spoons. We panned her reflection in rivers, sifting out the argent sparkles. We blasted great holes in storm clouds to mine the silver veins of light. Kings built treasure houses to hide the precious glow. Dug fastnesses beneath mountains to keep their vaults of light. Barrels and bags and chests of lunar nuggets, humming holy silver. Why, my grandfather, your great-grandfather, kept a cave five miles beneath the earth, with ingots of purified moon-beam stacked high as houses. In those days even the lowliest pauper kept a pocket jingling with moon-glow, round coins bearing the face of Cynthia herself, pop-eyed with wonder and horror at the earth's doings."