by Eric Flint
Reyny to his friends-and Renfield behind his back-had the information before Uriel did. Uriel did encode his response, so Reyny didn't get the orders from Uriel. Besides, truth be told, what Reynfrid Drescher knew about money and how it worked could be written on the flap of a matchbook with room to spare. Reyny was an entertainment reporter. But he wasn't one to share a lead. He headed for the Exchange to see what was going on. He had a deadline to meet.
By the time he got there, the panic was at full speed and the Abrabanel agent wasn't buying. He wasn't selling either, Reyny noted. Reyny listened to the rumors. The one about turning copper into silver. The ones about balance of trade. Two about new silver strikes in different locations. But he was a good reporter. He learned about the bank not accepting silver coins and went to find out what was going on. At the bank, no one knew why the Exchange was going crazy. When he asked about why they weren't buying silver coins he was told about Simon Legree's breakdown. And that the machine would be working again in the morning if all went well.
***
He phoned in the outline of his story and headed back to the Exchange. He still wondered why the Abrabanels weren't buying silver. By the time he got back to the Exchange, Uriel Abrabanel had arrived-not that he was doing anything. When Reyny asked him why, Uriel's response was, "What should I do?"
"Buy silver coins! Didn't your family promise to keep the American dollar stable?"
"We probably will buy once they hit bottom, but, as you can plainly see, silver coins are still falling. All we promised to do in regard to American dollars was to buy them at two hundred to the guilder. If you happen to have $200, I'll be quite happy to sell you a guilder for it."
Reyny looked over at the big board that showed the prices of various currencies and saw that he could buy a Dutch guilder for $87.50. "No, thanks."
Uriel Abrabanel smiled. "How about $150? No?" He shrugged. "We've been expecting something like this." Reyny didn't know that Uriel's "we" included Balthazar, Rebecca, Uriel and some of the members of the Finance Subcommittee but not Coleman Walker. Which would have been a nice embarrassing tidbit for his story and done Coleman's reputation no good.
"We weren't sure when it would happen and we weren't expecting it to be this extreme. But the American dollar has been undervalued since the up-timers arrived. Look at the price of refined silver. $105 per troy ounce. It's been dropping all morning along with the coins. Gold is down, too, because if you want to buy something or need to pay a debt here in Grantville, it's dollars you need. What's really happening is that the American dollar is rising, finding it's place. Adam Smith's invisible hand at work." Reyny didn't have a clue who Adam Smith was but he didn't interrupt. He would look it up later. "Forty-five guilder's will buy you a hundred pounds of Hamburg sheet-copper or a hundred and fifty pounds of American copper sheet bought in American dollars. The American copper sheet is purer copper of more consistent width. No amount of guilders, unless they are first converted to American dollars, will buy the dental work you can get in Grantville or a hand-cranked deli meat slicer, and who knows what American dollars will buy next week?"
"A process for turning copper into silver, perhaps?"
"No. I have been assured that such a process is beyond even the up-timers. What they do have is a better way of refining copper and there is a tiny amount of silver in the copper we use. Which they are, or will soon be, extracting from the sludge of the new refineries. As I understand it, what they have now is a pilot plant. Which is still producing decent amounts of refined copper by our standards."
***
"What the hell is going on over at the Exchange?" Coleman Walker asked as soon as the office door was closed.
"Insanity! There is some wild rumor that the bank won't accept down-time coins anymore." Horace Bolender was clearly no more pleased than Coleman was.
Phil Hart looked back and forth between them. "Ah… Horace, did you see the sign when you came in? The one in the window of the bank?"
"I saw two or three signs. I didn't stop to read them. Why?"
"Well, Simon Legree is busted again and we're flush with down-time currency at the moment." Phil paused at Bolender's blank look. "The automated money changer. It sorts the coins we get by weight and volume, which is a pain to do by hand. So we're not buying down-time money until it gets fixed. It's not a big deal; they have a machine pretty much just like it at the credit union."
"Did the sign in the window mention that?" Bolender asked.
"I don't know." Phil admitted.
***
"Yesterday there was a run on the American dollar," Reynfrid Drescher's article began. It went on to describe what the series of events had been. He debunked some of the rumors and clarified others. He talked about the economic indicators like worker productivity and dropping transport costs. Then he ended with the following, "A lot of people got caught out yesterday. They got caught out because they thought silver was money and paper wasn't. There have been signs ever since the Ring of Fire that this wasn't the case. Signs and portents all over the place. If you're going to avoid losing your shirt, you're going to have to learn to read the signs. And not just the ones in the window of the Grantville Bank."
***
Jekli Koriska sat eating breakfast and reading the paper. Reynfrid Drescher's article was front page above the fold. Jekli sipped his tea and cursed under his breath. He had lost over a thousand American dollars yesterday, around eleven guilders at yesterday's close and it could have been worse if he had waited. He was going to have to raise his prices. Which wasn't going to thrill his partners. The kitchen knife sets he bought here in Grantville had been amazingly cheap. They would still be cheaper than a blacksmith could make them for, since they were stamped out of sheet steel produced by a process called wet puddling. And the handles were made in jigs using Black and Decker power tools from up-time. They were top quality knives made with real high-well, medium-carbon steel. And incredibly cheap to make. Just not as cheap now as they had been day before yesterday.
He'd called his supplier after he made his deposit at the bank. He'd asked if they would be lowering the price since the dollar had gone up so much. They had told him no, at least not for now. The iron used in these knives was already bought, so was the wood and the brass rivets. Nor were they going to go to their employees and ask them to take a pay cut because the dollar had gone up. "I've got a union to deal with," he'd been told.
Having finished his breakfast he pulled out a pen and began to write.
Dear Klaus
The up-timers are waking up to the value of their products, if in a roundabout way. You may already know from the radio that the guilder and the thaler, in fact all silver and gold coinage have dropped against the American dollar. From the things I hear locally it seems unlikely that this is just a temporary fluctuation.
I know in the past I have been opposed to investing in a steel puddling plant but I am beginning to reconsider. Our business is still profitable but not nearly as profitable as it was before. What concerns me still is that after investing the money in a puddling plant that someone will build a Bessemer or introduce crucible steel production. As I have written before, they are working on both methods as well as electrical smelting. I wish things would stabilize so that we might make solid predictions. But for now, at least, we must ride the tiger. The notion of buying sheet steel here in Grantville and making our own stamping mill still won't work. It's cheaper to ship the knives, which is another reason to delay. The puddling plant would still need a stamping mill, annealing ovens, grinders for the final shaping and sharpening. I grant there would be significant savings on labor. What they pay common laborers here is an outrage. And with the increase in the dollar, it's even more of an outrage now than it was yesterday.
Very well, then. I am still ambivalent about it but if you and the others still wish it, I will send you the plans for a puddling plant, stamping mills and the rest.
Meanwhile, send me money. The American dollar is a go
od investment in itself. I will deposit the funds in the bank here and we will be at least somewhat protected if-say rather, when-the dollar goes up again.
Jekli
***
An Irish Sitter
Terry Howard
Augsburg, September 1634
"Horatio Alger Burston, this is totally unlike you!" a rather exasperated Catharina said. She would very much have preferred for her new husband to leave the hiring of staff completely up to her as he always had before. Well, almost always, anyway. For some reason she never understood he had insisted that the head cook had to be French, and that he-yes, it had to be a man-was to be referred to as "the chief," like the Indian leader in the movie they saw at the Higgin's Hotel in Grantville the one time he took her to his home town.
Then again, when she chose the carriage driver he wanted an Englishman named James but he hadn't insisted on it like he was doing now. It was well and good that he hadn't insisted on it since there was nary a James to be found. He had nothing to say when she hired the chamber maids and her personal maid. When she hired his valet, his only comment was to laugh when he found out he now had a valet. When he quit chortling all he said was, "Well, that's service for you." She asked what he meant but he never did manage to explain. Sometimes up-timers could be so completely incomprehensible.
But, now, for some completely inexplicable reason, he was insisting on having his own way on the question of hiring a nurse for their youngest child. Little August was Horatio Alger's stepson and he was two and a half years old. She was expecting again so it was time and past to hire a nurse. With the third child coming she would have less time and the children would have completely different needs. She very much remembered the troubles she had when Casimir was jealous of his baby brother.
When she proposed bringing another member on staff Horatio muttered something about a live-in babysitter. Then he smile that smile that he'd been known to call "a shit-eating grin," and said, "That's fine, dear, as long as she is Irish."
"Irish?" Catharina was truly puzzled. "Why do you want an Irish nurse?"
"Well, the Irish speak English with such a delightful accent."
"That is an absolutely ridiculous reason to choose a staff member. Besides, where will we find an Irish nurse? Now, there are any number of fine healthy young German girls to hand to choose from."
"Nope. If you want a nanny, she is going to be Irish," Horatio said.
"But, darling, be reasonable. Where will we find her?"
"I don't know. But, I'm sure you'll manage. If you don't then I guess August will just have to make do with the walking stick on hand instead of his own private nursemaid."
Catharina knew what he meant. This was one oddity he had managed to explain. A walking stick was a staff so the staff collectively was a walking stick. "But dear," Catharina said, "I've found this perfectly marvelous-"
"Nope."
"But-"
"Nope."
Well, that was the third time he said no and the soup was still on the table. Catharina knew when to back off. She waited for desert before she brought it up again. "Horatio, Chef Andre's paramour has a niece visiting from out of town and she is looking for a position for the girl. I've met her and she seems such a lov-"
Horatio cut her off. "We already have more staff than we need. I have no idea what the chamber maids do all day. Reclean already clean chambers, I guess. We aren't running a home for wayward girls here. I'm sorry, but tell her no."
"Well, we were thinking of her as the nurse."
"Is she Irish?"
"Of course not."
"Then the answer is still no. If you can't find an Irish nanny then you will just have to raise the kids yourself."
"Don't be ridiculous. That is simply impossible."
"My ma raised six kids, kept the house clean, did all the cooking and worked part time. I don't see what you're complaining about."
"I meant finding an Irish nurse, not raising the children."
"Well, impossible or not, if you get a nanny, she will be Irish. I gave in on an English driver named James because we had to have one right away since neither of us can handle a team of horses, much less harness them. But this is different. You've got all the time you need to look for what we want, so it's an Irish nanny or no nanny. Oh, and see to it that she has dark red hair."
"Horatio? Just what is this all about?"
"It's about hiring a nanny."
"No, it isn't. If it was, then any healthy, steady, lass would do."
"Well, maybe I want another somebody about the house who speaks English as a first language."
"Then you don't want an Irish. If they speak English, it's a second tongue."
"Really? Then what do they speak?"
"Irish."
"Is that a language?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"So then, if she doesn't speak English as her mother's tongue it will be all right to hire a-"
"No!"
"No?" Catharina almost wailed in frustration. "Why not."
"Because I want an Irish nanny for my son."
A completely annoyed wife demanded of her absolutely irrational husband, "But why? Give me one good reason!"
"Well, an Irish nanny is romantic."
" Oh! " Catharina lost it and it showed in her slipping English grammar. "So the true comes at last. You want an Irish mistress."
Horatio laughed. Catharina shook with anger. Horatio laughed louder. When she realized it wasn't going to work she changed to a pout and Horatio laughed with renewed vigor.
At last he ran down. "No, my dear," he finally said. "But there is a toast my father taught me." At that he raised his wine glass and said, "Here's to the happiest days of my life, spent in the arms of another man's wife." He paused for her to blow up, which she did. As she took a deep breath the better to cuss him good and proper like, he concluded the toast with the words, "my mother."
As the meaning of what he said filtered through the red haze of fury, the power went out of the gale force wind which was lodged in her lungs.
"If my son is to have a love in his life to rival that of his mother, then it should be someone special, exotic, beautiful, unique, someone who has a chance of competing, not something he can see by the dozens passing in front of the house any hour of the day. Anything less is not fair to him, or her, or you."
Suddenly Catharina not only lost the steam she had for a good screaming fit, she also lost any momentum she had for the argument. Horatio's id quietly congratulated his ego on a very good save.
"But, where will we find such a person?" Catharina asked.
"I'm not sure you can, dear, but do your best."
"Horatio…" Catharina suspected that she was somehow being swindled. Still it might be as he presented it. After all, American's had some really strange ideas. "Are you sure this is the reason?" She hadn't completely let go of the idea that he was the one who wanted a lover.
"Okay, I admit it," Horatio said, throwing his hands up in a theatrical gesture. "I've always wanted an Irish setter." Then he laughed.
"What is an Irish setter?" Catharina demanded.
Horatio never did manage to explain.
***
Nobody Wants To Be a Pirate in the Baltic
Anette Pedersen and Kerryn Offord
Kolberg, Pomerania, March 1635
"Viktor not have all day"
Hans Johansson jumped and nearly dropped the musket he gingerly held in his soft, white hands when the gravelly voice broke the silence. He'd been so busy examining the musket that he'd momentarily forgotten Viktor, though, as he glanced at the big brute of a man with his barrel chest, gray hair, and badly pockmarked, battle-scarred face, he had to wonder just how he'd managed to forget the man was waiting for him to accept the consignment of weapons. Even when he was just standing still, there was a brooding intensity about Viktor that was more intimidating than his physical presence warranted.
"I'm sorry. Is… is something wro
ng, Herr Viktor? These are very fine guns. I'm most impressed that you've managed to acquire so many of the new Russian AK3s. They only went into production last summer." To his annoyance Hans realized that he was babbling.
He wondered if he needed to make eye contact, if it would make him seem more sincere and trustworthy. He had forced himself to do so when this deal was set up and it hadn't been something he had enjoyed. On the surface Victor looked like any other thug, but there was something about the fire in Viktor's eyes that was scary. Something not quite right. No, eye contact wasn't necessary. Hans was sure he had Viktor convinced that he was just another harmless clerk handling his master's dirty transactions, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to let Viktor think that Hans was somewhat scared of his violent reputation. That Hans had spend the last three years looking for revenge against the powerful Vasa family for the loss of his heritage, and was now one of the duke of Courland's most trusted agents, was not something Viktor needed to know. Especially since the duke's new mission might bring Hans into more contact with Viktor and his men.
"Viktor's weapons is good. Why you take so long?" The big man folded his arms over his large chest, and frowned. Hans was acutely aware that he had his back to Viktor's henchman standing by the pile of gun crates, and that the two guards at the cellar door were now looking in his direction.