by Jaxon Reed
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The next two nights, Stin cleaned out everybody at Berti’s. He almost got bored winning, and even deliberately lost a few times just to remind himself what it felt like. But inevitably, the lure of gold returned and he won again. And again.
The third time Gant walked him home, the constable made an offhand remark about where Stin was storing his winnings.
Stin said nothing. The remark had not been framed as a question, but it may as well have been one. Stin had more gold than he had ever possessed in his life, and most of it was stashed under his bed at Raynora’s.
“Ye should consider opening an account at the Mystic Bank, Master Steck.”
“The Mystic Bank? What’s that?”
“They have an office in every major city. And they have one here in Corsairs Cove, too. Ye deposit yer gold, go on yer travels, and when you show up at another office ye gets yer gold back. For a small fee, of course. They gots to make their money, after all. Aye, nobody quite knows how they do it. And that’s why it’s called the Mystic Bank.”
Stin thought about it for a moment as they continued making their way through the brightening streets.
“They must have some sort of coding system they can send to whatever office you show up at. Give back the appropriate amount, minus their fee.”
“Aye, one would think so. But they always give back what ye put in. Say you deposit doublets. Ye’ll get back the same. Say ye deposit silver pieces from Crystal. That’s what they’ll return ye, silver with th’ King o’ Crystal’s face no matter where ye go. I’ve heard some say they’ve marked coins, and gotten the same one back. I be no judge in such matters. Haven’t left Corsairs Cove in years. Mayhap I never will. But if I do, I’ll deposit all me money in the Mystic Bank. Keeps it safe, you see. Can’t lose it while traveling.”
Gant tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. He said, “Aye, using the Mystic Bank be smart!”
“So, why doesn’t everybody use it? I mean, all these merchants traveling to and from the Ageless Isles . . . they could save a lot of worry and trouble by depositing their gold with the Mystic Bank first.”
Gant chuckled at the thought. “Ho ho, don’t be givin’ them no ideas, Master Steck. If everybody used the Mystic Bank, Corsairs Cove would die from lack o’ gold. Nay, to answer your question, I believe that first, not many people know about the Mystic Bank. Many of us here do, obviously. Which leads to my second speculation, and that is, the Mystic Bank mainly deals in stolen gold and silver. Honest merchants are likely afraid to use it, iffen they even know about it. Iffen they even can use it. I suspect the spells involved may only work with ill-gotten gain. And since all the gold on Corsairs Cove be stolen, it works right fine with our treasure.”
Stin agreed the Mystic Bank seemed worth investigating. Gant told him how to find it, telling him it was near Town Center. They parted ways at the widow’s door.
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Stin slept till lunch, then joined the other officers around Raynora’s table. Word had spread about his prowess at the gaming tables, and everybody wanted to talk to him about it. Outwardly, he played it down, chalking it all up to an extraordinary run of luck. Nobody believed him.
Raynora said, “You must be quite skilled at cards, Master Steck!”
“Actually, I never played much before coming here. Primero is still new to me.”
“He played bone cards with the dogs onboard Wavecrest,” Quent said. “You won more than you lost, as I recall. But I don’t remember you sweeping the table like this, night after night.”
Stin shrugged and said, “I guess I’ve taken to Primero. I’ll try my luck again tonight, but this afternoon I’m going to make a deposit at the Mystic Bank, on Constable Gant’s recommendation.”
Everyone at the table agreed that measure seemed prudent. Quent said, “Mm. Personally, I’ve never had enough gold to warrant a deposit there. I spend all mine on books.”
“Well, if you spent more time at the gaming tables instead of poking your nose in parchment, maybe you’d win enough for a deposit.”
“Mm. I’d rather read books.”
After lunch, Stin found a stable boy on the street and had him fetch a horse and wagon. Quent helped load bag after bag of gold from under Stin’s bed and into the wagon while the boy waited in the driver’s seat.
After handing up the last bag to him, Quent said, “By the Hightower this is a lot of gold, Steck. Don’t you want some guards to accompany you?”
“Nah. They’ll just attract attention.”
Stin joined the boy up on the seat and told him to head for Town Center. The two horses strained in the harnesses, and the wagon slowly creaked forward under the weight of his winnings.
The boy seemed an affable type, and quite talkative. He went by the name of Cuppers, and talked almost the entire trip. He was about 12, Stin reckoned, and he looked wiry but tough. Light brown hair and lighter skin marked him as a mainlander. Or at least his parents were. For all Stin knew, the boy may have been born in Corsairs Cove. Regardless, he knew his way around horses and wagons.
Most important to Stin, he knew exactly where the Mystic Bank was located, and said he could park nearby.
After an excruciatingly slow trip through town, the heavily laden wagon finally trundled into Town Center, and Cuppers guided the team expertly through the crowd and between stalls to the other side.
As promised, he found a spot to park, under a tree by other carts. He set the brake and pointed out the entrance to the local office of the Mystic Bank amidst a row of storefronts facing Town Center.
Stin felt a pang of disappointment. In his mind, he had imagined an impressive columned edifice, with a coterie of guards standing ready to defend the structure against assault. Instead, Cuppers insisted the plain, drab storefront he pointed to was the place.
Somewhat reluctantly, Stin grabbed a couple bags of gold and made his way inside. As he left Cuppers alone with the rest of the gold out front, he found himself belatedly wishing he’d listened to Quent and brought along some hired thugs to watch over things.
Inside he found a small, simple and undecorated reception area, with a counter and a doorway behind it leading to the back. The place seemed deserted. No pictures graced the wall, no chairs or tables on the floor.
He set the bags on the counter and debated internally whether or not to call out, when a man opened the door and stuck his head in the room. He seemed to have a cloud of despair surrounding him.
He spoke in a flat, inflection-free and depressed tone. “Oh, hello. I suppose you’re here to make a deposit. I am Mandross, at your service.”
The rest of the man’s body followed his head through the door. He stood rather tall, and seemed extraordinarily skinny to Stin. His clothes practically hung off his body. His skin looked gray, as if he never ventured outside. But most of all, Mandross seemed unhappy. He never smiled. He wouldn’t looked Stin in the face, either, but rather kept his eyes focused on the floor.
Stin said, “Um, yes. I’ve got quite a few more.”
Mandross sighed deeply, as if finding the news very, very disappointing.
“Go on and bring them in, then.”
Stin backed out, slightly perplexed. He had hoped the banker would offer to help. Outside, he was relieved to see Cuppers remained in the driver’s seat, and nobody had absconded with his gold.
Stin grabbed another couple of bags.
Cuppers said, “Would y’like me t’help, sirrah?”
“No, stay with the cart and keep an eye on things. I’ll get these in.”
Later, when there were still half a dozen bags left, Stin changed his mind and let Cuppers carry the rest for him. Stin felt exhausted from hauling the gold. Every muscle in his body ached. By now he had amassed a small mountain of bagged coins on the counter and floor.
Mandross looked depressed beyond measure. When Cuppers carried the last bag in, struggling with its weight, the banker said, “That is all.”
Stin smiled and said, “Yes. I
suppose you’ll count it now?”
“There’s no need.”
Mandross pulled out a scrap of parchment from under the counter and a quill pen. He scratched a notation down and handed the scrip to Stin.
“Visit any of our locations when you’re ready to retrieve some or all of it. We take a three percent fee upon withdrawal.”
Stin looked down at the parchment and found three different numbers. The largest had a ‘g’ near it. The other two had ‘s’ and ‘c’ next to them. He realized these were the types and number of coins he was depositing: gold, silver, and copper.
He looked up at the unhappy Mandross and said, “Three percent seems awfully steep.”
The banker’s expression shifted from depressed to disdain. He said, “Look, we’ll keep it safe. You can pick it up anywhere you can find one of our offices. But if you don’t want to use our service, fine. You can take your coins and load them back up in your wagon right now and I won’t charge a withdrawal fee. You can hide them back under your bed and take them on the next ship out of here. I don’t care. Take it and go, it’s less work for me.”
Stin raised his hands in a soothing gesture. He said, “No, no. Three percent is fine.”
The banker’s ire receded quickly, melancholy settling back in. He said, “Go on, then. Have your fun. Sail off on your adventures. I’ll be here, minding your money for you. Staying here. Looking out for it while you have fun.”
Stin gave the man an odd look. Mandross stood there, his head stooped, looking for all the world like somebody beaten down by a bad life.
Stin followed Cuppers out the door. On the street, Stin thought to ask for the locations of the Mystic Bank offices in other cities. He turned and walked back inside. All the coins were gone! The entire pile was missing. His blood grew cold. Every bag had disappeared.
The door to the back opened, and Mandross walked out once more, clothes hanging off his thin limbs. He let out a long, melancholy sigh.
“Oh. It’s you again,” he said in a flat monotone. “If you’d like to make a withdrawal, we take a three percent cut.”
“But . . . but . . . where did my gold go?”
“We have it. Rest assured, your money is safe in the Mystic Bank. Offices are in every major city. And sometimes elsewhere. Like here. In Corsairs Cove.”
Stin stared at him, mouth wide open. That quantity of gold could simply not be moved quickly. He wondered what kind of magic had to be involved to make it disappear. And where did it go?
Mandross let out a long sad sigh again. He said, “Would you like to make a withdrawal?”
“No. No, I just . . . I just want to make sure my money is safe. I spent all afternoon getting it here, and . . . now it’s gone.”
“Your money is safely stored with the Mystic Bank,” Mandross droned. “Simply visit any of our offices, and you can withdraw any amount, any time you choose. We take three percent upon withdrawal.”
Still shaken, Stin turned to leave. He stopped at the door and looked back one more time at the floor and counter where all his bags of gold had been, moments before.
Mandross stared back at him with dull eyes and a glum expression on his face. He said, “Go have fun. Live your life. I’ll be here. Watching your money for you. Keeping it safe. While you enjoy yourself. Out there, having fun.”
Finally, Stin walked back outside and climbed up on the seat with Cuppers. Cuppers guided the team back into traffic, and Stin found himself going back over the visit with Mandross in his mind. Halfway back to Raynora’s place, a thought struck him.
He turned to Cuppers and said, “How did the banker know I stored the gold under my bed?”
Cuppers said, “Iffen I had gold, sirrah, under the bed would be a fine place to stash it!”
“Yes, but . . . how did he know we were in a wagon?”
“How else might we’ve gotten all that gold from under your bed to th’ bank, sirrah? Of course ’twere with a wagon.”
“And what was that bit about me taking the first ship out of here? How’d he know about that?”
Cuppers smiled, clicking to the horses so they would pick up the pace now that traffic had thinned. He said, “They don’t call it th’ Mystic Bank for nothin’, sirrah!”
12
Dudge followed along at the tail end of the cargo train, where he had kept an eye on things all day. On their trek’s final day, he ignored the slow pace by admiring the sights.
Osmo was Norweg’s only seaside settlement. The only way to travel there by land required passage through the Tantamook Mountains. A single, narrow trail from the Farmlands led down through a narrow pass in the mountains before opening out into the valley where Osmo nestled by the sea.
Fret’s cask-laden wagons crested the pass and navigated down the twisty trail. Dudge followed along in high spirits now, the journey’s end approaching. He noted everything around him, with delight in his heart and a spring in his step.
The path they trod was not paved, but it didn’t need to be. The stones from the mountain made a passable trail without any need for cobbling or bricks. True, it was barely wide enough for the wagons, and if someone traveled up the trail at the same time, one group or the other would have to cede way at an open area near a switchback. But Dudge knew from his history the trail had proven quite passable for at least two millennia.
The drivers kept steady hands on their brakes so the heavy wagons wouldn’t overwhelm the pigs, who grunted dutifully down the incline. Nothing of interest happened at the rear, so Dudge amused himself by admiring the sights. It was the only part of his father’s realm that contained wildlife and scenery such as this, and he savored every minute of it.
The mountains on the seaward side looked green and vibrant with life, as things thawed out the further they descended. The coast, Dudge knew, would remain relatively warm even in winter. More than once he spied small game scurring through the brush, and the great carnivorous birds who stalked them from high above. He watched in wonder as one of them swooped down and effortlessly picked up its prey, the talons killing a small furry animal instantly, mighty wings flapping hard while the great bird slowly ascended with its meal in tow.
At long last, the train came to a stop. Dudge knew the lead wagon must be at the gate to the valley, where guards protected the entrance to the dwarven lands from any outsiders who might be adventurous enough to try and make their way in. And took a toll from wagons headed to Osmo.
He looked back and up, giving the Tantamooks one last appreciative glance while several more minutes slid by. Finally, curious at the delay, he climbed atop the casks on the rear wagon and shaded his eyes to see better. At the front of the line he could make out Fret arguing with one of the guards. Fret’s arms waved and gesticulated. The guard remained unmoving.
Perplexed, Dudge climbed back down and made his way up to the front. He could hear the argument in greater clarity as he drew closer.
“Bu’ y’ dinna kin wha’ I be tellin’ ye! Th’ toll is an’ always has been one gold coin per wagon train!”
The guard appeared unperplexed by Fret’s histrionics. He stood a head taller than either Fret or Dudge. He stood flanked by four more beefy guards who stood around the stone gateway to Osmo. All seemed bored. One picked his teeth with the point of a dagger while idly glancing over Dudge as he approached.
Dudge placed his hands in the pockets of his coat as he drew up alongside Fret to stand by him.
The guard said, “An I be tellin’ you, fer th’ third time, ye an’ yer train be nay gettin’ t’ Osmo withou’ th’ proper toll. An’ tha’ toll be five gold. One per guard.”
Fret turned to Dudge with frustrated eyes. Dudge took over the conversation. He said, “Th’ toll be set by royal decree, an’ tha’ decree states all trains o’ cargo in an’ out o’ Osmo be charged a toll o’ one gold.”
The guard shifted his attention to Dudge and stiffened his spine while leaning in close, making him taller and more threatening at the same time. His tone grew
more threatening, too. He said, “I be in charge o’ th’ gate. An’ I say we each be gettin’ a gold coin fer our troubles, or ye be turnin’ tha’ train aroun’ an’ headed back up th’ mountains.”
The guard took his dagger out and began to nonchalantly clean his fingernails with the blade’s tip, his eyes locked on Dudge. One of the other guards casually fondled the hilt of his shortsword. The one picking his teeth with a dagger spit, and began slapping the flat of his blade on an open palm.
Dudge glanced at them all, and sniffed. He refocused on the leader. He said, “Wha’ be yer name, lad?”
The leader guffawed and another guard sniggered.
“My name be Puffin, Son o’ Duffin, Clan Slag. I be th’ head guard of th’ Tantamook Gate, appointed by Portreeve Rak an’ duly authorized by royal decree t’ protec’ th’ realm an’ gather tolls fer His Majesty.”
His chest swelled with pride. He said, “An’ who migh’ ye be, merchant?”
Dudge cocked an eyebrow at Fret who smiled broadly and seemed positively giddy in anticipation. Dudge turned back to Puffin and sighed with disappointment, not relishing the display of authority he was about to make. He withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket and flashed his signet ring in Puffin’s face.
“I am Prince Dudge, second son o’ King Nudge, Clan Ore. I be authorized by th’ Council t’ accompany this shipment t’ Port Osmo, in protection of th’ royal investment in its cargo.”
Puffin’s jaw dropped in shock, and the blood drained from his face. He deflated, and seemed to shrink in size. He fell down on one knee and bowed his head. The other guards looked stunned, but they followed Puffin’s lead and took a knee.
Puffin said, “Yer Highness, I dinna ken! I—”
“Oh, bu’ I do, lad. I ken wha’ yer doin’. Merchants ha’ no choice but t’ pay yer bribe. How much o’ th’ take goes t’ th’ portreeve?”
Puffin’s mouth opened but he didn’t say anything. His eyes looked up at the prince with a guilty glance. Dudge sighed again and said, “So Rak be in on it, too. Ye’ll accompany me t’ visit him. Ha’ th’ rest o’ yer dwarves stay at guard. But iffen I find they keep askin’ five gold instead o’ one, I’ll deal wi’ them later.”