John lifted Miriam down from her saddle, then held all three horses while she straightened her walking skirt and removed the riding skirt. When she was fit to be seen he exchanged the reins for the riding skirt and folded it neatly, following along as she led the animals into the stableyard. A boy was waiting; John tossed him a coin and Miriam handed him the reins. John glanced at the baggage, then at the stableboy, then shrugged. Even among heretics there was honor, he supposed; the boy wouldn't steal anything. Or if he did, if anything was missing later, John would know who to blame.
Together, John and Miriam walked through the stableyard arch into St. Peter's Inn.
The interior was in keeping with the opulence of the streets; the stone walls were covered with bright banners, lace curtains adorned the windows, and pillows and cushions were everywhere. A clock hung over the hearth, the expensive variety with a red hand to measure seconds, and although the room was relatively quiet and the red hand moving, listen as he might, John could not hear any ticking.
Honor among heretics there might be, but he wondered how such a marvel could be in so public a place without being stolen. And the cushions, as well-surely a few of those would vanish each night!
A score or so of customers were scattered at half a dozen tables, talking and drinking quietly; they paid the newcomers no heed. A nearwood bar stood in one corner, a man behind it polishing a tankard; John saw no one else, so he crossed to the bar.
“What can I do for you, sir?” the barman asked, putting down his tankard and towel as John approached.
“Are you the proprietor?” John asked.
“No, sir, Mr. Grace is away at the Citadel of Heaven today, and he left me in charge. James Redeemed-from-Sin is my name."
“Joel Meek-Before-Christ,” John answered. They shook hands. “My wife and I are just in from North Dan, with a few yards of good woolens. We could use a meal and a room, but from the look of this place,” he swept his arm around to include the entire inn and perhaps the town beyond, “I'm not sure we can afford any."
“Your first time in Little St. Peter?"
“Yes."
“Quite a fine little place, isn't it? Don't worry, though; our prices are reasonable enough. We won't turn you away."
“We haven't had a successful trip; forgive my bluntness, but what's ‘reasonable'?"
“What currency?"
“True Worder dollars.” The money from any of the larger powers could turn up anywhere, so John saw no reason to hedge.
“Don't get those much here.” He pulled out a chart from beneath the bar and consulted it, while John admired the hard, gleaming finish on the countertop-he had never seen nearwood look like that-and read the little plaque on the wall behind the barman, “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares, HEBREWS XIII.2."
“Ah!” the barman said. “Here it is! One hundred and fifty for the room and bed, thirty for sheeting. House menu for dinner, forty-five dollars. The conversion rate for Heavener credits is fifteen dollars to one credit, if you want anything else."
John was surprised; the prices were reasonable-in fact were slightly less than he would have expected to pay in New Nazareth. “You use Heavener credits here? I don't know them."
“The People of Heaven-Little St. Peter's in their protectorate now, ever since St. Peter itself was sacked by the Chosen of the Holy Ghost last year. Best thing that ever happened to us, joining the protectorate-it was the People of Heaven sold us all these fabrics, that clock, everything! Here, look at this bar!” He tapped the countertop.
“I was just looking at it a moment ago,” John said. “Never saw anything like it."
“It's plastic! Do you believe that? Pure plastic! And all they wanted for it was an even exchange in raw nearwood!"
“That's crazy,” Miriam said from behind John's shoulder.
“Isn't it? But they meant it, they did it! Traded even, no strings attached!"
“They want nearwood that much?"
“I guess they do! We've been swapping nearwood for everything you could imagine! Grain, too-I understand they'll pay top price for wheat, higher than anyone else around. And those woolens of yours-they've been buying raw wool, anyway. I'm not sure about fabrics; they've got enough of their own, it seems. Beef, leather, mutton, fungusmeat, fish, and if your little lady there's got nimble fingers, they even buy embroidery! The good Lord alone can know what they want with it all-begging your pardon, folks, my tongue ran away with me. It's been mighty good for the trade here, all this stuff coming through, and what's good for business is good for me-I'm paid on a share."
“What do they do with it all? And how do they pay for it?"
“I haven't the faintest idea what they do with it, sir, and that's the truth, but they pay in credits, and their credits are good, solid money, good for everything they sell-plastic is just one little thing. They sell fabrics I never heard of, so fine that you can't even see the weave and with textures like nothing on Godsworld-take a look at the curtains, you never saw anything like that in North Dan. Those cushions, too. And gunpowder-they must have found sulphur's Mother Lode itself. You saw those guns on the walls, I reckon-the Heaveners put those up themselves when Little St. Peter signed on. I tell you, joining the protectorate was the best thing the town elders ever did here. Jesus must surely love the People of Heaven!"
“I don't know,” John answered. “It might not be Jesus. Seems to me there's something sinful in all this wealth. Where'd it come from? It's a lure and a temptation, that's sure, but it's not Jesus who leads men into temptation."
The barman, who had been leaning forward over the bar, stood back, his tone suddenly unfriendly. “Now, sir, I'm not right certain that I take your meaning. Are you saying you see the hand of Satan in this?"
“No, I didn't say that-I don't know what I see. I do have my doubts, though. There's an old saying, that what's too good to be true isn't true, and it seems to me that all this wealth might be false, might have the hand of Satan behind it-but I can't say for sure. I'm just a trader in woolens, not a preacher."
“Well,” the barman said, his tone slightly more conciliatory, “I can see how one might wonder. But we do have our preachers here in Little St. Peter, and our doubters, too, and the preachers have answered the doubters. God has smiled on us, in reward for three hundred years of righteous living. If it were Satan's work, now, what Satan does is to tempt men into sin; and while we might've been tempted by the riches of Heaven here, there's been no sin, no one's lured us into evil. It's still honest work, cutting the nearwood or growing the wheat and trading it to the Heaveners, it just pays better than we're used to. The laborer is worthy of his hire, though-you know the Bible says that. The customs say to charge what the market will bear-and it's the Heaveners who set the prices, not us. Some of our folk have even told them, out of Christian charity, that they're paying too much, and they've changed a few of their prices, but they still pay well, because they say they want our trade and will pay high to keep it."
“But how did they get so rich? What if their wealth is the wages of sin, and you're sharing in it?"
“The wages of sin is death, friend. What sort of sin could it be that would bring wealth like this instead? No, what I think is that they've discovered the lost knowledge of the ancients-maybe they found the Mother Ship itself, as well as the Mother Lode. One of our scholars says that they might have found something called a ‘communication sat-in-light', or something akin to that-I didn't catch the words, but it's something that the ancients hung in the sky when they came that might have fallen since. It's a strange and wondrous thing, certainly, but it's a blessing, not a sin."