Master Ailwin smiled too, and nodded to the Queen. ‘Your Grace, my wife often tells me I talk too much and too little to the point, so let me try to be brief.’ He laid out on the table a dozen coins.
Behind him, the two apprentices finished laying out the armour and retired. Their master entered, bowed low to the throne, and stood decorously against the wall.
The King looked at the coins. ‘Silver leopards and gold. Perhaps not our finest strikes – look how many times this one has been clipped!’ He laughed. ‘Sixty-four twenty-nine?’ he said. ‘My grandfather minted that before Chevin.’
‘Just so,’ muttered Master Random.
‘And this one seems as fat as a ewe with a lamb in her belly,’ the King went on, picking up a heavy silver coin. His eyebrow shot up. ‘Sixty-four sixty-three?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t minted any new coins.’
Ailwin looked at his companions. ‘It is not from Your Grace’s mints,’ he said.
‘It’s from Galle, or Hoek,’ added the Lord Mayor.
The King frowned. ‘King of Kings,’ he said. ‘Who dares counterfeit my coins?’ Then he sat back. ‘But it is solid enough. A fine coin. My father’s likeness.’ He spun it in the air.
‘The King of Galle and the Count of Hoek are counterfeiting our coins,’ Master Random said. ‘Pardon me that I do not stand, Your Grace. I took a wound at Lissen Carrak.’
‘Well I know it, Master Random, and you may always sit in my presence. Holding that door against all those wights – many a belted knight would have failed – aye, and more would give their left hands to have done it! Eh?’ The King’s eyes sparkled. He began to rise. ‘That puts me in mind – I meant to-’
His wife’s hand dragged him back into his seat.
‘The King of Galle and the Count of Hoek are counterfeiting Your Grace’s coins,’ Master Random said again.
The King shrugged. ‘So? They are fine coins.’ He looked at the merchants. ‘They are princes, not highwaymen. If they choose to make coins like ours-’
The Queen pressed his hand.
‘Master Pye!’ called the King.
The Master Armourer stood against the wall – short and stocky, as one would expect of a smith, with a long grey beard and clear grey eyes. He straightened and bowed. ‘Your Grace?’
The Queen leaned forward. ‘Your Grace needs to attend these worthy men.’
‘I am attending, sweet,’ said the King. He smiled at her, and then went back to his beloved Master Pye. ‘Pye, unriddle me this – why is it such a mischief?’ He sat back. ‘I’m too simple. Money is money. Either we have enough, or we don’t. I gather that we don’t? Is that the root of the trouble?’
‘The Captal de Ruth,’ announced the herald.
Master Ailwin winced at the man’s arrival.
‘If you need more money,’ Jean de Vrailly said, ‘tax these men harder. It is a shame that any member of the lower orders dresses like this popinjay. Take all the gold fittings from his belt – that will teach him not to dress this way in public. In Galle we order things better.’
‘Yes, well, Captal, in Alba we do not, and we reckon our kingdom stronger for it.’ The King waved the Captal to a seat. ‘Now be a good fellow and give me some room, here. These fellows are stretching my wits.’
‘As I was saying-’ Master Pye began. He went and stood by the coins, and Master Ailwin gave him a grateful glance.
‘The King of Galle-’ said de Vrailly.
The King turned the full force of his glare on the Victor of Lissen. ‘Master Pye is speaking, sir.’
De Vrailly turned and stared out the window like a pouting basilisk.
‘So,’ said Master Pye. He tossed a much-abused silver leopard on the table and it rang like a faery’s laugh. Then he tossed a fat silver leopard on the table, and it made a rude clank. He shrugged. ‘More tin than silver,’ he said. ‘The word I hear is that the Count of Hoek and the King of Galle are attacking our coins.’
‘You lie!’ said de Vrailly. He was in full armour – the only armoured man in the room.
Master Pye looked him over carefully. ‘That right pauldron must catch on your mail,’ he observed, after a moment.
De Vrailly paused.
The Queen thought that she had never seen the Gallish knight so utterly taken aback.
De Vrailly cleared his throat. ‘It does,’ he admitted. ‘Master Pye, you cannot attack the honour of the King of Galle in my presence-’
Master Pye didn’t flinch. He looked back at the King. ‘That’s what I hear, Your Grace. It stands to reason – our wool is pushing theirs out the market. They don’t have the kind of laws we do to support our cloth, because small men have no voice there.’ His eyes flicked to the armoured man. ‘So when their crafts fail, their kings must raise money by devaluing the coinage. It is like an attack.’ He raised a hand to forestall the King and de Vrailly too. ‘But our coinage is solid – your father made sure of that. Mmm? So everyone in the Dix Ports trades in our coin and that is our defence. They devalue their coinage, we don’t, and so our trade is strong. So what have they done?’ He took a deep breath, aware that the King was finally listening, ‘They’ve counterfeited our coins but with less bullion. Right? Now they beat us in two ways: they supply their devalued coins for exchange, which makes traders believe our coins are worth less; and they most likely take our true coinage and melt it down.’ He tossed the little, much clipped leopard again. ‘And our coin is old, Your Grace. It’s old and tired, much clipped and so lighter, but still pure silver. They’ve lost some of their value anyway.’ He looked at Master Ailwin. ‘How was that?’
‘It’s brilliant,’ said the King. His voice was no longer bantering, but hard. ‘How much has this hurt us?’
Ailwin shook his head. ‘I think we all thought it was just the events of the spring, at first. But then Master Random started to chart the falling silver content and what we’ve lost from it.’
‘How much?’ asked the King.
‘A hundred thousand leopards,’ said Master Random.
There was silence.
‘All Your Grace’s revenues are down, and when people pay their taxes using these debased coins, we have even less money than we expected.’ Master Ailwin said.
‘Good lord, I’d rather face a charge of trolls,’ complained the King. For a moment he put his face in his hands. ‘What do we do?’
The Lord Mayor looked at the carefully laid-out new armour on the side table. Each piece was mostly finished, but there were no buckles or hinges yet, and in place of decoration there were careful lines in white paint.
‘Cancel the tournament, for starters,’ said the Lord Mayor. ‘It’s going to cost what the war cost, and we don’t have it.’
The Queen put a hand to her throat.
The King looked at Master Pye. ‘Surely we can do better than that,’ he said.
Master Random raised a hand. ‘I hate to see a tourney cancelled,’ he said. ‘Instead, why not reopen the mint and issue new coinage? Strike some copper while we’re at it, and we’ll hold the balances for a while.’ He looked at Master Pye. ‘Pye has the skills to make the dies – I know he does. We could issue copper exactly to size and weight with the Imperial coinage out of Liviapolis, and have the thanks of every merchant and farmer west of the mountains.’
Pye rolled his eyes. ‘I make armour. We need to find a goldsmith.’
Master Random shook his head. ‘No – saving Your Grace, we need a loyal man who is absolutely trustworthy, and that’s you, Master Pye. The King’s friend. Your name behind the coins will-’ He looked sheepish as he realised that he was implying that men might not trust the King.
But the King had leaped to his feet. ‘Well spoken,’ he said. ‘By God, Random, if all my merchants were like you, I’d have a corps of merchant-knights. At least I can understand you. Let it be done – Master Pye, reopen the mint and coin us some coins.’