Free Burning Twilight by Kenneth Wishnia Page B

keep the wobbly chair steady.
    That set off another round of murmurings, expressing either awe at my bravery or astonishment at my foolishness. Or both.
    “And what do you want from us?”
    “I’m looking for a woman who’s involved in a counterfeiting operation.”
    I’d like to say that a collective gasp sucked the last bit of air out of the room, but it was worse than that. As if on cue, women bared their nails and concealed weapons came out of hiding.
    The leader planted his fists on the tabletop and leaned into the light like an actor stepping downstage to address the audience. His hatchet-thin face looked even more gaunt due to the bushy eyebrows and black triangular beard casting deep shadows in the hollows of his cheeks.
    “We’ve already heard that a foreign woman was arrested on a charge of counterfeiting, and that she was seen in the company of a tall Jew newly arrived from Prague.”
    So they already knew. I should have figured on that.
    “But I see that you are a perceptive man,” he declared. “Then you should know that any unauthorized use of the king’s likeness is an insult to his royal position. And that the charge of false coining buys you a quick trip to the gallows.”
    “It is the same with Jews,” I replied. “Since it poses a danger to us all, anyone who is found to be doing business with coin-clippers and thieves is punished by being cut off from the community.”
    “Not good enough,” said the leader, pushing off the table and resuming his vigorous pacing, which I somehow found more threatening than his eagle-eyed stare.
    He dug into his purse, slapped a coin on the table and slid it toward me. It skidded to a halt within an arm’s reach. I leaned forward and immediately recognized the square, curly-tipped cross dividing the coin into four equal quarters. A Spanish gold doubloon, worth more than thirty silver dalers, nearly a hundred zlotys in Polish coin, or three years’ salary for a lowly servant like me.
    “It’s fake,” the leader said. “And the law says I’m supposed to cut it up and bring it to the royal mint. So why do I still have it in my possession?”
    “Because you want to get ahold of the person who passed it to you.”
    He held his peace and looked at me, smiling without warmth.
    “She claimed that she represented the Fuggers of Frankfurt.”
    “Well, that can’t be true because the Fuggers are based in Augsburg,” I said.
    The corners of his mouth grew sharp.
    “You certainly seem to have the knowledge,” he said. “But why should we help you with this?”
    “To be honest, I don’t know.”
    Something that might have been a chuckle escaped from his throat, and he resumed pacing.
    “A few years ago, Prince Albertus of Kraków employed some foreign magicians who claimed they could turn a pound of lead into a pound of gold.”
    “That’s impossible. Every alchemist knows that it takes gold to make gold.”
    “Prince Albertus eventually came to the same conclusion, and had the thieves banished from his castle. But I heard that they ended up in Prague, reportedly making gold for Emperor Rudolph II.”
    The thought struck me like a bell. Suddenly the leader turned and said, “Here’s your knife back,” and flung it at me. But the trajectory was a bit short and it planted itself quivering in the tabletop before me, missing the edge—and my vitals—by about three inches.
    I didn’t flinch.
    That seemed to satisfy him.
    “If it’s a counterfeiter you’re after, you’re in the wrong place,” he said. “We don’t risk the noose for a bag of false coins.”
    “No, I’m sure you only supply legitimate services.”
    “But we can give you the name of someone who does.”
    I found her in the back room of a goldsmith’s shop on Wet Street, wearing a loose red skirt and a tight-fitting bodice with red and black straps that exposed her smooth flesh from shoulder to shoulder, with a generous expanse in between. Her silky black hair was held in place