Free Waterborne Exile by Susan Murray

fell to the floor with a clatter. He stooped and picked it up. The coin he’d noticed yesterday. He’d forgotten all about it. By the daylight getting into the room around the curtains he could see it was not some local coin, as he’d assumed last night. In fact it was utterly unfamiliar. He’d grown used to handling various coins from the Marches as well as those from Highground, since he’d been working for – he couldn’t say “with” – Jervin, but this was different again. Thicker, made from a different metal, but too worn for him to make out the lettering around the face of it. He’d ask Gurney in the counting house, he’d know it.
    Drew forgot all about the indifferent start to the day as he became absorbed in the bookkeeping. Whatever bad memories he might have about his time at Vorrahan, he would be eternally grateful for the skills he had been taught there. Without the librarian’s patient tuition he’d never have mastered this work with numbers so readily. He’d completed the accounts up to date, all ready for Jervin’s inspection tomorrow. He straightened up and stretched, stifling a yawn. He’d worked through most of the day, even though it seemed little time had passed since lunch. Gurney was standing up, setting his desk straight when Drew remembered the strange coin.
    “Oh, before you go, I wanted to ask you about this.” He fished in his scrip for the coin, and held it out for Gurney’s inspection. The old man peered at it.
    “Now, you don’t see many of those in these parts. It’s a southern guinea. No use here at all, unless you know someone who’s bound for Highkell or the sea ports. Worth some then, of course. But if you don’t, then you’ve been cheated.”
    “Really? How so?”
    “Traders are supposed to surrender them for local coin when they land from seagoing vessels, or cross through Highkell from the south. So’s the administration can take their cut in tax. They’re not legal to use otherwise – stops traders dodging taxes. Not even freemerchants are meant to carry them.”
    “I see.” Drew studied the coin in his hand.
    “Of course, making the rules and enforcing them’s another matter. But if the powers that be find you trying to spend one of those in the north, there’s the import tax and a hefty surcharge to pay on top.”
    “I won’t be trying to spend it then.”
    “Might be worth waiting to see what our new king does. It was one of the peace terms the late king’s father – Goddess grant them both rest – agreed. I’ve heard it was pretty unpopular with southern folk. Could well be King Vasic has plans to do away with it – and draw the north’s teeth at the same time, I’ve no doubt.”
    Drew tucked the coin away in his scrip. “You think that’s likely? I doubt I’ll be venturing near Highkell any time soon.”
    Gurney pulled on his cloak. “Likely? Oh, yes. We’ll be seeing some changes before Vasic’s done, you mark my words.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    Goddess, what had they fed him? Weaver’s head spun. His eyes were closed, but still the dizziness raced through his skull, rushed through his ears with every beat of his heart. And Goddess, the pain. His chest burned with every inward breath. Was this the price he must pay for betraying his own king? Should he have burned back there in the palace, instead of crawling to safety like the craven coward he was? Was he finally being brought to account?
    He cracked his eyes open. The room spun about him. It was light enough to see that, at least. Where was he? There wasn’t much light – did that mean it was night, and the room was lit by candles? No, for all his dizziness the light was constant, he could sense it, the steady glow of early daylight, but Goddess, would it not stay still? He pressed his eyes shut, then eased them open a fraction. Better this time. He was looking up at a ceiling. Plain, flat, whitewashed a long time ago. A layer of grime and dust and cobwebs adhered to the surface