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TO&FQ: Book 1 - Chapter 40 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2024-12-14 10:54:53 +0000 UTCChapter 40 - The Glitter of Gold
“Coin, it is power and liberty alike, a gentle cushion beneath our weary heads, the silent root of all wickedness, and the bright sum of every earthly benediction.”
- The Human Question, by Gideon de Salavia 378 A.C.
Lehman’s Bank—Rashana’s family’s pride—was the only institution capable of converting coin into Al-Lazarian promissory notes of such staggering sums. Entering its halls was a lesson in the correct use of wealth, a silent sermon on the way of gold.
Set on the fringes of Aran’s bustling heart, by the caravanserai and the lazy dark brown waters of the dockside river, it rose like a carved titan of commerce. Its marble façade—executed in the Quas style modeled after Greco-Roman elegance—almost gleamed in the late morning light. Light and shadow danced across carved pilasters and serpentine capitals as clouds moved across the sky, while the stony visages of stone lions and robed scholars surveyed the world below.
The interior was both masculine and feminine in its design elements. A colorful tiled mosaic in pastel blues on the floor drew the eye, but black tiles made from volcanic rock and edged in real gold spoke of imposing power. In short, a lot of time and effort had been made to give the establishment an air of understated power.
Like a hawk hiding its talons.
In the center of the foyer, a fountain held court, drawing her eye. There, a life-sized marble figure—a gentle woman draped in flowing robes—tilted a pot so that clear water streamed forth, the gentle burble echoing through the halls. Surrounding this masterpiece, common folk waited in mute patience, clutching their wallets and purses, each hoping their needs would soon be met by a patient clerk or kindly cashier.
For Seraphina, that sort of waiting was simply unthinkable. She let Rashana’s name slip from her lips and made it known that she was an acquaintance of the family. Almost at once, the staff of Lehman’s Bank bent to assist her, ushering her beyond the milling throng to an upper office—a private domain reserved for the favored and the powerful. In that inner sanctum, each piece of furniture and every glint of polished brass reminded Seraphina that here coin spoke with a regal gravity. She smiled to herself, Just like her old world.
“May the eyes of the hallowed gods rest lightly upon you,” said an old man, offering the customary Al-Lazarian greeting as he held the door open, beckoning Seraphina inside. His skin was dusky, darkened by the sun or his inherent genes, and his posture stooped, but there was about him a quiet dignity to him. She recognized him—dimly—from those distant afternoons at Rashana’s estate, when she herself had been a mere girl and he a dutiful servant carrying trays and smoothing linens with impeccable care.
He introduced himself as Sajan, a former house-servant elevated now to the position of branch manager. With humble words, he attributed his learning and prestige to Rashana’s family, who had schooled their staff to standards few other households could match. As he spoke, he set a porcelain cup of jasmine tea before her. Its steam curled upward, a fragrant ribbon in the still air of the office.
“Lady Seraphina,” he said, inclining his head, “how may this one serve you today?”
A foreigner, his accent was thick, his grammar slipping and stuttering. After so long in Aranthia, one might have expected more refinement. But Seraphina suspected a clever ruse. Immigrants could be tricky like that. She leaned forward, her voice drifting into a gentle mockery of his manner of speech.
“This one”—she let the words linger, a note of delicate irony—“has come into a great deal of wealth recently. Sajan, is it? We both know Rashana’s family educates their servants more thoroughly than some academies do their scholars. Correct elocution would have been part of your training if you have risen this high.”
At that, he smiled, and when he next spoke, any trace of clumsy foreignness vanished. “Ah, milady Seraphina,” he said, his voice now smooth, urbane, “Truly, you are as wise and perceptive as you are beautiful. Would this influx of wealth have anything to do with the de Gazra family’s recent misfortunes at the gaming tables?”
Seraphina was inured to compliments, especially one born from the needs of etiquette. She offered only a measured smile in return.
Taking out her mother’s fan—an exquisite piece painted crimson with the image of a foreign bird perched upon a slender branch—she waved it softly to gather her thoughts. The delicate flutter of its panels conveyed a subtle warning.
“If we are to do business together, Sajan, you will learn to keep certain questions to yourself,” Seraphina said coolly, sipping her tea. Her tone was smooth as silk, and the delicate cup never so much as trembled in her hand. “I value discretion.”
Sajan laughed softly, his eyes gleaming with some secret amusement.
Seraphina raised an eyebrow, envenomed sweetness dripping from every word that followed. “Is something amusing to you, Sajan? Do you treat all your clients this way? Lehman’s has struggled to gain footing in Aranthia against the other banks, and now I think I see why. Let me be perfectly clear: my father has no male issue, and as the future Duchess of Sarien, I have considerable influence. If I choose to bank with Lehman’s, others will follow suit.” Her voice grew sharper, an edge of steel beneath the polished veneer.
She snapped her fingers and Sergeant Frest strode forward with a heavy satchel. Opening it, he revealed a cascade of gold coins that spilled their glitter across the table. Sajan’s gaze flickered over the sparkling hoard, his gaze one of unfiltered greed.
Frest too was similarly affected, but his was an expression closer to pained regret.
“I had intended to convert these into Lazarian promissory notes,” she said, tapping a manicured nail against the teacup, “but now I think I’d rather open an account here—at Lehman’s. Of course, I will expect a favorable rate. What I do not expect are questions about where these funds came from. Also, I wish to keep this new wealth very well hidden.”
“Even from the Crown?” Sajan asked, arching a bushy eyebrow.
She met his stare with a practiced smile. “Especially from the Crown,” she replied. Her words fell like a thrown gauntlet, challenging the man to deny her.
Sajan sniffed, attempting a show of moral indignation. “We are a legitimate institution. We follow the laws of Aranthia to the letter and the spirit—”
“Do not lie to me, Sajan,” Seraphina interjected, voice dropping to a quiet hiss. “You are nothing more than a front for the illicit Dust trade. One word from me and every Lehman’s branch would be torched, its assets seized by the king. Do not test me. I ask only for your discretion in handling my affairs. That should not be difficult.”
Sajan’s face flushed as he sputtered in denial, “We are nothing of the sort!”
Seraphina narrowed her eyes, smiling a serpent’s smile. Cornelia—the little white snake hidden in her bodice—chose that moment to peek out, flicking her tongue and tasting her mistress’ displeasure. The cold-blooded creature fixed Sajan with her stare. Miriam, standing beside her mistress, looked suddenly pale, fearing one of Seraphina’s infamous “episodes.”
Sajan’s voice faltered. “That is a—”
“Yes, Sajan, it’s a snake,” Seraphina said flatly. “Very observant.” She leaned forward, enjoying how he squirmed beneath her gaze, his eyes lingering around her chest despite himself. “Shall I list precisely how you smuggle Dust into the city in cheese wheels? Or how you launder money through accounts falsely registered under the names of deceased minor noblemen to fund your real estate ventures in the capital?”
His face fell, color draining like water from a cracked jug. “How did you—”
“How matters not,” she cut in, refusing to waste breath on foolish questions. “What matters is that you are sloppy. Sloppy people do not last long in service to the Lehman family. I trust you will handle my secrets more gracefully than you have your own.”
For a moment, the room fell silent, except for the faint trickle sand from a timepiece in the corner. Sajan swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. The leverage was hers now; she had him where she wanted him. The Lehman Bank was strong—formidable even—but so was Seraphina. In truth, no one in the Maiden of the Wisterias had uncovered the bank’s devious smuggling operation of the narcotic Dust. It was a testament to their professionalism and connections, Now, she wanted a portion of that power harnessed to her will.
And she would have it.
Forcing a tight smile, Sajan inclined his head. “Very well, milady,” he said quietly. “You wish to open a special account. We can accommodate that.”
She nodded, pleased. “Also, I have recently acquired the deed and title to a velvet weavery here in the city. I will register it under my assistant Miriam’s name. Assess its value, extend a favorable loan for expansion, and understate its income wherever possible—without attracting undue attention. You will help her incorporate a new company. Through this company, you will funnel funds to other projects of my choosing. I trust you understand?”
Miriam looked stricken as she signed the documents with trembling fingers. Miriam Bottlesworth—so utterly common a name, she thought. Still, Seraphina needed a level of plausible deniability and distance from her ventures and a person like Miriam would be great for that. If trouble came knocking, the maid would be the perfect scapegoat. After all, who would believe the words of a monster? Seraphina did not think it would come to that, but it never hurt to prepare.
It also served as another chain to stop Miriam from running off and doing her own thing.
Sajan, thoroughly cowed, tried to compose himself. “Will there be anything else I can do for you, milady?”
“Not for now,” said Seraphina, rising gracefully. Sergeant Frest extended an arm to help her up which she accepted. “If you need to contact me, send word to the Gilded Gryphon. I trust you know it?” At his silent nod, she continued, “I shall be writing to Rashana soon. I will, of course, mention your full and total cooperation. I expect this to be the start of a very profitable relationship—one that may even entice my father to bring his business here next time he visits.”
She glanced at Miriam, who looked as though her soul had just been signed away. “Cheer up, Miriam,” Seraphina said, dismissing the girl’s anxieties with a wave of her hand. “I’m granting you half a percent against the debt you owe me. All you must do is assume a touch of responsibility. A girl like you needs a sizable dowry to be truly appealing.”
Then, turning back to Sajan, Seraphina’s voice sharpened again. “As my representative, you will treat Miriam as you have treated me, with respect befitting a lady of quality. Have I made myself clear?”
Her maid’s eyes widened at her statement.
“As clear as Quas crystal, milady,” Sajan replied with a weary sigh.
“Excellent. When the details are settled, send Miss Bottlesworth back to me. I expect everything prepared within the week.” Seraphina’s lips curved into a victorious smile, one that promised rewards for compliance—and ruin for disobedience.
Without another word, she swept out of the office. Frest soon followed, his fine new armor clanking against the marble floor as he trailed after her.
They left behind a very, very worried Miriam.
*****
Money. Such a simple thing, yet it embodied a concept as intricate and complex as any tapestry woven by mortal hands. It was a truly human invention that was devastating in its amoral nature, ensnaring countless souls and captivating them with its lure. Many were enthralled by gold and silver for their own sake, as if the coins sang a quiet lullaby only they could hear.
But not Seraphina. She had never hungered for it blindly, never worshipped at that golden altar simply because others did. For her, money had always come easily. From youth when her beauty had started to truly bloom, it drifted into her hands, forever renewed and replenished by a constant flow of gifts and tributes.
It astounded her how something so unreal could possess such physicality.
Money even defied the natural decay of things, the inevitable spiral into entropy. Where other resources withered and diminished, money multiplied, breeding more of its kind in the dark vaults and ledgers. The more she amassed, the more it attracted, as though it possessed a secret gravity all its own. Pile after pile, account after foreign offshore account, day after day, the wealth grew larger, fatter, and increasingly swollen with interest and all of her investments.
At times, Seraphina had found herself amused by it all—so much so that she had devoted entire afternoons to thinking of new, ever more extravagant ways to spend it. She knew that the love of money for its own sake was a fool’s fancy and distraction. Its real worth lay in the power it gave and the doors it opened.
Across the world, there stood one truth that bound every culture and creed: to hold money was to hold power. Men and women of all nations scrambled for it, schemed for it, pled and bled for it.
In this universal hunger, wealth became more than metal and paper—it was power made manifest by human belief.
Reward or punishment, bribe or threat, shield or blade. Cold and unfeeling, money was endlessly adaptable. Those who claimed money could not buy happiness surely never possessed enough of it to sway the leader of a country, ruin a rival, or change the very course of destiny.
Now, that was happiness. And you could never have enough of it.
These were her thoughts as she gazed out the window of her carriage on the way back to the Gilded Gryphon. She noticed the empty stares of the townsfolk, their eyes inevitably drawn to the opulence of her traveling coach.
For a moment, she almost felt sorry for them, but then she realized it would be like pitying the mice that lurked behind the walls of the comfortable home she had built for herself.
Sweets… there was such a lack of decent confectionery in this world. Seraphina would have to see what Eloise could conjure up. After all, it was high time her alchemical studies began to bear fruit.
