Chapter 27: Useless Coins
“Castilian coins?” I repeated the name, turning it over in my mind. It echoed in the empty halls of my memory, but conjured no image, no connection. Jared’s accent, a product of this strange new tongue, was thick, and the same word could sound entirely different from what I might have remembered from my old life. After a moment of fruitless thought, I asked, “What is the name of this city?”
“The city of Candon,” he replied without hesitation. I realized then that he knew a great deal more than he let on. His life as a thief demanded it. To be successful, a thief needed to be a collector of information, an observer of men. He needed to know who people were, where they lived, who their associates were, what they carried in their pockets, and what was best left untouched. And the best way to gather such intelligence was to listen, to be a ghost in the crowd. Jared had spent his life listening in the marketplaces and taverns, and so he knew far more of the world than the average guttersnipe. But the name Candon, like Castilian, meant nothing to me. It was, of course, the name of a city in a world I had never known. The words were just sounds, offering no clues, no footholds for my understanding in this vast, alien landscape.
“We need to hide this money,” I said, my voice urgent, a cold knot of practicality tightening in my chest. “And we can’t let anyone see it. Not a soul. If people find out two orphans have coin like this, they’ll come after us. They’ll kill us for it without a second thought.” The past two days had taught me not to expect any protection from the law. A couple of dead urchins found floating in a canal would be just another Tuesday in a city like this, hardly worth a mention in the penny dreadfuls.
Jared was no fool. You don’t survive as long as he has on these merciless streets without a sharp mind. The initial, dizzying excitement of the gold had faded, and his natural, street-honed caution had returned. “You’re right,” he said, his expression grim as he looked at the glittering pile. “We’ll bury the pouch nearby. We’ll take three silver pieces, just for emergencies. The rest… we’ll have to be careful about how we use it.” He had spent his whole life dreaming of what he would do with a bit of money, of the food he would eat, the warm clothes he would buy. But now that he had it, a small fortune that could change everything, he seemed at a loss. Beyond a full belly and a decent coat, the grander possibilities of wealth were a foreign language to him.
The problem was a practical one, a cruel paradox. Jared had no taste for luxuries; he wouldn't even know what to do with a proper glass, let alone a sofa or a dressing table. His entire existence had been focused on the bare, brutal necessities of survival. And even if we wanted to buy something, the world of glass-fronted shops and respectable establishments was closed to us, its doors barred by our grime and our rags as effectively as if by iron gates. Dressed as we were, we’d be chased out like stray dogs. And if we tried to pay with a gold coin, we’d be met with suspicion. They’d assume we’d stolen it—which was true, of course—and promptly call the peelers. We possessed a fortune that could buy us a new life, but we were trapped in our poverty. To show our wealth would be to sign our own death warrants. It was a special kind of hell.
I watched as he carefully gathered the coins, his movements now deliberate and thoughtful. I was impressed. The sudden glitter of gold had not blinded him; it had only made him more cautious. For a boy who had known nothing but the gutter, that kind of clear-headedness wasn't just rare; it was a miracle. He had potential, this boy. More than he knew.
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