He fished out the note he had scribbled the address on and handed it to Gordon without a second thought, only realising his error when the man’s face scrunched in confusion. Whilst the original might have once been in Tirglasian script, it had been translated and then copied word for word into his native Udynean. “I believe it is called Aged Priest’s Manner.”
Gordon frowned at the parchment, twisting it sideways and then upside-down. “Is that was this says? There’s nae streets named—” He lowered the parchment, arching a brow in Darshan’s direction. “Do you by chance mean Old Priest’s Way? Everyone kens where that is. It’s nae far from the central market square, as a matter of fact.” With the click of his tongue, he urged his horse at the fore of their little group as they ambled through the city. “Why there?”
“I was informed there is a guild on that street.”
“The merchant guild?” Hamish replied. “Aye, they’ve secure stables. We leave our horses there all the time. Me sister’s husband was a member, before the—” He froze in the saddle, his gaze darting to the boys who were more absorbed in nattering amongst themselves. Nevertheless, Hamish whispered, “Before the sinking.”
Merchant? He had assumed the guild would’ve been tied to a bank or some such like Udynea. “I take it this guild works like a…?” The question died on his lips as he considered the great mental lexicon of words his tutors had stuffed into his brain during the trip here. Any equivalent translation for bank wasn’t amongst them.
Did Tirglasians not have banks? The thought hadn’t occurred to him before. It seemed so natural for people to place their trust—and copious amounts of money—in banks and their guild posts. Only the imperial treasury, and a few stubborn nobles, stood separate from the financial guild. Admittedly, the communication network was vastly superior to the Tirglasian reliance on pigeons and horse messengers, but surely those in the capital city relied on something more substantial than personal vaults and chests to store the entirety of their wealth.
“Works like a what?”
Shaking himself out of his musing, Darshan became sharply aware of Hamish staring at him as if he had somehow dropped out of existence and popped back. “A financial establishment,” he mumbled, his face heating. “One that deals in loans and investments. Perhaps even exchanges of currency?”
Hamish’s ruddy brows lowered at the last example, but the spark of recognition in the rest did give Darshan some hope that he was stepping into somewhat familiar grounds. “I dinnae have much to do with money,” he confessed. “So, I couldnae rightly tell you about that last one, but the merchant guild deals with the trade and loans within the city.”
“They’re a pest,” Gordon muttered over his shoulder. “I’m honestly glad Nora deals with that lot. I would’ve run the buggers out of town by now. Remember their last demand? That their leader be named Mayor of Mullhind? And you ken what?”
“That he wasnae even of the clan,” Hamish replied, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. With one hand opening and closing like the beak of a duck, he mimed his brother’s chatter. Clearly, a conversation they’d had many times before.
“Precisely. I thought poor Muir was going to have a heart attack when he found out. Almost caused a massive upheaval in trade throughout the city, would have if Nora hadnae convinced Muir that an extra tax on all goods wasnae going to help settle matters.”
Perhaps there was a little more in common to the merchant guild and the banks Darshan frequented for funds. The man who ran the central bank in Minamist also oversaw the guild district and did a fine job of keeping them organised. Then again, he was imperial property. Keeping the empire running smoothly was expected of them. “I take it the guild failed to get what they asked for?”
Gordon shook his head. “Nae a scrap. I dinnae ken why they even tried. The mayor always comes from the local clan. It’s the same all over Tirglas.”
Their chatter grew broken and less frequent the closer they got to the central market square. People and carts crowded the streets, the former loud in their efforts to be heard and move on.
Animals also joined in with their cries. The resonating rumble of cattle at his elbow—the brutes big enough to feed a large family with one leg—near deafened Darshan. Thankfully, the driver directed them down a nearby side street. Sheep heavy with wool bleated as they passed by, mercifully in carts often towed by horses as the woolly beasts all brandish curled horns and seemed rather eager to butt them against their wooden cages.
There was a mighty crash to his left, sending people skittering from the chaos. Darshan had barely turned his head at the noise before several crates tumbled onto the road, spilling wizened apples everywhere. Hamish’s horse slid on one, the mare’s rump swinging Darshan’s way as it struggled to remain upright.
Darshan’s horse bunched beneath him in a most alarming manner. Don’t kick. No telling what, or who, those hooves might connect with. Whilst he could heal most injuries, having a face caved in by a well-placed hoof was not one of them.
He gave the animal a few reassuring strokes on the neck. What had Hamish said the animal was called? “Easy, Warrior,” he murmured, pleased when the horse flicked his ears back and listened to him rather than the shrieking of the apple seller, who berated a rather harried young man with a
