Part 28 (2/2)

'Never heard of him,' he says. He doesn't notice I'm trembling when I say the name; he's too busy watching his money.

'How long have you had this shop?'

'Six months.'

'And the man who had it before you?'

'The shop was empty when I took it. A merchant, a Norman, arranged it.'

I improvise. 'My family had a cup stored in the vault here. Where can I find it?'

He shrugs. 'The vaults were empty when I took over.'

I drift away, but keep watching. From the corner of my eye I can see Hugh standing in a doorway. He's pretending to haggle with a man selling fish pies. I concentrate on the goldsmith's shop. The owner might have changed but the commerce is the same: Italian merchants bring their native coins, and go away short-changed. Some of them leave with even less. They deposit their coins, and take nothing in exchange but a piece of paper.

I turn my attention to the clerks. Two of them are Italian, bantering with the merchants in their own language. The third doesn't join in, but keeps his head down and frowns furiously at the accounts. There's something familiar about him: when the shop closes for lunch, I follow him down the street and accost him in the square outside the church of Notre Dame.

'I saw you at the goldsmith's.'

Suspicious eyes watch me closely. Goldsmiths, even their clerks, don't like strangers prying into their business. I try to smile.

'Let me buy you a drink.'

I take him to a tavern. Hugh follows us in and takes a table by the door.

'I visited that shop a few months ago, when it was under the sign of the eagle. You were working there then.'

He doesn't deny it.

'I want to know about the man who owned it. An old man with sky-blue eyes and a silver hand who sat in the crypt.'

A look of terror pa.s.ses over his face. He's suddenly very aware of the other men in the tavern.

'His name was Lazar de Mortain.' He stares at the table. 'I only saw him twice. Most of the time he left his steward in charge.'

'The one-eyed man?'

The clerk nods. 'Alberic. He told us what to do.'

'Do you know where he came from?'

'Normandy, I think.'

'But you don't know where he went?'

He shakes his head. I change tack. 'The merchants who give you money and just get paper in return what are they doing?'

The question surprises him, but he's glad to be on less treacherous ground. 'The papers are bills of exchange. They confirm that the merchant has deposited a certain sum with us. The merchant can go home, take it to our corresponding bank in Pavia or Piacenza, and they will give him the money.'

'If they take in paper and give out gold, won't they soon end up bankrupt?'

'We're doing the same in the opposite direction. A French merchant coming home from Italy will give the corresponding bank his money, and bring us the paper. Twice a year, we add up how much we've paid out and how much we've received. The Italian bank does the same, and then whoever owes the other sends the money. Usually, the difference isn't much. It saves dozens of merchants all taking gold over the Alps and falling prey to robbers.'

'Did Lazar issue bills of exchange?'

'Yes.'

'But now he's gone. If I held one of these bills if I came to you today and demanded the money you owed me, what would you say?'

'Guillermo the master would pay you. At Ascensiontide he'd send the bill by messenger to a money-changer in Bruges.'

I grip the table. 'So Lazar is in Bruges?'

'No. The man in Bruges is another correspondent.'

I'm beginning to get lost in this web of money, all these pieces of paper with their promises of riches. No doubt that's what Lazar intends.

'Do you know how the money finally reaches Lazar?'

A sly smile spreads over the clerk's face. 'When the Bruges moneylender sends us his bills, I enter them in the ledgers. Once, there was a mistake he sent us a bill that he should have kept. There was no name on it, but I recognised the writing.'

'Did it say where it came from? How it got to Bruges?'

'It came from London.'

XLI.

Mirabeau site, France The man edged forward. His red hair grew long and wild, matted into impromptu dreadlocks. Leaves cl.u.s.tered on it like velcro. His face seemed to have deep clefts scored into it, though as he came closer Ellie saw it was actually camouflage paint. His eyes were wide and round like an owl's. He had a camera slung around his neck.

'Put your hands where I can see them.'

He spoke English with an accent, German or Dutch. Ellie and Doug put their hands in the air.

'Are you with the Brotherhood?' she tried. 'A friend of Harry?' He didn't look much like Harry he looked wild. 'I'm Ellie. I broke into Monsalvat.'

Nothing registered. He jerked the gun. 'Are you with the company?'

Yes? No? What was the right answer? He didn't look like a security guard.

'Not any more.'

The gun barrel inched a fraction higher. She'd never imagined the absolute terror that came from looking down the barrel of a gun. She could almost feel the tension of the finger on the trigger, the tiny movement that was all that stood between life and death.

'I used to work for the company that owns Talhouett. I heard some rumours I thought they might be doing something bad here.'

'OK.' He considered that. Ellie began to think he was as confused as they were. But he had the gun.

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