Graham Rowat

All the girls in Halleck could tell you that, and a good portion of them could tell you that with certainty.

Jacob slid another ale across the bar, wordlessly accepting the payment.

He examined the stone coin with a dismal look in his eyes, then looked back to the approaching forms of the brightly dressed horsemen, getting closer slowly, horses now trotting lazily.

If they came to his bar, they would pay with more than stone.

A good old copper disc or a jangling pouch of flint chips.

Maybe they'd even have silver.

Well, if Jacob could get a bit of the holy metal into his humble pockets, why, then he'd go to chapel every day, clean the dust and grime off the hooded lady and everything.

Jacob smiled distantly and pushed another ale across the bar.

That was a good dream.

Perhaps it had come true in a few minutes.

A whinny broke his hopeful stupor, and he looked out of the paneled doors to see who he hoped were silvermen.

Silvermen bearing faith and gifts.

The four had already dismounted from their horses, hopping onto the dusty ground as gracefully as the hooded maidens in the chapel.

But Jacob's hopes were dashed when they walked through the bar doors.

There wasn't a chunk or chip of silver to be found anywhere on them.

Some holy men wore just a tiny nugget around their neck, and others bedecked themselves in heavy robes of silk, beads, and most importantly, silver.

But no matter how much they had, they made it visible, a chain around their throats affixed by the hooded lady.

There was no silver on these men.

He tried to quell his disappointment.

As the four men approached the counter, Jacob plastered a smile onto his face and furtively moved the sign that listed the day's prices.