The peddler arrived with one broken wheel, two mules, and enough goods to make Ellyn forget every rule Mara had ever given her.
“Don’t touch.”
“I know.”
“Ellyn.”
“I’m looking.”
“With your hands.”
Ellyn withdrew her fingers from a collection of colored ribbons.
“I was checking.”
“For what?”
She considered.
“Quality.”
Raymun laughed.
The peddler grinned.
“Sharp girl.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Raymun said.
The man’s name was Perwyn.
His cart carried exactly the sort of collection Raymun had learned to expect from traveling peddlers: needles, thread, cheap knives, ribbons, combs, candles, little mirrors, buttons, secondhand books and parchments, old tools, pots, buckles, bits of jewelry, and objects whose original purpose seemed to have been forgotten.
Garran was repairing Perwyn’s wheel.
Mara was examining needles.
Ellyn wanted everything.
Ronan wanted to eat everything.
Raymun wandered toward a small box of miscellaneous metal pieces.
“What’s this?”
Perwyn glanced over.
“Old token.”
Raymun lifted a round piece of darkened metal.
It was smaller than his palm.
One side bore a worn image—perhaps a ship.
The other held markings around the edge.
Not Westerosi letters Raymun immediately recognized.
“How much?”
Perwyn named a price.
Raymun stared.
“For this?”
“Old.”
“So is dirt.”
“Dirt doesn’t have a ship.”
Raymun put it down.
“Then keep your ship.”
Perwyn laughed.
“Half.”
“No.”
“A third.”
“No.”
“You bargain like your mother.”
From across the yard, Mara said, “He does not.”
Raymun looked offended.
Perwyn lowered the price again.
Raymun still refused.
He had learned something from the fruit sweets.
Curiosity was not automatically a business expense.
Perwyn stayed overnight while Garran repaired the wheel properly.
That evening, several of his goods were spread across one common-room table.
Travelers gathered around.
Raymun watched people inspect them.
An old buckle became valuable because someone needed exactly that size.
A decorative knife nobody wanted became interesting when Perwyn lowered the price.
A chipped cup sold because a carter liked the painted horse on its side.
Value moved strangely.
It wasn’t simply what something cost to make.
It was what someone needed.
What they wanted.
What alternatives existed.
What they knew.
And occasionally how drunk they were.
Raymun recorded that last variable only mentally.
He returned to the token.
A merchant named Harys noticed it.
“Where’d you get that?”
Perwyn shrugged.
“Bought a box of scrap outside King’s Landing.”
Harys picked it up.
“Merchant mark, maybe.”
“Whose?” Raymun asked.
“Don’t know.”
Another traveler disagreed.
“Dock token.”
“For what?”
“Cargo.”
Harys shook his head.
“Too small.”
“What does size have to do with it?”
“Everything if you’ve ever worked a dock.”
Soon four men had four explanations.
Merchant token.
Warehouse marker.
Dock tally.
Gaming piece.
Raymun listened.
Nobody knew.
That made it more interesting.
Not because Raymun imagined treasure.
Because uncertainty itself had become interesting.
He opened his Journal.
UNKNOWN METAL TOKEN
Source: Perwyn, traveling peddler.
Reported origin: Mixed scrap purchased outside King’s Landing.
Description: Round, darkened metal.
Possible ship symbol. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Edge markings.
Purpose: Unknown.
Hypotheses: Merchant token / dock token / cargo marker / gaming piece.
Confidence: Low.
That was enough.
He didn’t need to own it.
The next morning, Perwyn prepared to leave.
Raymun helped Garran check the repaired wheel.
“Good?” Garran asked.
Raymun pushed it.
It turned smoothly.
“Looks good.”
“Looks?”
Raymun corrected himself.
“I don’t know enough about wheels to say.”
Garran smiled.
“Better.”
Perwyn loaded the last box.
Then tossed something toward Raymun.
Raymun caught it.
The token.
He frowned.
“I didn’t buy this.”
“No.”
“I don’t want charity.”
Perwyn barked a laugh.
“Boy, it’s worth perhaps two coppers if you find someone foolish.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because you stared at it for half the night.”
Raymun looked at the token.
“I was trying to understand it.”
“Exactly.”
Perwyn climbed onto the cart.
“Next time I pass, tell me what it is.”
Raymun narrowed his eyes.
“So you’re giving me work.”
“Now you’re learning trade.”
The cart rolled away.
Raymun kept the token.
But unlike the damaged wool contract, it gave him no immediate answers.
He showed it to Edwyn.
The clerk examined it.
“No idea.”
“You’re supposed to know things.”
“I know many things.”
“Not this.”
“No.”
“Can you guess?”
“Yes.”
Raymun waited.
Edwyn returned it.
“I guess I don’t know.”
Raymun stared at him.
“That was terrible.”
“It was accurate.”
Unfortunately, it was.
Weeks passed.
The token sat with Raymun’s small collection of papers.
Sometimes a traveler recognized the style.
Or claimed to.
One sailor thought it came from Gulltown.
Another insisted he’d seen something similar in Maidenpool.
A merchant said perhaps Myr.
Those were very different places.
Raymun recorded each claim.
He did not combine them into certainty.
Then one evening, a gray-bearded factor examined it.
“That’s not a coin.”
“I know.”
“Warehouse token, I think.”
Raymun leaned closer.
“Where?”
“Could be Duskendale.”
“Could?”
The man rubbed the worn surface.
“Used to be some merchants marking storage lots with pieces like this.
Not exactly this.”
“What do the markings mean?”
“No idea.”
Raymun felt the familiar frustration.
Almost an answer.
Not enough.
“Who would know?”
The factor shrugged.
“Someone old enough to remember the warehouses.”
That was useful.
The next market day, Raymun began asking around Duskendale.
Not everyone.
He had learned restraint.
He asked warehouse workers.
Older merchants.
Factors.
A retired dock clerk.
Eventually an elderly man named Corren held the token beneath the sunlight.
“Veyran.”
Raymun blinked.
“What?”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Raymun’s excitement immediately dropped.
Corren turned it over.
“But I’d wager on it.”
“Why?”
“That ship.”
Raymun pointed.
“Everyone says it’s a ship.”
“Not the ship.
The three cuts beneath it.”
Raymun looked closer.
He had assumed they were damage.
“Those mean something?”
“Used to.”
“What?”
Corren shrugged.
“Warehouse section, maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“You like that word?”
“No.”
“Get older.
You’ll use it more.”
Raymun recorded everything.
Possible identification: old Veyran commercial warehouse token.
Source: Corren, retired dock worker/clerk.
Confidence: Moderate-low.
He didn’t upgrade the conclusion further.
One man’s memory wasn’t enough.
But the name interested him.
Veyran.
He had heard it before.
Most people around Duskendale had.
The Veyrans were wealthy common-born merchants.
Warehouses.
Shipping interests.
Credit.
Urban property.
Not nobles.
But rich enough that people spoke their name differently from ordinary traders.
Raymun had no reason to contact them.
So he didn’t.
That was another kind of progress.
A younger version of himself would already have imagined introductions, alliances, trade agreements, perhaps an entire commercial future based on one piece of metal.
Now he simply recorded the name.
Someday it might matter.
Today it didn’t.
On the return journey, Ellyn sat beside him on the cart.
She held the token.
“So it’s treasure?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep it?”
“Because I haven’t finished understanding it.”
She turned it over.
“Looks boring.”
“It is.”
“Can I have it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“You didn’t buy it.”
“It was given to me.”
Ellyn frowned.
“That counts?”
“Yes.”
She thought about this carefully.
Then handed him a pebble.
“Here.”
Raymun accepted it suspiciously.
“What is this?”
“Mine.”
“You just gave it to me.”
“So now it’s yours.”
“Yes.”
Ellyn immediately grabbed the token.
“Trade.”
Raymun stared at her.
She smiled.
“That isn’t how—”
He stopped.
Actually, that was exactly how trade worked if he agreed.
“I don’t agree.”
Ellyn returned the token with visible disappointment.
Raymun kept the pebble.
“Why are you keeping that?”
“You gave it to me.”
“It was just a rock.”
Raymun slipped it into his pocket.
“Should’ve negotiated better.”
Ellyn gasped.
Then tackled him.
Garran shouted from the front of the cart for them to stop fighting.
Neither listened.
Months later, Raymun still had both objects.
The token went into his records.
The pebble stayed in a small wooden box beside his bed.
One might someday connect him to something useful.
The other was worthless.
Raymun wasn’t entirely sure which one he valued more.