Read Online The Dream Maker by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Alison Anderson - Free Book Online Page A

defeats.
    â€œMight I ask, please,” I ventured to say, “what is the nature of your talents?”
    In truth, until then I had thought he was the leader of a group of mercenaries. The country was infested with these itinerant gentlemen who placed both sword and retainers in the service of those who offered the best wages and the most tempting plunder.
    â€œI am a minter,” said Ravand.
    Minters are those who forge precious metal. Their art derives from the Chthonic mysteries of fire and the mine. Instead of hammering ploughshares or knifeblades, they manufacture the tiny pieces of gold or silver that will spend their lives traveling from hand to hand. The path of currency is an unceasing adventure, with sojourns in pockets, forays into the marketplace odors of hay and cattle, and jingling together in a banker’s overstuffed coffers amidst solitary intervals in a pilgrim’s satchel. But at the origin of all these adventures is the minter’s mold.
    To discover Ravand’s profession was all the more astonishing in that Macé’s late grandfather had also been a minter. I had known him for a few years before his death. He was a discreet burgher, levelheaded and somewhat timid. He had practiced his profession in our town thanks to a license from King Charles V. It was difficult to imagine two more dissimilar characters than that plump notable with his carefully groomed hands and the coarse Scandinavian with his mustache dripping with wine.
    At the same time, this confession enlightened me as to the reasons behind Ravand’s desire to meet me. Nor did he hide the truth from me.
    â€œA minter must be rich,” he said. “I am rich. But for the king to give me his trust, he must know me. And he does not. You were born here, in his capital. Your family is honorable, and through your wife you are related to the last minter of the town. I suggest we form an association.”
    Ravand was not the type to take a fortified town by means of a long siege. He favored a quick, frontal assault. As far as I was concerned, he was right. Had he employed more subtle means to convince me, while beating around the bush, he would have aroused my suspicions and reinforced my resistance. Whereas by casting his pale gaze upon me in that deserted hall where the floor had not even been planed, he immediately won me to his cause. I heard myself agreeing to his proposal, and I went home feeling somewhat giddy for having plunged into these unknown waters, not knowing where I might end up, out at sea.
    The fortune Ravand had brought with him, along with my credit in the town, quickly ensured us of success. We did not see the king, but his chancellor made it known to us that he approved of our undertaking. We built a workshop on some land that had come with Macé’s dowry. Ravand’s assassins made it their entrenched camp. Stacked in sealed coffers on the walls were precious metals, gold and silver, entrusted to us in the form of ingots. Other safes contained the pieces Ravand melted in great quantity. Later on I would be called an alchemist, and that was one of the many explanations people gave for my fortune. The truth is I never made gold with anything other than gold. But Ravand taught me the best way to make a profit from it, which is also the worst.
    The king, upon the recommendation of his councillors, decided on the proportions we were to use for our alloys. From a certain quantity of silver—which, as everyone knows, is counted in marks—we were obliged to melt a given number of coins. The purer the alloy, the fewer the coins we produced; if there was less of the alloy, then the coins were also worth less, and there were more of them for one mark.
    The room where the alloys were made was the heart of our activity. Ravand watched over it in person, equipped with mortars and assay balances. He needed only one man to help him: a thin old German, covered with scurf. His many years breathing