the shop district, so the ride was long, though endlessly interesting. Zoe watched the neighborhoods unroll on either side of her, the poor, disreputable homes on the outer edge of the boulevard, the fancier, prettier ones on the inside. Not wanting to ask anyone for directions, she guessed at which stop was closest to the Plaza, and ended up having to walk a good two miles before arriving at her destination.
Despite its name, the Plaza of Men was full of traders happy to do business with women. It was just that more of their enterprises happened to appeal to the other sex. A handful of permanent, semi-open structures delineated the outer perimeter of the Plaza. One was the betting booth, which had been there ever since Zoe could remember. There, clients could enter wagers on any possibility that intrigued them: from how many children King Vernon might sire to how many women they might induce to kiss them before the day was over. It was said that the family who owned the booth kept leather-bound books with the records of all the bets made there for more than two hundred years.
Another enterprise that had been at the Plaza for centuries was the promise booth, where a man might swear before witnesses he would achieve a certain task by a certain time, or stand with a potential employer to agree to a set of tasks and a code of conduct. Nearby were three or four horse-seller stalls, two very large swapping tables, and metalworking outfits that would repair knives and jewelry.
Clustered in the middle of the Plaza were the more transient purveyors of services that might have some masculine appeal. Most of these merchants were sitting or standing beside wheelbarrows or small carts with huge wheels. Some were entrepreneurs looking for financial backers. Some were politicians trying to drum up interest in their causes. Some were scribes or accountants, selling their services. Some were moneylenders. Some were moneychangers.
Zoe was not in any particular hurry, so she lingered for a few minutes before each of the moneychangers, eavesdropping on their conversations with other customers. Her goal was to find one who would be fair, if not scrupulously honest—one who would give her good value for her coin without wondering too hard where she had acquired it.
Eventually she chose an older fellow with rumpled gray hair, a rumpled reddish face, and rumpled clothes. “I’d like to change this into coins of smaller denominations, please,” she said, handing over the gold piece.
He shot her one quick look, inspected the coin closely for authenticity, then named a sum on the low end of her acceptable range. “And that’s firm,” he added. “But I’ll throw in a leather purse if you want it. Long strap. You can wear it under your clothes so it won’t get snatched.”
It hadn’t even occurred to her to wonder how she would carry around a large pile of small coins, so her opinion of the moneychanger went up a notch. “Thank you,” she said. “Let’s do business.”
He stacked up the copper and silver coins for her—quite a lot of them—and let her count them before sweeping them into the sturdy bag. “If you find yourself with more golds like that,” he said, “I’ll be happy to change them, too.”
She slipped the strap over her head and settled the bag on her hip, where it was mostly covered by the shawl. “I’ll look for more, then.”
Now that she had money in reasonable denominations, she could make a few necessary purchases. First, of course, was food; except the bread and fruit, she’d eaten nothing for a nearly a day and a half. Some of the vendors at the Plaza of Men sold meat on a stick and fried bread and huge, misshapen apples that tasted sweeter than honey. Zoe kept a few coins in her pockets so she didn’t have to draw attention to the purse. Everything was cheap and tasted wonderful.
Next she had to have at least one change of clothes, a sleeping mat, and a carrying bag. She knew she wouldn’t find
Despite its name, the Plaza of Men was full of traders happy to do business with women. It was just that more of their enterprises happened to appeal to the other sex. A handful of permanent, semi-open structures delineated the outer perimeter of the Plaza. One was the betting booth, which had been there ever since Zoe could remember. There, clients could enter wagers on any possibility that intrigued them: from how many children King Vernon might sire to how many women they might induce to kiss them before the day was over. It was said that the family who owned the booth kept leather-bound books with the records of all the bets made there for more than two hundred years.
Another enterprise that had been at the Plaza for centuries was the promise booth, where a man might swear before witnesses he would achieve a certain task by a certain time, or stand with a potential employer to agree to a set of tasks and a code of conduct. Nearby were three or four horse-seller stalls, two very large swapping tables, and metalworking outfits that would repair knives and jewelry.
Clustered in the middle of the Plaza were the more transient purveyors of services that might have some masculine appeal. Most of these merchants were sitting or standing beside wheelbarrows or small carts with huge wheels. Some were entrepreneurs looking for financial backers. Some were politicians trying to drum up interest in their causes. Some were scribes or accountants, selling their services. Some were moneylenders. Some were moneychangers.
Zoe was not in any particular hurry, so she lingered for a few minutes before each of the moneychangers, eavesdropping on their conversations with other customers. Her goal was to find one who would be fair, if not scrupulously honest—one who would give her good value for her coin without wondering too hard where she had acquired it.
Eventually she chose an older fellow with rumpled gray hair, a rumpled reddish face, and rumpled clothes. “I’d like to change this into coins of smaller denominations, please,” she said, handing over the gold piece.
He shot her one quick look, inspected the coin closely for authenticity, then named a sum on the low end of her acceptable range. “And that’s firm,” he added. “But I’ll throw in a leather purse if you want it. Long strap. You can wear it under your clothes so it won’t get snatched.”
It hadn’t even occurred to her to wonder how she would carry around a large pile of small coins, so her opinion of the moneychanger went up a notch. “Thank you,” she said. “Let’s do business.”
He stacked up the copper and silver coins for her—quite a lot of them—and let her count them before sweeping them into the sturdy bag. “If you find yourself with more golds like that,” he said, “I’ll be happy to change them, too.”
She slipped the strap over her head and settled the bag on her hip, where it was mostly covered by the shawl. “I’ll look for more, then.”
Now that she had money in reasonable denominations, she could make a few necessary purchases. First, of course, was food; except the bread and fruit, she’d eaten nothing for a nearly a day and a half. Some of the vendors at the Plaza of Men sold meat on a stick and fried bread and huge, misshapen apples that tasted sweeter than honey. Zoe kept a few coins in her pockets so she didn’t have to draw attention to the purse. Everything was cheap and tasted wonderful.
Next she had to have at least one change of clothes, a sleeping mat, and a carrying bag. She knew she wouldn’t find
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
