A Price Beyond Gold

The wainwright had gold, and he paid well if grudgingly for the blacksmith’s nails, the forester’s wood, the dyer’s paint. There was a price beyond gold, though, for each piece was coated in a slow and patient poison, and those who touched enough of it were certain to die.

The wainwright made no attempt to hide this. “No one is forced to take my gold,” he told the blacksmith, holding one in a gloved hand. “If you don’t, there are plenty of others who will.”

The blacksmith’s feet were numb, he could not close one hand, the light blurred his eyes. Still, he reached up a hand and took the coin. If he didn’t, there were plenty of others who would.