Chapter 23 – The Exchange

The air in the Exchange smelled of lavender, polished brass, and the kind of expensive, old-world perfume that made you feel poorer just by inhaling it. A jarring shift from the sweat and copper tang of the pits, but Alice didn’t mind. She was too busy staring at the counter.

The attendant tallying her winnings moved with the solemn grace of a priest performing high mass. She wore a severe, high-collared black dress with white cuffs, an outfit that hovered somewhere between a maid and a funeral director. Her face was hidden behind a polished wooden mask similar to Celo’s but devoid of the aggressive crossguard. In its place, two small, delicate golden arrows were painted on the right cheek, pointing upward in parallel lines.

“One moment, please,” the attendant murmured, her voice soft and utterly professional. “Just verifying the streak multipliers for the final payout. The irregularity of the final match requires a manual override from one of the managers.”

Alice drummed her fingers against the mahogany counter. The rhythm was too fast, too loud, and she knew it. She squeezed her eyes shut, recounting the impossible math in her head for the tenth time, terrified that if she stopped thinking about it the numbers would evaporate like steam.

Five crowns. A pathetic red chip given out of pity. She’d bet it on the Icebreaker. Four-to-one. Twenty. She’d bet the twenty on herself. Sixty-to-one. Twelve hundred. And then the Sheltie fight, the risk-it-all streak multiplier compounding on the existing pot. Sixty-to-one again on the rolling total.

Twelve hundred times sixty. Plus the streak bonus. Plus the base pot. The number was too large to hold in her skull. Every time she tried to picture it, the figure blurred at the edges, like staring directly into the sun.

“Verified,” the attendant said.

Alice’s eyes snapped open.

The woman swept her hand across the counter. She wasn’t counting stacks of clay anymore. She was sliding a small tray of iridescent chips toward Alice, each one shimmering like oil on water, shifting from purple to gold under the gaslight.

“The total balance is ninety-three thousand, six hundred, and eighty gold crowns,” the attendant stated, as if she were commenting on the weather.

Alice stared. That wasn’t a purse. That wasn’t a scholarship. That was the GDP of a small township. That was enough to buy a minor title, a country estate, and a carriage with solid gold wheels.

A sound escaped her throat. A high, bubbling giggle that she couldn’t suppress and didn’t try to. The iridescent chips sat there on their velvet tray, patient and impossible, and the sheer physical reality of it hit her somewhere behind the ribs. Her mouth fell open. Her thoughts went white. A tiny, very real droplet of saliva pooled at the corner of her lip and she did absolutely nothing about it.

“Madam?” The attendant produced a silk handkerchief from her sleeve, her tone polite but pointed. “Do try not to moisten the chips. They are still Cellar property.”

Alice snatched the handkerchief and wiped her face, her cheeks incandescent behind the black lacquer mask. “Right. Sorry. Dust allergy.” Her voice came out thick and unconvincing. She cleared her throat, forced her spine straight, and tried to reassemble some dignity. “Ninety-three thousand… six hundred…”

“And eighty,” the attendant supplied helpfully. “How would you like to receive the funds? We offer standard Gold Crowns, Imperial Bank Cheques, International Drafts, or…” She tapped a ledger on the counter. “An Open Line of Credit with the House.”

“Credit?” Alice asked, her voice finding its footing. “How does that work?”

“It is a spectral account,” the attendant explained, interlacing her gloved fingers. “We bind the sum to your mana signature. You may draw upon the funds at the Cellar, Sorto Manor, or any of our affiliated safehouses across the continent simply by providing a signature. It is weightless, secure, and immune to pickpockets.”

Carrying ninety thousand gold coins out of here would require a wagon and a squad of armed men. Alice nodded. “I’ll take the credit. For the bulk of it.”

“Very good. And for walking-around money?”

“Cash out fifty gold crowns,” Alice said, running the mental arithmetic of rent and food. “And give me another five crowns in Stags.”

“Stags are heavy, Madam,” the attendant warned. “Five crowns is a hundred silver pieces.”

“Mix them. I need small change.”

The attendant nodded and began counting. She produced a heavy leather pouch, filling it with the fifty gold crowns. Then came the silver, a mix of standard Stags and the larger, hexagonal Grand Stags worth five silvers each, to keep the weight manageable. The bag still landed on the counter with a heavy, satisfying thud.

Alice secured the pouch inside her satchel, feeling the weight settle against her hip. It felt like safety.

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She hesitated, looking past the teller at the heavy iron vault door standing slightly ajar behind the counter. Gaslight caught the runes etched into its surface, and they pulsed once, slow and blue, like a sleeping heartbeat.

“Before I go,” Alice said, “I’d like to look around. I have credit to burn, after all.”

The attendant’s golden arrows seemed to glint. “Of course. The Vault is at your disposal. Please, follow me.”

They passed through the gate and into the cool, climate-controlled air of the Vault. The temperature dropped five degrees in the space of a doorway. The room beyond was lined with floor-to-ceiling cages and display cases, organized with obsessive precision, everything catalogued and caged and priced.

The first section was dedicated to mundane ballistics. Polished field cannons sat on lacquered pedestals alongside squat, ugly mortars. Racks of bolt-action rifles stood at attention against the far wall, their stocks oiled to a mirror shine. Crates of blasting charges were stacked in a corner, each one stenciled with a faded military serial that had been scratched out and re-stamped with the Cellar’s own inventory code. Even the ammunition was sorted by caliber into brass-fitted drawers, each labeled in the same precise hand.

“Anything catch your eye?” the attendant asked.

Alice’s hand drifted to her satchel, feeling the outline of the heavy service revolver she’d stripped from the Bandit Leader. Reliable, heavy, and mean. Also stolen.

“How much for a standard double-action?” she asked, pointing to a gray-steel revolver sitting on a velvet pillow. “Nothing fancy. Just a workhorse.”

“Six chips,” the attendant said smoothly.