In the morning, Jehan had asked him, “Why didn’t you take a boat straight to Constantinople?”

  Remy considered it for a moment. His finger traced an invisible line across the table, marking routes only he could see. “It’s a safer road,” he said. “I am following the path that most merchant and pilgrim routes travel. Not only are these routes protected, they are the safest.”

  Jehan rested her chin on her hand. “Then wouldn’t it mean that they are also targets?”

  “Most likely,” Remy admitted. “But there are certain deterrence that allow them. Not to mention,” he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “that from what I hear, the Saracens try to take the boats and ransom them.”

  Jehan made the sign of the cross immediately. “Jesus and Mary,” she breathed. “How can these Saracens be so barbaric?”

  “It’s a common tactic,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “It’s mostly to stop travelers heading to Jerusalem, intercept them before they could reinforce it.”

  “I see,” she murmured thoughtfully. “So you are using these routes to make your way there?”

  “That is correct,” Remy replied. He picked up a piece of roasted meat and dangled it teasingly in front of her. “And I can visit cities as well.”

  “Sir Remy, please don’t play with food,” she said sharply, narrowing her eyes in disapproval.

  He only grinned and took a large bite, savoring the flavor while turning his gaze toward the inn around them. The place was modest, with the smell of oak smoke and ale hanging heavy in the air. The ale maid moved briskly from table to table, her apron stained with froth and grease, refilling tankards and setting down steaming plates. Outside, through the open shutters, the sounds of carts, hooves, and the chatter of townsfolk drifted in with the familiar hum of a city alive with trade.

  “I’ll look around the place,” Remy said after a while, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Can you guard our things?”

  Jehan nodded immediately, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of disappointment. “Can I come along?”

  Remy blinked at her.

  “Please just take care of our things,” he said firmly.

  Jehan inclined her head, but her tone was subdued. “As you wish.”

  He did not think much of it, assuming her mood to be fleeting. Leaving the inn, Remy mounted his horse and made his way toward the merchant quarter. The streets were bustling with activity, wagons loaded with barrels, mules carrying bolts of cloth, and traders calling out in a medley of languages. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, spices, and livestock. He had grown used to it by now.

  The merchant guild’s compound stood at the end of a cobbled lane, marked by a wooden gate bearing the insignia of crossed keys. One of the guards halted him as he approached.

  “State your business,” the man demanded, lowering his halberd.

  Remy reached into his coat and withdrew a small bronze token, engraved with an emblem recognizable only to those within the trade. The guard’s expression shifted immediately, then he motioned for the gate to be opened and gestured for Remy to follow.

  Inside, the guildhall was built of timber and stone, the scent of ink and parchment mingling with that of old wax. Led down a corridor lined with goods and crates, Remy was brought into a dim office where a man sat hunched over a desk, tapping a quill against parchment. The man looked up, squinting. His expression was one of mild irritation, the look of someone interrupted in the midst of business.

  Before he could speak, Remy simply placed the token on the table.

  The merchant’s demeanor shifted instantly. He studied the token for a moment, then squinted up at Remy again. “Do you have proof?”

  Remy raised his armored hand, the signet ring of Valois gleaming faintly in the candlelight.

  The man’s face changed so quickly that Remy almost laughed. His tone softened, his posture straightened. “Ah! My apologies, my lord. Had I known, please, forgive my ignorance.”

  Remy offered a curt nod. “I’ll overlook it. Now, I came to ask about the route and the map I requested. And I assume the funds I sent for safekeeping are here?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the merchant said hurriedly. He rose from his chair, took a key from a drawer, and walked to the corner of the room. Lifting a small rug, he revealed a hatch built into the floor. The lock clicked open, and from the compartment below he withdrew a small iron-bound box.

  The merchant placed it on the table and opened it carefully. Inside, neatly stacked silver coins gleamed faintly under the candlelight. Remy recognized the weight and count of them almost instinctively.

  “Good,” Remy said, inspecting the coins briefly before shutting the lid. “All in order.”

  He leaned back in his chair as the merchant fetched a rolled parchment from the shelf. “Here is the map you requested,” the man said, unrolling it. The map showed trade routes winding eastward through the Empire — from Vienna to Buda, through Belgrade, and down toward Constantinople.

  “Caravans travel this route frequently,” the merchant explained. “It is safer than most, though you may have to pay passage fees at certain checkpoints.”

  Remy nodded absently, studying the markings on the parchment. His mind was already calculating distances, days of travel, provisions, and the coin it would require.

  “Excellent,” he said. “I will leave by the week’s end. See that I have updated papers by then.”

  The merchant bowed slightly. “As you wish, my lord. And about the… medicine?”

  Remy’s gaze lifted to him. “You’ve received your share, I presume?”

  The merchant hesitated. “Yes, we have. It… works, as promised.”

  “Good,” Remy said simply. “Then remember our agreement. As long as I live, you and your men will have supply. Cheat me, and you’ll lose access entirely.”

  The merchant’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Of course. We would never.”

  Remy gave a faint, almost pleasant smile. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

  He stood then, pocketing the token and the parchment, and adjusted the clasp of his cloak. The merchant bowed again as Remy turned to leave. The matter, for now, was settled.

  In truth, the reason he had given Jehan was not a lie, but it was not the whole truth either. He had indeed chosen the land route for safety, yet it was also because of these funds, secured months ago through correspondence. In exchange for certain “medicines” he had provided, the guild had agreed to hold his assets discreetly within their branches. To them, it was a miracle cure. To him, it was merely penicillin.

  He had made some, diluted and distributed it carefully, enough to cure ailments that this world still regarded as divine punishment. Syphilis, gangrene, infections that had doomed kings and peasants alike, banished with a few measured doses. The merchants had thought him a healer blessed by God. He let them believe it.

  Still, he had made the terms clear that cheating him meant the loss of their supply. Killing him would mean the end of his “miracle.” In that way, his safety was assured by their own greed. It was not divine protection that guarded him, it was commerce.

  When he left the guildhall, the sun had already climbed high, glinting off rooftops and market stalls. The clamor of trade filled the air once more, the cries of fishmongers, the clatter of wagon wheels, the jingle of coin. He mounted his horse and steered it back toward the inn.

  Jehan was where he had left her, seated near their packs. She was mending a tear in one of her sleeves, her face calm but her eyes distant. When she saw him, she rose immediately.

  “You returned sooner than I thought,” she said.

  “The matter was simple,” Remy replied. “The merchant had the map of the routes.”

  Jehan tilted her head. “All went well, then?”

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  “For now,” he said. “We will rest another night and then make preparations to leave.”

  She nodded, though there was something unsaid in her expression. Remy caught it but chose not to press.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon in relative quiet. Jehan cleaned and re-oiled her armor while Remy examined the map again by candlelight. The roads east were long and treacherous, mountain passes, river crossings, and the ever-present threat of bandits. Yet compared to the sea, it was preferable.

  Jehan broke the silence at last. “Do you truly believe these merchants will protect you?”

  Remy looked up, his brows lifting slightly. “Protect me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You seem to trust them.”

  Remy smiled faintly. “I trust their self-interest. That is safer than trusting a man’s virtue.”

  Jehan frowned at that but said nothing more. She did not understand his reasoning, how could she? To her, the world was still one of faith and divine justice. To him, it was one of cause and effect, of bargains and leverage.

  Later that evening, they dined again at the inn. The same ale maid served them; the same noise of laughter and clinking mugs surrounded them. Remy ate in silence, occasionally glancing at Jehan, who seemed preoccupied.

  Finally, she asked, “Do you ever grow weary of it?”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Of what?”

  “This,” she gestured around them. “Traveling, dealing with strangers, the constant uncertainty.”

  Remy thought for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said slowly. “But I would grow more weary if I stayed still. The road gives me purpose.”

  Jehan nodded faintly. “And when will we reach Constantinople?”

  He gave a quiet laugh. “Then I will find another road.”

  Because of what Jehan had said to him, Remy decided to double-check. It was not in his nature to act purely on faith as well. So he spent the morning walking through the merchant quarters, seeking those who had recently come from the road. He spoke with traders who had arrived from the Rhine route, men who had journeyed from France through Mainz, Nuremberg, and finally to Vienna. They were weary men, hardened by the miles, their boots still caked with mud and their eyes ringed with fatigue. Yet for all their weariness, their tongues were eager, for merchants were never shy when it came to boasting of their ventures.

  From them, he learned of the state of the roads, the inns filled with beggars, the tolls levied at every bridge, and the unending swarm of pilgrims clogging the highways. Still, they spoke of profit, of towns where gold flowed as freely as ale. The Rhine Road, they said, was the artery of Christendom itself, and though it bled from every tollhouse, it never ran dry.

  Remy took notes of it all in his head, though he knew he would not take that route. It led too far west, away from his goal. Still, every scrap of information was worth keeping. Knowledge, like coin, had its uses.

  Next, he sought those who had traveled along the Danube Road, the artery that stretched eastward through Hungary and wound down into the Balkans. These men were leaner, rougher sorts, their accents sharp and their manners blunt. But he spoke their language and they understood one another, allowing them a bond through shared language.

  They spoke of banditry, of frost-bitten passes, and of the long stretches of land where law was nothing but a rumor. Yet they also spoke of the trade that flowed along that great river, of barges and caravans and the cities that rose along its banks like fortresses guarding civilization itself.

  Lastly, he turned to those who had come by way of the Pilgrim’s Road, the long, winding path to Constantinople, where webs of merchant and crusader routes converged toward the Bosporus. It was there, amidst the chatter of traders and the clinking of coins, that he met a man from Constantinople itself. The merchant had suffered losses, his eyes weary and voice hoarse from complaint. He said he was on his way to Venetia, his fortunes all but spent.

  The man’s name was Caro da Firenze, a Florentine by birth but a wanderer by trade. His garments were fine but travel-worn, and his hands bore the stains of ink and saltwater alike. He had the sharp nose and keener wit of his people, and he wasted little time before unburdening himself of his grievances.

  “Aye,” Caro said bitterly, “indeed the Turks and the Ottoman are guarding the land roads. You’ll find no easy passage there, my lord. Bandits in the valleys, disease in the towns, crusader patrols on the move, and tolls at every border post. And should you take to the sea, hah! Pirates in the Adriatic and the Aegean will rob you blind before the sun sets. Then there are the heresy trials, inquisitorial checkpoints, and every sanctimonious fool demanding papers signed in blood!”

  Remy frowned, tracing invisible lines on the table before him as he considered the man’s words. “Then what do you suggest?” he asked at last.

  Caro leaned forward, lowering his voice. “The sea might be a problem, yes,” he admitted, “but I can suggest taking the Danube River. Safer, if you know where to go. You can ride part of the way and sail the rest. Fewer tolls, fewer eyes watching.”

  Remy studied him in silence. The idea was not without merit. The Danube was wide, its waters steady, and though the path would take them through uncertain lands, it offered a measure of control. He began to calculate the route in his mind, from Vienna to Buda, then down through the heart of Hungary toward the Iron Gate and beyond. The journey would be long, but feasible.

  Satisfied, Remy drew out a small purse and placed it on the table. The coins clinked softly. “Then you have earned your pay, Caro da Firenze,” he said with a faint smile. “And perhaps something more. Tell me, have you ever considered joining a guild?”

  Caro’s brow furrowed. “A guild, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Remy said, leaning back in his chair. “A guild that spans all of Europe. If you join them, it will benefit you. They will even help you open a branch in your hometown, if need be.”

  The Florentine tilted his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “And this guild of yours, what does it trade in?”

  “Knowledge,” Remy replied simply. “And things of value that others have yet to understand.”

  He explained further, his voice calm but deliberate. He spoke of merchants bound by secrecy, of coded letters carried across borders, of goods that healed and enriched without the Church’s blessing. When the topic turned to the Jews, however, Caro’s expression soured. His lips pressed thin, his fingers drummed the table.

  It did not surprise Remy. In every city he passed through, he had seen it, the quiet disdain, the whispered slurs, the open suspicion. The Jews were everywhere, yet never belonging. They were the moneylenders by the gate, the physicians with clean hands, the merchants who counted their coins by candlelight. Their houses were modest, but their minds were vast. They prayed toward memory rather than direction. Their God walked with them, not above them.

  Perhaps that was why they endured, Remy thought, when empires crumbled. He had seen Christians mock them for the crucifixion, had heard priests preach against them in the squares. Yet he could not help but wonder who truly knew more of suffering, the persecuted, or the ones who claimed to act in righteousness.

  Caro listened, but his frown deepened. “I do not trust them,” he muttered. “They twist words, they twist numbers. They bleed us with their loans.”

  Remy’s gaze hardened. “They bleed you because you let them,” he said evenly. “You borrow from them because no one else will lend. You depend on their wit while cursing their name. Tell me, Caro, who is the fool in that bargain?”

  The merchant said nothing for a time. His pride warred with his greed, and in the end, greed won. He sighed and nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps there is sense in your words, my lord. Perhaps.”

  “Good,” Remy said. “Then we understand one another.”

  It was only after seeing that Caro loved his coin more than he hated the Jews that Remy felt assured. He arranged the matter swiftly. Since he was still in the city, he visited the man who had safeguarded his earlier funds and introduced the Florentine to him. Together, they spoke of arrangements , letters to be sent, contacts to be notified, the establishment of a branch within his home itself.

  Remy watched as the merchant wrote quickly, his quill scratching against parchment, sealing wax dripping onto folded letters. “Send word to our friends across Europe,” Remy instructed. “Tell them we have opened a branch here. Trade will continue.”

  The man nodded obediently. “And will you be doing business with us elsewhere, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Remy said. “In time. I will also have you begin work on something new... a cure for scurvy.”

  The merchant blinked. “Scurvy?”

  Remy allowed himself a small smile. “A disease of sailors. It weakens them, rots their gums, drives them mad. But there is a cure. A miraculous one, if you wish to call it so.”

  The merchant leaned forward, intrigued. “And what might that be?”

  “Citrus,” Remy said simply. “Juice from lemons, oranges, limes, preserved and stored for voyages. The seamen need only drink it regularly, and they will not fall ill.”

  The merchant’s brow furrowed, uncertain. “Lemons, you say? Truly?”

  Remy nodded. “It is simple. That is why it works.”

  Of course, he did not explain further that it needed to have an alcohol content of fifty-percent to keep it preserved. Hell, rum and citrus juice would do.

  These men were shrewd enough to hide what they learned, and that suited him well. He knew they would guard the secret jealously, selling the knowledge as something divine. That was fine. Let them cloak it in superstition, what mattered was that it endured.

  He was confident that Caro da Firenze would prove a capable man. His greed would drive him where duty might fail.

  And so, arrangements were made. Caro signed his name to parchment, sealing his allegiance with ink and wax. The guild had gained a new partner, and Vienna another thread in its growing web.

  When all was done, Remy sat back and regarded the two men before him. Caro, with his sharp Florentine cunning, and the Viennese merchant, with his cautious loyalty. Both were men of ambition, bound by the same universal faith that bound everyone in the guild: the love of profit.

  Well, aside from Caro’s distaste for Jews, a fault shared by nearly every Christian of the age, he was a good man. Just not that good in other things. But such men were useful.

  Remy rose, clasped his gloves, and said evenly, “Remember what I told you both. Florin for nobility. Groschen for necessity. Faith for everything else.”

  They nodded solemnly, repeating the words as though they were a creed.

  “And you,” Remy added, glancing at Caro, “speak all three languages fluently, I trust?”

  Caro gave a wry grin. “I speak the language of coin, my lord. That is enough.”

  Remy smiled faintly. “Then we will get along well.”