The carriage stopped. Outside, an intimidating flight of stone steps led up to the very bank pictured on the coin. Uncle Edwarn waited for the coachman to open his door, but Waxillium hopped down on his own.
Uncle Edwarn met him on the steps. “Your father,” Uncle said, “is hopeless with economics. I have worked on him for years, but he cannot—or will not—learn. I have great expectations of you, Waxillium. Banking is not your only option for serving your house. However, after today I suspect you will recognize it as the best one.”
“I’m not going to be a banker,” Waxillium said, climbing the steps.
“Oh? You have your eye on administering the teamsters after all?”
“No,” Waxillium said. “I’m going to be a hero.”
His uncle chose not to reply immediately as they approached the top of the steps. Finally, he said softly, “You are twelve years old, and you still speak of this? I expect such foolishness from your sister, but your father should have beaten it out of you by now.”
Waxillium turned defiant eyes up at his uncle.
“The day of heroes has passed,” Uncle Edwarn said. “The stories of people breaking out of history belong to another world. We have reached an era of modernism, both louder and more silent at the same time. You watch. Where once kings and warriors shaped the world, now quiet men in offices will do the same—and do it far, far more effectively.”
They entered the bank lobby, which had a low ceiling and a wall of cagelike bars with hunched-over people inside who received or disbursed cash from or to those who waited in lines. Waxillium’s uncle led him around to the back. The dark wood furnishings and mold-colored rug made it feel like dusk in the room, even with windows open and gas lamps burning.
“There are two appointments today I wanted you to observe,” Uncle Edwarn said as they entered a long, unadorned room. The chairs faced the wall; this was a viewing room, a place to spy upon meetings in the bank. His uncle gestured for him to sit, then pulled aside a panel in the wall, revealing a glass slit that let them see the two people in the next room. One was a male banker in a vest and slacks. He sat at an imposing desk, speaking with a middle-aged man in dusty clothing, holding a felt cap in his fingers.
“The loan will help us move up,” the dirty man said. “Get a place out of the slums. I have three sons. We’ll work hard, I promise you we will.”
The banker looked down his nose at the man, then riffled through papers. Uncle Edwarn closed the slit, surprising Waxillium with the abrupt motion. His uncle rose and Waxillium followed, moving to another set of chairs along the same wall. A second spy slit let them look in on another room similar to the first. A female banker in vest and skirt sat behind a similarly intimidating desk. The patron, however, was tall, clean, and relaxed.
“Are you certain you need another boat, Lord Nikolin?” the banker asked.
“Of course I’m certain. Would I bother coming here if I weren’t serious? Honestly. You people should allow my steward to make these arrangements. That’s what stewards are for, after all.”
Uncle Edwarn closed the slit with a quiet snap, then turned to Waxillium. “You are watching a revolution.”
“A revolution?” Waxillium asked. He’d studied banking—well, he’d been forced to study it by his tutors. “This sounds like what happens every day at a bank.”
“Ah,” Uncle Edwarn said. “You know all this already. And to which of these men will we give a loan?”
“The rich one,” Waxillium said. “Assuming he’s not lying or acting somehow.”
“No, Nikolin is legitimately wealthy,” Uncle Edwarn said. “He has banked with us numerous times in the past, and he never misses his payments.”
“So you’ll loan money to him and not the other.”
“Wrong,” Uncle Edwarn said. “We’ll lend to both.”
“You’ll use the good credit of the rich man to underwrite the risk of helping the poor man?”
Uncle Edwarn seemed surprised. “Your tutors have been diligent.”
Waxillium shrugged, but inwardly he found himself growing interested. Perhaps this was a way to become a hero. Maybe Uncle Edwarn was right and the frontier was shrinking, the need for men of action vanishing. Maybe this new world wasn’t at all like the one that the Ascendant Warrior and the Survivor had lived in.
Waxillium could carefully balance risks, and give money to those who needed it. If men in suits would someday run the world, couldn’t they also make it a better place?
“Your assessment is correct on one hand,” Uncle Edwarn said, oblivious to the direction Waxillium had been thinking, “but flawed on the other. Yes, we will lend to the poor man—but we will not accept risk to do so.”