FRYN

A newly discovered number causes chaos for traders.

Riding back to the palace from the fayre, Sizma considered her private wealth. She had spent a lot of money, ten silver pieces, the equivalent of one gold coin, but with the wind in her face and the smell of warm soil after a brief shower of rain, she decided it was a fair price to pay for an enjoyable day off. When she came to a bend in the track before the stone bridge there was commotion.

A cart had overturned and spilled its cargo, which included a shattered crate. She recognised the contents: nine pairs of gilded shoes on their way to Atymos and his royal shoe collection. They lay in the mud, dirty and wet, unwearable.

“It was the horse,” said the cart driver when Sizma halted alongside him.

“Do you recognise those shoes?”

“Yes. There can only be one person in this realm who would wear shoes like that.”

“Precisely. He’ll be very angry when he finds out.”

The men and women helping to collect the cargo gathered alongside the cart driver as if to offer support on the last day of his life. “Do you work at the palace?” he said.

“Yes. I’ll speak to him. Tell him you were attacked by bandits and they made off with the most expensive items.”

The driver was so grateful he offered Sizma money, but she refused. She had no intention of sharing a room with Atymos if he was wearing shoes like those. Back at the palace she informed him of the incident on the road.

“They took my shoes?”

“I’m afraid so, Majesty.”

“My shoes?”

“They were only shoes on the cart, Majesty.”

“Ah, well. Not to worry.”

“You’re not angry, Majesty.”

“They’re only shoes, Chamberlain. Not the end of the world, is it?”

“I must say you are a most magnanimous ruler, Majesty.”

“Eh, what does that mean?”

“Fair minded.”

“I see. They were insured. I can always order some more. In fact, send for the Royal Actuary. See how much they’re worth.”

Thirty minutes later Sizma returned with the Royal Actuary struggling to carry a large accounting book. He stood upright and bowed, the weight of the book almost dragging him to the floor. “Gracious Majesty, Overlord of All Glorious Territory, High Council of Culture and Creativity, Overseer and Overprotector of All Realms and Settlements, Grand Justice and Supreme Magistrate, Fair and Equitable High Monarch and Defender of Valleys, Townships, Lowlands and Select Routes and All Byways, Arbiter of Wit and Intellect, and Perennial Champion of Concerns Becoming and Suitable of All Monarchs and Prime Leaders. Praise in Eternity Be To You.”

“Great marbles of granite, he remembered it. Arrange a pay rise for him, Chamberlain.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Now then, Royal Actuary, this morning there was a catastrophe.”

“Another one, Majesty?”

“What do you mean another one? Lost a consignment of shoes. Nine pairs. Paid nine gold pieces for each pair. What were they insured for?”

The accounting book fell onto the table with a horrible thud. The Royal Actuary licked his finger and turned the pages until he found the purchase record. “Here, Majesty. Purchases, nine pairs of gilded jacquard filigree shoes, insured . . . per pair, Majesty, which . . .” He had a smaller notebook in an inside pocket. “At today’s rate on the Royal Underwriter’s Exchange, that would be . . . thirty-five gold pieces, Majesty.”

“Good. What? Thirty-five? I paid ninety, eighty, nine nine’s, Chamberlain?”

“Eighty-one, Majesty.”

“Paid eighty-one for them. What do you mean thirty-five?”

“That’s the exchange on the underwriter’s market today, Majesty.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Exchange rates fluctuate, Majesty. That is the nature of exchanges. External influences, extraneous events, many forces act on the exchange rates, Majesty.”

“How can they be insured for less than half what they’re worth?”

“That’s not how insurance underwriting works, Majesty. What you paid may not be what they’re worth. Now, had you worn them, they would be worth infinitely more. External conditions. Shoes worn by his Gracious Majesty will be worth a lot more than shoes that have come nowhere near your hooves.”

“This is outrageous.”

“Are you sure the exchange is so low, Royal Actuary?” said Sizma.

In a quick display of uncertainty the Royal Actuary passed his spectacles from his head to his top pocket and then put them back on again. “It’s a difficult calculation, Court Chamberlain.”

“Show us.”

He took out his notebook again, turned to the back pages and scribbled 9 and some unidentifiable symbol, all over eighty-one equals thirty-five. “There.”

“What’s that squiggle?”

“That, that is . . . fryn.”

“Fryn?”

“Fryn.”

Atymos grabbed the notebook. “What do you mean fryn?”

“It’s a number majesty.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It comes between eight and nine. Six, seven, eight, fryn, nine, ten.”

Atymos glanced at Sizma who glanced at the notebook and then at the Royal Actuary.

“Find out what’s going on, Chamberlain.”

“I thought you might say that, Majesty.”

“And send the guards in on the way out.”

Outside the throne room, Sizma left the door open and instructed the guards to go and collect another victim. She headed for the only member of the court who might know what was going on, who might have heard of the number fryn. The Royal Mathematician, Madam Witmore.

She was found in one of the classrooms of the palace school, writing on a blackboard and occasionally consulting a large book open on a stand next to the window. Sizma cleared her throat.

“Sizma, you back for some more lessons?”

“Hardly. But I do have a peculiar question for you, Madam Witmore.” The blackboard contained a fiendish looking equation and a lot of smudged chalk dust. “That looks complicated?”

“The Royal Balloon Maker has asked me to calculate a trajectory that will avoid the tree tops in the great western forest. I’m almost there. What’s your problem?”

Madam Witmore had been Sizma’s tutor before they both came to the palace. She was good and expensive, but Sizma’s parents found the money to pay for an elite education. She always had the answers to every problem.

“Have you heard of the number fryn?”

She grinned. “I wondered when that particular numerical wasp would fly through a palace window. Yes, I think I have, but I’m not sure what it is. It’s been going around for several days.”

“Going around? You make it sound like a disease.”

“It is like a disease. There are victims and there are quacks offering remedies. Tradesmen being fiddled, investors getting rich. There’s definitely something going on, but I don’t know what the number is.”

Sizma picked up a piece of chalk and drew the number on the blackboard.

“It’s just a back to front upside down F,” said Madam Witmore.

“Any ideas how it works? The Royal Actuary said it was a number between eight and nine. Six, seven, eight, fryn, nine.”

“He would say that. He’s down at the Underwriters Exchange every day. They’re always trying to find ways of fiddling people and not paying out on insurance claims. The only thing I can think of, and I’m not certain of this,” she stepped over to her bookshelf and found a thick almanac, “perhaps it’s like the extra day in a leap year. A number to keep everything regular, stop big numbers from becoming wonky.”

“I see.”

“But don’t go telling his Gracious Majesty I don’t know. That’s my best guess.”

“An extra number to stop big numbers becoming wonky. Leave it to me. I’ll explain it. I’ll think of something.”

As Sizma left the classroom, Madam Witmore said, “Whatever he pays you, Sizma, he doesn’t pay you enough.”

“I get by, Madam Witmore. Ways and means.” She winked and headed back to the throne room. In the courtyard a great mob of angry people gathered at the palace entrance, pushing and shoving, insisting on an audience with Atymos. Bakers and roofers, window cleaners, flower pickers, salt merchants, chair leg polishers and map restorers, just about every trade in the realm was represented and they all had the same grudge.

“We’re being ripped off.”

Alerted by the din, Atymos was at the window above the entrance waiting for the mob to calm down. “Stop a moment, I can’t speak if you’re all speaking.”

“You issue the currency, Majesty.”

“Yes, yes-“

“It’s worthless-“

“What do you mean, it’s worthless?”

A man covered in wood shavings shouted back at the window. “What we pay for materials is more than what we receive when we sell our products. I pay ten silver pieces for wood and then all my furniture is only worth six when I come to sell it.”

After pushing through to get to the steps Sizma scanned the crowd. It was a seething gang of angry people and only the thickness of the doors and a large group of guards stopped them from breaking in. They looked dirty and exhausted, their clothes ragged, the men unshaven, the women gaunt, but in the middle, towards the back, one man who didn’t shout and yell along with the others. His coat was finely tailored and crisp, expensive material, almost new.

Finally, Atymos was able to pacify them. “Fear not, you will all be compensated and I will see to it that whatever this problem is will be stopped. In fact, you should know that I have also been a victim. Insurance fraud, and when I get to the bottom of this heads will roll.” A murmur of cautious agreement rippled through the crowd. “And then they’ll be reattached and chopped off again.” That generated a great roar. Sizma looked up at the window and caught Atymos’s attention. She regretted it. Above the noise Atymos shouted down, “See to it, Chamberlain.”

Once the crowd began to disperse Sizma caught up with the well dressed man. “A moment please.” He turned and Sizma recognised the flat fingers and feint smell of burnt charcoal. He was the blacksmith. “Your father left the business just in time.”

“Yes.” He looked nervous.

“Business seems to be good. Fine clothes.”

“Yes. Business is good,” he said. “My father left it in good shape when I took over.”

“Obviously.” They strolled across the courtyard. “What was that all about? They must be angry to confront his Gracious Majesty like that.”

“Yes. I came along to see what it was all about. Thought it might be a bit dangerous not to get involved. Didn’t want to be accused of anything.”

“Like what?” Sizma examined the fine detailing of the blacksmith’s coat, the precision of the seams, the sheen of the wool.

“Well, I’m fine, the business is good. It’s not my fault they’re struggling.”

“Is any of this connected to the number fryn?” The question forced the blacksmith to stop.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.”

“How can you say no if you don’t know?”

“I didn’t. I don’t. I mean-“

“You mean what?” She hooked her arm around his. “Why don’t you come and meet my sister for a moment.”

They took a quick walk back to the palace, through a hidden side entrance that led to a dark corridor and a stairwell that increased in heat the lower they descended. The floor turned to rough damp stone and soon they reached the cells, each one occupied by a sleeping occupant, straw on the bed, their necks manacled to a metal loop on the wall. At the end of the corridor the room opened out, a great hearth with a roaring fire at one end, hideous weapons and instruments of torture hanging from the roof beams.

“I bet you feel right at home here,” Sizma said. Her voice attracted another satyr from behind a high rack of bottles and boxes. Her sister, huge wings folded, approached the blacksmith and licked her black lips.

“What’s this?”

“A blacksmith.” The burgundy of Sizma’s clothing stepped aside for the matt black of her sister’s. “I suspect he has some information he’s not telling me.”

“No, no, I don’t know anything. That gathering outside, I don’t know what was upsetting them. I only know they were upset.”

Sizma’s sister walked over to her equipment table, leather trousers creaking, the membrane of her wings shifting colour in the light of the fire. She picked up a large pair of iron tongues off her equipment table and held the ends over the flames.

“What exactly is going on, blacksmith?” Sizma said.

“Please, my father might be able to help you. He might, I’m not sure.”

“Why?”

“When he retired he joined a group of his friends. They invest, speculate. They buy and sell things. Grain, rice, strawberries. Buy low, sell high. They call themselves the Pessimists.” A glowing pair of tongues appeared next to his head along with Sizma’s sister, her face decorated with fantastic markings that made her eyes look like those of a hunting bird, and when she smiled her black lips framed a set of sharpened teeth.

“I’ll go and speak to your father,” Sizma said. “In the meantime, if there’s anything else you’d like to confess to, my sister will happily take notes.”

Her next target was the exchange, a large ornate building at the head of the market square. It had a grand facade, large entrance with a detailed portico, tall elegant windows and beneath the pitched roof an alcove with a large statue of Atymos holding a bag of money in one hand and a bag of potatoes in the other. She remembered the commission and advised the second bag might contain something more exotic than root vegetables, but he insisted on being portrayed as a down to earth ruler.

Inside, the sublime qualities of the exterior gave way to the rush and babble of trade, mercantile business, buying and selling, people running from one desk to another carrying their tickets and dockets and bills of sale, receipts, invoices, a flourish of the pen here, a signature there. All of it carried out to the sound of prices being shouted, offers being made, deals hidden in a deafening cacophony. Sizma found a man sat alone at a high table recording completed transactions, the sums involved and the parties to the agreement.

“Excuse me, where will I find the Pessimists?”

“That lot, they are,” he stood up and looked around the bedlam, “up there, first floor sat at that table,” He pointed his quill pen at a group of elderly men sat around a low table, sipping drinks and making notes.

There were five of them, each one ancient in appearance, but they were quick, their conversation rapid, their writing fast as they noted commodities and prices, amounts and who was buying what. Sizma approached and wasn’t seen until she stood over the table.

“Hello, who’s this?”

“Sizma. I’m the Court Chamberlain.” The noise of the exchange wasn’t hot enough to rise to the first floor balcony, but remained as a constant distant rumble.

“Court Chamberlain. You must be a busy person. What brings you here? His Gracious Majesty looking to trade?”

Another Pessimist looked up. “There are good prices on bell peppers at the moment. Avocados, pineapples and, what are those other things called?”

“Kumquats.”

“Yes, Kumquats. A large consignment from Dolometis’s realm was held up in port and went bad. Not fit for our consumption, but good for feeding pigs, however there’s a shortage of beet and turnips and people aren’t throwing out their waste food any more so the price of pig feed has skyrocketed. The farmers will pay anything for food.”

“Pig farmers are feeding their pigs kumquats?” said Sizma.

“Yes. Haven’t you noticed the taste of bacon and ham is much sweeter these days?”

“I don’t believe you. That’s not why I’m here.” She sat down. “I’m looking for the blacksmith’s father. I’ve been told he’s one of you. A Pessimist.”

A third man laughed. “We don’t actually call ourselves that any more.” He had the family resemblance, and like the others at the table was dressed in a suit of the finest wool, polished leather shoes with solid silver buckles and his extravagant tricorn hat hung off the corner of the chair back.

“What do you call yourselves now?”

“We tend to keep a low profile nowadays. Just send down our trades with Gustav. You’d like Gustav, he’s a good runner. Very discreet.”

“Very discreet.”

“Why were you called the Pessimists?”

The blacksmith’s father took another sip of his cognac. “It’s all part of the game. We talk about stuff. Talk about the conditions surrounding the supply of that stuff. Talk about the shortage of supply, poor production, bad weather, no future demand and then sit back and watch.”

“Watch?”

He pointed across to the other side of the room where men and woman stood on ladders in front of huge blackboards. They scribbled the names of commodities – stuff – and prices. After a few seconds of men shouting and the scribblers listening, they would rub off the prices and write a new one. Sizma watched the price of willow thatch go down from one and half silver pieces per bushel to one silver piece, one and half, two, two and a half, one, half, quarter. Up and down, up and down for several minutes, never stopping, always changing.

“Why does it go up and down like that?”

Another Pessimist explained. “Someone with a lot of cash might make a purchase, word gets around, confidence goes up, old so-and-so is buying, he must know something, the price goes up because the demand goes up, and when the price goes up old so-and-so sells what he’s just bought and everyone else says oh, that’s his game, and they start trying to sell because the bottom’s falling out of the willow market, but no one wants to buy now so the price goes lower and lower until someone, usually us, starts buying lots of willow bushels and there it goes again, up up up . . .” The others joined in saying up up up as if they were trying to levitate.

“Of course, people stopped listening to us blathering on about the end of everything.”

“They cottoned on.”

“Yes. We lost influence.”

“Lost money.”

“And we can’t have that.” A shifty look spread across their faces.

“And then what?” Sizma had her suspicions.

“And then he came up with an idea so profound in its brilliance we didn’t believe it.”

“What? What did he do?”

The blacksmith’s father mouthed the words. “Invented a new number.”

“Did you? You crafty old blaggard. Fryn?”

They nodded, all of them, sipped their cognac and settled back into their chairs.

“And how exactly does fryn work?”

They told her.

Back in the throne room, the early evening light weakening, Sizma said to Atymos, “You must ban the number fryn, Majesty.”

“Ban it? You can’t just ban numbers, Chamberlain. What do you think of these slippers?”

“Slippers?”

Atymos sat forward on his throne brushing and twisting his hooves clad in the most hideous pair of lime green slippers ever to be brought into the palace.

“Very exuberant, Majesty. Are you sure you’ll be able to relax wearing them?”

“What you’re asking is very dangerous, Chamberlain. Consider this.” He stood up, still examining his slippers, and walked about testing the fit, the crush on the front and rubbing on the back. “If I ban fryn how do we get to the number nine? There’ll be eight months in a year, eight days in a month, there’ll be chaos. Not sure about this colour, actually.”

“Perhaps if you wore vivid green robes, Majesty, they might not stand out as much.”

“No, no. Can’t ban numbers, Chamberlain. I don’t know. I’m at a loss. However, I’m sure you’ll think of something. You always do.”

“Yes, Majesty, I always do, don’t I. I’ll see to it.” On her way out she stopped at the door. “From a distance, Majesty, your slippers look like cucumbers.”

“Do they?” She didn’t wait for him to agree or not.

The following day, Sizma headed down to the exchange again with a clear mind and a fresh idea. She had dreamt of everyone in the realm being forced to wear shoes made out of fresh vegetables and her own resistance at being forced to wear a pair of boots made from hollowed out marrows. The Pessimists were in their usual locations, drinking coffee, planning their trades for the day. “Hello again.”

“Court Chamberlain. Can’t keep away.”

“I’ve been bitten by the bug. I’m fascinated by how all this works. I even dreamt about it last night.”

The blacksmith’s father poured her a cup of coffee from a silver jug. “You want to start trading stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Anything in mind?”

“Horse shoes.”

“Interesting.” The Pessimists exchanged looks of approval.

Sizma lowered her voice. “I have inside information. His Gracious Majesty is going to ban horse shoes.” Several cups were placed back on their saucers. “After the cart accident, Atymos lost a lot of shoes in that accident, and the sound of horse shoes clattering across the streets and courtyards drives him mad. He’s had enough. I think he’ll be issuing a royal decree soon, but I can’t say exactly when.”

Notes had already been taken. Plans were fermenting.

“Of course,” she continued, “it won’t take long before he realises horses can’t walk without shoes, and when they all start going lame, including his own, he’ll lift the ban and then there’ll be a sudden demand to buy horse shoes again.”

“We need to buy the current surpluses,” said one.

“This will put my son out of business. All blacksmiths.”

“They’ll have to diversify,” said another.

“A run on the price of tools,” said a third.

“What do you hope to get out of all this, Court Chamberlain,” said the blacksmith’s father.

“My information has a price. If I keep you informed of the discussion and the dates, when the decree is due . . .”

“How much do you want?” The Pessimists pulled their chairs together.

“If you pay me now,” Sizma said, “fryn gold pieces. If you pay me after the decree, twenty gold pieces.”

The price drifted around their heads for a moment and an unspoken agreement settled with the blacksmith’s father. “Write out a docket for her,” he said and took out his purse. Without speaking he carefully placed a number of gold coins on the table. Sizma counted them . . . five, six, seven, eight . . . fryn.

“Sign the docket, Court Chamberlain.” The other Pessimist placed an IOU and a pen in front of her. She put the money in her purse first and signed the docket.

“I’ll go straight back to the palace and come here as soon as I hear anything. In the meantime, my horse needs shoeing. This might be a good time to get it done before the ban comes in.”

She bid them good day, left them to their coffee and before she left the exchange looked back and saw them writing out dockets for a man she presumed to be Gustav. He ran down the steps into the trading crowd. His arrival provoked a bloom of activity and an explosion of new trading.

Later in the day she rode into the blacksmith’s yard. He emerged wary and when he saw Sizma moved to hold the horse’s reins. “Interesting you should come today.”

“I hope my sister didn’t go too hard on you.”

“No, she was very . . . skilful. I’m not quite sure what she was after. At one point she said something about it being good practice.”

“Yes. Anyway, I felt a little bit guilty so I thought I should put some business your way. A full set of shoes, please.”

“Certainly. It is half price today. Ahead of the ban on shoes. I need to build up some cash flow until I think of new business opportunities.”

“Yes, I think the ban is imminent, but don’t tell anyone I told you. My sister will be very angry, if you know what I mean.”

When he was done he came back, the horse shod, a written invoice. “It’s fryn silver pieces today. Half price. I believe the currency exchange is three silver pieces per fryn.”

She paid him. “And you keep the old shoes?”

“I always do. You never know when they might be useful.” He smiled, a knowing you know what I know grin.

Sizma mounted her horse, paid the bill and rode away back to the palace and the inevitable fireworks.

“Do you know what I think, Chamberlain,” Atymos was incandescent. “Cut their tongues out. Your sister can do that, can’t she?”

“She can do it quickly or slowly as you require, Majesty.”

“Yes. She knows what’s what, that sister of yours. Cut their wretched tongues out. The realm is full of gossipers and busybodies, rumour mongers and liars, telling lies about me half the time.” He stormed around the throne room in his strawberry red shoes. “If I ever find out who started this ridiculous rumour I’ll have their giblets on a plate, Chamberlain.”

“Rumour, Majesty. Is this to do with the number fryn?”

“No, I’m not talking about that ridiculous number, and I’m having second thoughts about that, been thinking about what you said. Couldn’t stop dreaming about it last night. Fryn this and fryn that. No, the ban on horse shoes. I’m not planning to ban horse shoes, Chamberlain. What do they think I am, an idiot?”

“Don’t concern yourself with trivial rumours like that, Majesty. It’s beneath you.”

“It does concern me. Banning horse shoes, how are they going to walk?”

“You could make shoes out of vegetables, Majesty. It would be much quieter.”

“This is no time for flippancy. No, I need to quash this rumour, stop it spreading. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

The delay was useful. The information would cripple the Pessimists’ investment, but she thought twice about pre-empting a royal announcement. If word leaked out Atymos would know who had leaked it. Sizma was the only one privy to the conversation. No, the Pessimists would have to wait. That night, Sizma dreamt of gold.

And she was right about the Pessimists. When the decree was read out at the exchange dispatch box they were already ashen, the blood having drained from their faces several moments earlier when Sizma told them the inside news.

“We were half right,” she said.

“Half right?” The blacksmith’s father wasn’t the only one rubbing his head and his jawline.

“He lifted the ban. He just didn’t decree it first.”

“This will ruin us, Court Chamberlain.”

“There are ups and downs in the exchange, aren’t there? Don’t be so pessimistic. Sorry, that was insensitive. Is your stockpile of horse shoes worthless?”

“No. Less than that. We can’t sell it for what we’ve paid.”

“But you still have it all. Can’t you wait for the prices to rise?”

“The production of shoes continues. There’s no gap in supply, no shortage, no looming crisis, no signs of an increase in demand.”

“Why don’t you sell them at a special price?”

“Special price?” The head rubbing paused.

“Yes,” Sizma prepared her words, “A set of four for fryn gold pieces, three sets for the price of two.”

Her suggestion had let them down once and they were more cautious a second time, but the idea made sense. Such was the beautiful flexibility of fryn, the offer might work. “Yes, it might just work. Send for Gustav, I’ve had an idea. More coffee, Court Chamberlain.”

Gustav came and went with an instruction that baffled Sizma even after learning how fryn worked on the exchange trading floors. After several minutes of tempestuous shouting and yelling a group of traders lifted Gustav off his feet and carried him towards the door. The Pessimists gathered along the balcony rails trying to hear what Gustav was shouting.

“They won’t trade.”

“They won’t trade, why not?”

Another trader answered for him. “Two times fryn is not mol, you charlatans.”

“Crooks. We fell for your miserable schemes and your wretched fryn hogwash. Do you think were stupid?”

“No, no . . .” The crowd was coming up the steps, the Pessimists had no way out and were grabbed in a pincer movement and hauled away. Sizma, anticipating the trouble had detached herself from the Pessimists and stood at the back of the balcony sipping her coffee and planning the final act of this preposterous pantomime.

The first thing Sizma noticed when she entered the great hall was Atymos strolling around in his bare feet. “Have you banned satyr shoes, Majesty?”

“Can’t decide what to wear. Thought I’d give the old hooves a rest for a while. Let them breathe.”

“A wise choice. Very healthy for the hooves to let them spread a little.”

He was in a reflective mood this evening and stood at the open window gazing at the blood moon. “This number, Chamberlain, do you think it was, you know, was there anything to it?”

“Yes, Majesty, but not how some people were describing it. Apparently, according to my old maths tutor, fryn was the last fraction in an infinite line of fractions contained between every whole number. Without it you would never get from one to two, let alone eight to nine.”

“Fascinating. Fascinating concept. The wonder of numbers, eh, Chamberlain?”

“So much easier to understand than the number lod.”

“Lod?” He stepped away from the window.

“Yes. You haven’t heard of lod, Majesty?”

“No.”

“Let me explain.” She looked around the great hall and settled at the table. Atymos sat next to her. “Your purse, Majesty, empty the contents onto the table. I’ll empty mine.” He poured a collection of silver and gold pieces onto the table, Sizma piled her eight silver pieces in front of her. “The current exchange is ten silver pieces to one gold, is it not?”

“That’s correct, yes.”

“Well you give me those two silver pieces and add them to mine. Now I have lod silver pieces. Lod is any whole number plus two.”

“I see.”

“So if I exchange my lod silver pieces for one of your gold pieces that is the correct exchange.” He was nodding and calculating at the same time. “You are not out of pocket because if you count your silver pieces you might say you have ten instead of one gold coin . . .”

He hesitated. “Yes. Yes, go on.”

“But if you count your silver pieces you’ll now find you have eight more than when you started. That is the magical property of lod, Majesty.”

“Extraordinary.”

Sizma stood to go and placed the gold piece in her purse.

“Do you know, Chamberlain, I learn something new from you every day.”

“As I always say, it is a privilege and an honour to be in your service, Majesty.”