A stamped brass disc clicked against the rough cedar planking of the produce stall, catching the bright morning daylight.
The elderly apple seller did not reach for the token, keeping her hands tucked under her faded woolen apron.
"What sort of coin do you call this, young man?" she asked, eyeing the hexagonal brass chit with deep suspicion.
"Municipal wage-chit, Mother Vanna," Toby answered patiently, resting his bow against the market stall post.
"Chief Scribe Marrick issued eighty of them to the timber haulers after our sunrise shift on the palisade."
"I took ducal script thirty years ago during the regent's war," she replied, shaking her head with stubborn conviction.
"Within six months, the magistrates fled, and the paper would not even kindle a cooking fire in the hearth."
Hajin stepped out from the crowded market walkway, pausing beside the fruit crates with an encouraging nod.
