“Captain, I’ve seen an anvil like that in a medaller’s—where they make badges and medals and things. This hole here—that would hold the anvil die—”

“Dies!” Arcolin said. “Of course! He came back for the dies.”

“Sir?”

“Coins, Dev—they’re striking coins. Changing the marks, at least, and maybe the composition, making counterfeits. That’s what was worth one man sneaking back in the night, and if he came to the foot of that tree, it’s because he wanted to climb it. They sent a sailor—the dies are hidden up the tree somewhere.”

Those who’d spent the night in trees climbed back up and poked into every hollow, every tangle of limbs. “Found something,” Forli said. “Limb broke off and they hollowed out a space.” He lowered the leather sack on a line; inside were two pieces of steel. “And here’s something else,” he added. “Sack of money, looks like.” He tossed that down.

Burek fitted the tang of the lower die into the hole on the anvil, and Arcolin set the hammer die atop it. “That much fits,” he said. He looked in the sack of coins and found a mix of coins: some Guild League with different marks, some from the far south with the marks of Immerdzan and Aliuna, a few from the duchy of Fall. In the bottom of the sack was another, of thinner leather, holding pewter disks, a dozen or so plain and several bearing confusing blurred marks.

“Practice,” Devlin said. “The shop I saw, a ’prentice was learning to hammer straight, and the master used disks like this for him to learn on.”

Arcolin upended the hammer die and looked at the surface that would shape a coin. He could not read the design—surely it was intended for a Vonja coin, but …

“Let me try,” Burek said. “We can use one of the practice disks. Someone get me a hammer.” One of the soldiers rummaged in the tool bag they always carried and found one. Burek fitted the disk between the two dies and struck the top one a solid blow. The disk looked lopsided—it had not been exactly centered—but now Arcolin could read the mark: the Guild League symbol on one side and Vonja’s own mark, PCV, on the other.

“In silver, it would be a niti,” Arcolin said. “I wonder if this is the only coin they make.” He pulled a niti from his belt-pouch to compare.

“Those nas and natas we found in the merchant’s wagon were some of them counterfeit.”

“And where did they get the dies?” Arcolin said, thinking out loud. “These are hard steel, not something an artisan can carve out.”

“Mints have dies. Maybe they’re stolen?”

A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and Arcolin looked up: clouds moving in again. “Later. Pack everything up; we’ll go back to our home site.”

“Take the dies and anvil?”

“Of course. We need proof for the Vonja Council. Scouts, be alert for rigged trees. I think they’re still north of us, but we don’t want more losses, in case they sent for reinforcements.”