"Heh, many a man has a knife that talks!" The fellow's grin was fiendish. "A talking knife! It says three words." He flashed his own in the air. "Haugh!" It whistled down in a deadly thrust. "Sss-sssrr-kk! And it goes home. Drip-drip! And the tale is told. That is all a knife can say."
And he sheathed his own, still grinning.
"That is why a sure knife is valuable," returned Nikka. "A pistol, now. That shouts aloud. But a knife only whispers, and if a knife knows but three words, how many of its masters can have that said of them?"
"You talk more than most, it seems," leered the bearded man. He was quick of wit.
"I have said what I have said," stated Nikka, folding his arms. "My comrade and I are new to Stamboul. We have heard of Beran Tokalji in many camps. In the winter we were in Paris, the great city of the Franks, and there, too, men spoke of Tokalji. A great thief, they said, and one who treated his people well."
"How do you know that I am Tokalji?" demanded the bearded man, plainly flattered by Nikka's speech.
Of course, Nikka did not know him, but he was quick to seize the opportunity and make the most of it.
"I have often heard you described around the fires. It was enough to see the way you handle a knife. 'As sure as the knife of Tokalji' is the saying all along the road from Salonika to Buda and beyond into the Frank countries."
"If you knew me and sought my help, was it wise to rob in front of my door?" countered Tokalji, but the scowl on his face was supplanted by a smirk.
Nikka affected embarrassment.