Slowly, and with the greatest reluctance, did the normal shopper approach the object he coveted.
Then, here was this man.
"Well," Musa told himself, "make the most of it." He shrugged.
"Nine hundred balata," he stated definitely, matching the frank directness of this unusual shopper, and incidentally doubling his price.
Lanko was examining the hilt of the sword. He snapped a fingernail against its blade. There was a musical ping.
"You must like this bit of metal far better than I," he commented without looking up. "I only like it two hundred balata worth."
Musa felt relief at this return to familiar procedure. He held up his hands in a horrified gesture.
"Two hundred!" he cried. "Why, that is for the craftsman's apprentices. There is yet the master smith, and those who bring the weapon to you. No, friend, if you want this prince of swords, you must expect to pay for it. One does not—" He paused. Lanko was sheathing the weapon, his whole bearing expressing unwilling relinquishment.
Musa slowed his speech. "Still," he said softly, "I am closing out my eastern stock, after all. Suppose we make it eight hundred fifty?"
"Did you say two hundred fifty?" Lanko held the sheathed sword up, turning to the light to inspect the leather work.