Rattick threw the necklace on the oak counter and watched the light dance in it like a living thing. He nodded at it and asked, “Have you ever seen such exquisite workmanship?”
Boltac, the Merchant on the other side of the counter, picked up the ruby necklace and examined it closely. He gave Rattick a hard look and frowned. Maybe the deal was good, but this shifty-eyed, greasy-hair scavenger looked like he would pick his own pocket if he thought he could get away with it.
Boltac’s eyes were swathed in a soft round face, but they were sharp enough that Rattick would not brave his gaze. And despite the fleshiness that middle age had added to Boltac’s neck and gut, his jaw had stayed strong and block-like. He was not a man that people easily got the better of.
Boltac studied the necklace for a while. Then he licked his thumb, rubbed the necklace’s setting, and muttered, “You missed a spot.”
“Missed a spot?” asked Rattick, as smooth as water over river rock.
“Blood, Rattick. There’s some blood left on this necklace.”
Rattick shrugged. “Probably mine. I try to use stealth, but the Orc I took it from put up quite a fight.”
“En-henh,” Boltac said as he ran his hand across his shaven pate. “Not that I want to know, but what is an Orc?”
“A fearsome new creature wreaking havoc on the good people of Robrecht.”
“En-henh,” said Boltac, not buying it. “And you, uh, count yourself among those good people?”
“Of course. I am no mighty Hero, like some, but I do what little I can.”
“Okay, Rattick, I’m gonna make you an offer on your necklace here. The setting is crap, but the stone is very nice. But before I do – not for nuttin’ but, Orcs? You’re shittin’ me, right?”
“Oh no, stout Merchant, I assure you, Orcs are very real.”
“Really? Kobolds, I heard of. Trolls, I heard of. Dragons, sure, but Orcs? C’mon. What does an Orc look like?”
“Gentle Merchant, I hope that you never see one, but I assure you, if you do, you will know it for the Orc that it is.”
“En-henh.”
“Let me tell you the fearsome tale of how I came to acquire this necklace and then perhaps you will better understand the threat that the fearsome Orc–”
“You can spare me the story, Rattick,” said Boltac.
“You don’t enjoy Tales of Valor?” asked Rattick with a smile.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Tales of Valor? No. I enjoy tales of profit.”
“I don’t know any sagas that involve tales of profit,” said Rattick. “But Tales of Valor, of great daring… the bards sing many songs of those.”
“Yeah, I don’t really care for singing either. In fact, let’s just cut all the bullshit. I’m pretty sure I know how you got this.”
“Yessssss,” purred Rattick, running his finger over the ruby, “but do you care?”
“Not if you’ll take fifteen gold for it I don’t.”
“Fifteen gold? I risked my neck for this!”
“Your neck? I’m pretty sure you risked somebody else’s neck for this particular bauble. Fine, seventeen for the gem, and two gold for the rest of it.” Boltac said, indicating the pile of equipment on the floor.
“But this sword almost defeated a Troll!”
“Yeah, and it almost doesn’t have that huge nick in it. And why does everything in that pile smell like Troll shit?”
They haggled like this for a while, and settled on a price of 22 gold for the lot. When Rattick left, Boltac muttered a curse and had to work to keep from spitting on his own floor.
He placed the ruby in one of three lockboxes behind the counter and then dragged the bundle of equipment into the back to see how badly he had been taken. The sword was of higher quality than he had hoped for, and there were a number of items that, while they wouldn’t fetch top price, would provide good use. The odd piece of armor, some leather goods. He threw out a badly damaged boot and debated opening a nondescript fabric sack. Sacks could be trouble. For that matter so could gems.
He grunted as he stood up. He trudged wearily back to the front of the store. From beneath the counter, he produced a brass-tipped wand that was clipped to the underside of the thick oak. He took the wand to the back and guided it carefully over all the items.
The wand did not grow warm or shriek or vibrate or do any of the many colorful and destructive things it did in the presence of Magic. The wand was not merely a Magic wand. It was a Magic detecting wand. Very rare, very expensive. But, for a man who dealt in items of unknown origins purchased from characters of questionable virtue, it was indispensable.
“Ennh,” grunted Boltac, more relieved than disappointed. Boltac hated Magic. It wasn’t just dangerous, it was bad for business. When a customer couldn’t try on a pair of gloves for fear that they would turn out to be MaGrief’s Gauntlets of Self-Abuse, business suffered.
That’s why he kept the wand secreted under the counter. Pick up a cursed ruby necklace and there was no telling what might happen. Before he had procured his wand, Boltac had spent six months with a cursed Goblet of Thirst stuck to his hand. As annoying as that was, that wasn’t the worst part of the curse. When liquid was poured into the Goblet, it heated up and burned the hand that held it.
He rubbed the scarred flesh of his left hand. Ugh, Magic. It seemed like it should be useful but its power always seemed to go awry. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was karma. Maybe it was that Wizards had a particularly cruel and ironic sense of humor. Whatever the reason, Boltac was certain that the world would be better off without Magic. But there was nothing to be done about it. People may revile a Merchant but, in the end, a Merchant can only sell what the people want.
He pulled on a stout thong he wore around his neck and, with a jingle, a cluster of charms, tokens, and amulets emerged from beneath his tunic. He pawed at them for a while until he came to an odd one cast in bronze. It was a small statue of one bull mounting another. The customary token of Dallios, Lord of the Deal. Dallios was a Southron God, little known in cold Robrecht, but when it came to religions, Boltac didn’t discriminate. Boltac was a superstitious man, but he prided himself on being able to make a deal with anybody.
He kissed the Bull with Two Backs and muttered a prayer of thanks to Dallios that, this time at least, he hadn’t been the bull on the bottom.
Just then the front door clattered against its crude copper bell. A customer! The Lord of the Deal smiled on Boltac today, and he hurried to see what fresh profit Dallios had seen fit to bring him.