The doughy, white faces blur together so late in the day. It was astonishing that a tall, black man with dark grey eyes would stop in front of Hakim’s carpet shortly before the bazaar closed.
“I hear you carry Father Blades. Is this so?” asked the Black Man in a crisp, heavily accented English.
Hakim looked at the stranger for a long moment. His hand flashed under his threadbare crimson jacket and with a practiced expertise he produced a long, narrow blade in the palm of his chestnut brown hand; made of a lustrous metal, the Father Blade was mottled with dried blood a shade darker than his jacket.
“Six hundred pounds,” he said quietly.
“That is very expensive for a knife at the bazaar,” said the Black Man.
“If it were only a simple knife, six hundred pounds would be a lot. However for the only knife that will kill your enemy, it is a profound bargin. Six hundred, not a penny less.”
“Just so. Deal.”
Hakim accepted the money and handed over the blade; he would be celebrating his tenth birthday in style.