"Six per cask seems generous to me."

"So 'twould be, were we at your sheds in Luskan," Mirt the Moneylender returned, "with me looking about in vain for someone else to take my wine. Yet-behold-we sit in fair Waterdeep, where men clamor to outbid each other… even for rare Evermeet vintages."

The man who wore the silks of Luskan-black, shot with irregular clusters of tiny white stars-sighed, ran one finger along his mustache, and said, "Seven per cask."

"Eight per cask and one crown more," Mirt replied, sliding the one small hand-cask that stood on the table forward a little, so that the Luskanite's eyes strayed to follow the movement.

"Seven."

"Seven and one crown more."

"Seven," the trader from Luskan said flatly, gathering himself as if to rise from his chair.

Mirt the Moneylender lifted an eyebrow-and calmly slid the hand-cask back to stand close by his own shoulder. "Have a pleasant day trading," he rumbled, lifting his hand toward the door.

The Luskanite stared at him. Cool, expressionless eyes locked with cool, expressionless eyes like two gauntlets softly touching knuckles-then strained against each other.

There was a moment of silence. Both men drew in breath, a longer silence, and the trader from Luskan said flatly, "Seven crowns per cask, plus one crown more."

"Acceptable," Mirt replied, without the slightest trace of a smile on his face.

"Agreed," snapped the Luskanite, giving the usual formal response. He spilled the contents of a cloth purse out in front of him, planted his fingertips atop four coins, and slid them into the painted ring in the center of the table. He reached back his hand and slid four more. In this smooth, deliberate manner he made up the sum, then reached for the hand-cask by Mirt's elbow.