The Antique Dealer was a traveling peddler who made his fortune by selling ancient artifacts to connoisseurs of the rare and unique. His curly hair shone like gold coins in the sunlight, and his sweet grin could charm even the most frugal customers. He pushed a wooden cart of merchandise through the market street in the wealthy quarter of town.

“Antiques for sale! Weapons from ancestral times,” the Dealer called out. His hand-cart bounced along the cobblestone street. The ancient weapons and tools in the cart clinked merrily. As he wandered forward, he heard voices raised in a ruckus ahead. Three other weapons vendors had installed themselves on the same patch of roadside.

A hooded man pointed at a red-robed competitor’s cart. “You call that pitiful butcher’s knife steel? That’s cheap cast iron if I ever saw it.”

“I’ll have you know that this is the finest steel in the city! Not that you can tell iron from rust, what with the sorry state of those daggers on your table,” the red-robed vendor retorted.

“You both sell problems with no solutions. If someone buys your blades, they can chop vegetables for a day—maybe a week. Buy my sharpening stones, and you can chop forever,” said the third vendor, a smug-looking fellow in blue.

The hooded one turned on him, enraged. “You scammer! Nobody with an ounce of sense is going to pay for rocks.”

“Exactly. Get off this street before you scare away my customers,” the red-clothed vendor chimed in.

“Fools. These aren’t just any rocks—”

The Dealer slowed as he approached the three businessmen. He recognized them from yesterday; they had this debate often, it seemed. They had not devolved to blows yet, but knowing these three, it would not be long before they did. The Dealer did not fancy getting his cart upturned if the three vendors became violent.

The hooded one turned to insult the others again, but he caught sight of the Dealer. His scowl instantly turned into a beaming grin.

“Good morning, friend,” the hooded one said. The other two turned at the sound of his voice.

“Indeed, a fine morning and bountiful sales to you,” the red-robed vendor added.

Not to be outdone, the stone seller stepped forward too. “I wish you a splendid morning, endless sales, and excellent fortune this day.”

The Dealer grinned at this warm welcome.

“This humble Dealer thanks you, good fellows. I am much in awe of your lucrative businesses. Your daggers are truly unique. Your steel quality is unmatched. And your stones are the perfect tool to accompany such well-made blades,” the Dealer said, bowing to each vendor as he complimented them in turn. All three gladly accepted the praise.

“Such a respectful boy. If only all merchants knew their places as well as he does,” one vendor sighed as the Dealer moved on. The others took offense to this statement, and the argument soon resumed.

The Dealer shook his head at their antics as he continued down the street. Many businesses in these parts promoted their products by degrading other sellers and pressuring buyers, but the Dealer used a different strategy: he flattered competitors and potential customers alike. As a result, he was well liked by both his peers and his customers, an unusual quality in these times. It had served him well thus far. Of course, his fellow merchants’ envy would inevitably grow until mere affability could not dissuade them from attacking his business. At that point, he would have to find a new market.

In the meantime, there were profits to be had.

Turning onto a side street, the Dealer called out, “Antiques for sale! Weapons from ancestral times!”

“Merchant, let me have a look.” A local nobleman approached the cart, drawn by the dealer’s expensive accent. His eyes widened when he set eyes upon the iron, steel, and bronze artifacts gleaming softly in the midday sunlight. He carefully pointed at a rusted iron dagger. “Such a unique aging pattern. This must be seventy years old.”

The Dealer shook his head. “Not seventy, good sir.”

“Eighty? Or, considering the color of the tarnish, perhaps even ninety years?”

The Dealer’s face split into a grin. “You have an excellent eye. Ninety years old, and not worth a coin less than ninety.”

“Ninety, hmm.” The nobleman pulled a money pouch from his belt and hesitated.

By the Dealer’s estimation, the pouch was large enough to contain at least two hundred coins. He quickly said, “Really, this rare and valuable dagger could sell for over a hundred coins... but I understand that these are difficult times. How about a discount?”

The nobleman pondered. “Please don’t laugh at my poverty, good merchant. Would you accept seventy coins?”

The Dealer looked pained. “Seventy for this relic. Normally I wouldn’t, but you seem sincere. I am willing to lose some profit if it means helping a good person acquire an artifact that he will treasure. Seventy it is.”

The nobleman walked away with his new possession, now wrapped in genuine sackcloth for maximum authenticity. He muttered to himself, “An amazing deal. What a generous peddler. This ancient dagger is definitely worth at least seven hundred coins.”

Another passing collector overheard the nobleman and rushed to find the Antique Dealer. He had moved down half a street and, as the collector arrived, was just finishing the sale of a heavily tarnished spoon for three hundred coins. The collector peered into the cart and gasped at the sight of a rusted copper spearhead. Her fingers hovered over each implement in the dealer’s stock, trembling and reverent.

“All of these splendid treasures, and that fool walks away with just one. How can he call himself a collector? Well, his loss is my gain,” cried the collector. She pulled an enormous sack from her robes. It clinked at every motion. “What did he offer, seven hundred? I’ll pay you a thousand.”

The Dealer’s eyebrows went up. “A thousand coins for the lot?”

“No, no. How cheap do you think I am? A thousand coins each.” The collector sent an aide off to his house for the money. A few minutes later, the aide returned, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with equally large bags. The collector untied one at random, and hundreds of golden coins sparkled in the sunlight.

“A thousand each. Very good. A fair price,” the Dealer agreed.

After a quick but meticulous inspection, he verified that each of the moneybags was indeed full of coins. He expertly wrapped the ancient weapons and equally ancient farming tools in bolts of sackcloth. These he transferred to the collector’s wheelbarrow with all due care. Meanwhile, the servant struggled to load the heavy bags of money into the Dealer’s own cart. The Dealer and satisfied customer parted ways—the former considerably richer, and the latter considerably happier.

On his way back from the market, a pile of rusty scrap metal besides a workshop caught the Dealer’s eye. He wandered closer, stopping in front of the blacksmith’s forge.

“Good master blacksmith! Have you any defective knives for sale?”

The blacksmith puffed up in offense. “Defective? My products are top quality, I’ll have you know. Though… if you are serious…” the blacksmith leaned in. “My new apprentice just hasn’t got the hang of tempering alloys yet. I’ll sell the warped knives to you for cheap, but you tell no one that they came from my forge, you hear?”

“An excellent proposition,” said the Dealer. He paid thirty coins for a basket full of slightly misshapen bronze, brass, and steel knives.

Next, the Dealer stopped at the wine brewer’s shop with another unusual request.

The wine brewer frowned. “Why would you possibly want vinegar? Not that I’m complaining—a customer is always welcome—but the apothecary is usually the only one who buys my vinegar. No one else can stand the smell.”

The Dealer grinned. “Vinegar is sweeter than honey, as the saying goes.”

“If that were true, I’d still have all of my teeth.” The wine brewer shook his head. “Kids these days... no sense of taste.” He nevertheless accepted the Dealer’s money, leading the way to the wine cellar. After the transaction, the Dealer happily dragged one barrel from the brewer’s cellar to his cart.

Come nightfall, the Dealer returned home to a small hut on the outskirts of town. It had one window, a sleeping mat in the corner, and a small fire pit under the chimney. The owner had seemed surprised that anyone would want to rent such a pitiful shack, but the Dealer assured him that it was more than suitable for a traveling merchant’s purposes. The shack posed a significant upgrade from the smith’s toolshed at the last town, and even more so from the abandoned stable at the town before that.

Inside the shack, the Dealer lit his fireplace and started heating a pot of water. Then, he drew a dark cloth over the window. It would be impolite to disturb the neighbors when he planned to stay awake late at night. He stepped outside again, slowly walking around the shack. The wooden wall panels were cracked in a few places, allowing small streams of firelight to escape. The Dealer poked bits of grass into the cracks to seal them off. When satisfied that no nosy passerbys would be able to see inside his home, he went back inside and bolted the door. The water had reached a slow simmer.

The Dealer began to unpack his cart. The wine brewer’s vinegar smelled sharp enough to bring tears to the Dealer’s eyes—a good, strong brew. However, tying a strip of tightly woven linen over his face quelled the worst of the sting. The Dealer poured a generous amount of vinegar into a glass flask, added a pinch of table salt, and partly submerged this in the warm water bath. Pungent steam began to rise. As the solution heated, the Dealer laid out the blacksmith’s knives. There were twenty-four knives total, ranging from rough metal rectangles to finely polished blades with only one or two unfortunate chips. He set the most irregular shapes to the side.

Seventeen knives passed the inspection, and the Dealer kept these blades for further processing. He took a small bag from under his sleeping mat. Inside were two stones, a jagged shard of hard crystal and a soft piece of chalky deposit, as well as a paintbrush of the sort normally used for cosmetics. Picking up the first knife, he began to score the surface with the crystal tip. He applied special care to scratch the edges of the blade with the impression of combat marks. This process repeated with the other sixteen knives.

By this point, the water was rapidly steaming away, and streams of tiny bubbles trickled through the vinegar. The Dealer removed the pot from the fire before the boiling water could overturn the glass flask. Wetting the brush, he began to paint the vinegar solution onto the scratched knives. The surfaces began to bubble. He set these aside to corrode undisturbed. After waiting a few minutes, he painted on a second and third coat, paying heavy attention to the fine metalwork around the handles.

When the Dealer was satisfied with the tarnish on each of the knives, he sat back and laughed.

“Ancient weapons, newly forged.”

Seventeen knives covered in patterned grey and brown tarnish sat arrayed in front of the Dealer. He took out a burlap potato sack, measured it against each knife, and cut out strips of cloth for wrapping the new batch of antiques.