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Selling other people’s leavings for a living, you learn something simple:
Everything has a price.
Everything.
The chipped bowl, the odd boot, the key to a lock that burned down years ago. Hell, I’ve sold a one-eared jug to a man who wanted it more than he wanted his own dignity. I’ve sold grief back to widows one teaspoon at a time.
I have never once, in four years of standing behind this table at Tildan market, met a thing that didn’t have a number on it somewhere.
Then a stranger offered old Faddic six silver for a tin cup, and Faddic told him to go drown in the river.
Six silver.
For a tin cup.
You could buy a goat for six silver.
