Her abrupt remark surprises a remark from the thin man, and he sinks back in his seat to enjoy it. "Such refreshing clarity! He did, yes," he adds, sobering, "drive his people to ruin for the sake of his beliefs."

He nods slightly in answer to her conclusion about his collection--if she takes it as a shallow interest, that of the greedy curator, well and good. She's disinclined to believe in magic, anyway. Better to let her focus on the business at hand than esoteric matters she'd rather avoid. "You assume correctly. Negotiate the best price you are able, and it shall be paid. As for an advance..."

His hand dips several times into the open drawer, each time drawing something out to place on the desk: a sturdy cloth bag that settles with a familiar metallic clink; a smaller pouch of silk that gives a much quieter clatter; a clear case of some kind of glassy material that seems to contain an exceptionally clear portrait of a man with some kind of uniform, a helmet on his head and a club in his hands, a name and emblem blazoned beneath him (possibly several such portraits, stacked together); and a palm-sized cube that glows with a warm, pink light.

"These should serve as a suitable start, whomever you deal with."