Beneath the eaves, Aaron and the bald Singer sat facing each other.
"Hmm, nothing but cheap souls."
The bald Singer sounded almost aggrieved. "I told you I needed some Orks. Now you have neither live Orks nor high-quality Ork souls for me. Look at what you've given me! These souls can't even be transformed into minor Devils. At most, they can be condensed into a few Soul Coins."
"That's all I have." Aaron regarded the bald Singer with interest. "I'm sure I wasn't the only person you approached. How many Ork slaves did you get from Lady Laeral?"
"Heh, you certainly know your business." The bald Singer plucked his strings, grinned, and sipped his coffee elegantly. "Five hundred. At ten gold coins per Ork, I could only give her five thousand. Five thousand gold coins."
"What do the Drow need so many Orks for? There aren't any cotton fields in the Underdark."
Aaron leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced. He found this merchant from Hell fascinating. There was no sign of Hell's wickedness about him. Instead, he was elegant and sincere, like a nobleman, with a mercenary streak running through his bones. He reminded Aaron more of those refined princes of finance who had manipulated markets and stirred up storms on Wall Street in his previous life than of the Devils who used plots and schemes, theft and extortion to climb the endless hierarchy of Hell until they finally became Archdevils.
"Who knows? We always do our best to meet our customers' demands without prying into their private affairs. That has always been my creed." The bald Singer toyed with the souls Aaron had given him. The infernal merchant blew across the steam rising from his coffee and shook his head. "But I can only give you two