Pretty much the last thing he expects is for Michael to step up with a wallet that the storeowner eyes with undisguised interest, and Wolfwood isn't sure whether to thank the guy or ask if he's an idiot. There's a reason you don't bust money out right away in a place like this; they could get the tickets for a favor and a few pounds of crabmeat -- that stuff is more precious than gold, here -- or they could wheedle them out of the guy and make a run for it -- or they could sneak onto the steamer and hideout in the boiler room until the next stop.

Not glamorous, but efficient.

Still, he has to admit that actually paying upfront is really the easiest way. It saves them a certain amount of haggling, and people are surprisingly reluctant to deal generously with a man of the cloth.

That can't be right.

The shopkeeper's sharp eyes move from Michael's wallet to his face, and he shrugs. "Thirty," he says, making Wolfwood roll his eyes.

"Where's your compassion?" he asks, looking wounded. "I'm a priest on a mission of mercy, and you want to charge me full price? Shame on you."

The man looks slightly suspicious. "What mission?"

Wolfwood fixes him with a stern look. "We've been sent by the Bernadelli Insurance Company to deal with Vash the Stampede. Word is he's been in the area, and we need to beat him to December. I don't know what he'll do if he finds out we're here, but I'd hate to be the reason he decides to visit your town."

"Vash?...You're bounty hunters? Or...why would they send a priest?"

Wolfwood shakes his head, solemn. "Why do you think?"

There's a moment while the shopkeeper thinks this over, then pales, visibly. He turns back to Michael, as if looking for confirmation, then shakes his head, lifts his hands. "I don't want any trouble. We'll make it fifteen..." Wolfwood eyes him, and he goes white as a sheet, waves his hands. "Ten. Ten is fine. Just, please. Get out of town. We don't want any trouble here."