Late morning spills through the windows and turns the dust polite. Three Lutes looks dressed for company. The rope sits straight, the chalkboard is neat and certain, and the spoon called Gavel waits on the corner of the platform like it knows its job.
Tamsin checks the last line of chairs with a boot heel and gives a single nod. Lyria stands by the ledger with a stack of paddles she has cut from old crate slats, the numbers written tidy as scripture. Colin breathes in the room, rolls his shoulders, and smiles until the smile feels like it belongs to him.
That's when they open the doors.
People arrive in streams and pockets. Adventurers with clean bandages and loud plans. Shopkeepers in good aprons. A pair of students whispering as if they can buy knowledge with a handful. A troll in a pressed vest, careful steps that barely creak the floorboards. A demon clerk with ink on two fingers and perfect posture. A dozen sorts of human, each with a reason to be here and a coin to prove it.
"Welcome to Three Lutes," Colin says, every time like it is the first time. "Paddles from Lyria, drinks from Tamsin, good stories from your neighbour. You are in excellent company."
He remembers names as if names are hooks to hang faces on. "Master Rowe, fine hat. Sit with a light behind you, makes you look important. Miss Keera, those shoes mean business. I like it! Third row will do you proud." He steers a fisherman to the aisle so elbows can be useful without being a menace. He finds a scribe a place where ink can dry without being stolen by sleeves. He spots the boot boy and gestures him to a side table with a view, but not too close to temptation.
"First time," the troll says, voice soft as cloth.
"Perfect," Colin exclaims. "Today is a good day to start a habit. If you bid, lift your paddle so Lyria can see your number. If you win, feel proud, then pay promptly."
The troll smiles, which is a lot of smile. "Understood. Thank you."
Sir Bramble arrives with the bustle of someone born to corridors that echo. The moustache enters first, then the man, then his two retainers, who try to be inconspicuous and fail at once.
"Master Colin," Bramble booms, cheeks at full sail. "I have come prepared to civilise taste."
"You have come prepared to enjoy yourself," Colin says, shaking his hand with both of his. "The best preparation of all. I, no. We welcome you to the Three Lutes."
Bramble surveys the room as if it belongs to him by default. He approves of the rope, approves of the chairs, approves of the chalkboard with a sage nod that suggests chalkboards were his idea. He leans in so only Colin hears. "You were right to say it open to all. Crowds are flatter than courts, and more honest. Hrmp, if only the other nobles would think the same. Bunch of idiots only care about the coin in their pocket, not the one outside it."
"Honesty is fashionable today," Colin says. "Look, this is your row, with a generous view of the platform and plenty of air for victory gestures. Of course, it might get a little tight once more people arrive."
Bramble laughs and pats the chair like he pats his dog. "Will we see courage today? Or maybe a bit of freedom?"
"Courage and a little restraint," Colin says. "Taste is brave, purse strings are sensible. Demonstrate both, and you will look twice as wise. Oh, and don't worry."
Leaning just a tad closer, "I'm sure there will be a bit of both that will satisfy you, if you know what I am saying."
"Interesting. Restraint," Bramble repeats, amused by the new word. "We shall see. Haha! We shall see."
Lyria appears at Colin's shoulder without sound. She hands Bramble a paddle with the number written crisp and straight. "Hold it high when you mean it," she says. "Not when you do not."
"I like rules that sound like advice," Bramble says, and salutes her with the paddle.
Tamsin materialises with two waters and a warning look for the retainers, who have drifted toward the rope like moths that suspect flame might be fun. "Watch from there," she says, pointing to a spot that is exactly where she wants them. "If you lean on the rope, it bites." Reaching out with her neck and biting the air.
Bramble studies the paddles around him. "My rivals?"
"Your audience," Colin says. "If you buy, buy in a way that lets them tell the story for you. Saves time later. Unless, of course, there is someone here with deeper pockets than yourself."
Bramble nods, happy to be instructed in how to win.
The room settles into a soft buzz, the sort that bounces off walls and comes back kinder. Colin does a last lap. He crouches to tell the fisherman not to bid with a hand that holds a sandwich because grease leaves marks. He checks with the troll about sight lines. He thanks a student for coming and gets back the kind of smile that makes long days feel like a choice. He catches Milo by the elbow and tells him to breathe before speaking. Milo breathes, forgets, then remembers again.
When the sun sits halfway down the windows, Colin climbs the platform. The murmur dips. He stands easy, hand on Gavel, and looks at the crowd for a heartbeat longer than a heartbeat. It is a new thing every time there is a crowd, even if the boards are old.
"Good people of Grand Exchange," he says, and the room stands up inside itself. "Welcome to the Three Lutes. Welcome to the first auction that is exactly like this and will never be repeated."
A ripple of laughter turns the air kind.
"We have simple rules," he says, nodding to the board. "No blades drawn. Coin before collection. Breakages paid. Do not lick the lots. If you must cry from joy or regret, do it into your sleeve and not into someone's ear."
Tamsin holds up the ladle in a way that reads as a promise without menace. The room enjoys it.
"Now then, how to bid," Colin says, tapping Gavel once, not hard. "Lift your paddle so Lyria can see your number. If you do not have a paddle, lift your full hand and say your name so we remember you properly. I will call for rises. Keep them sensible. If you leap too high, you only scare yourself."
He points to the tables along the wall. "If you win, bring your paddle to Lyria. She will take your coin and hand you a slip. Tamsin will release the item when the slip says so. If you wish to consign something for next time, speak to Lyria after we are done, and she will explain how not to lose money."
A chuckle runs along the rows and sits down again.
"Inspection is in the minutes between lots, not during," he says. "If an item misbehaves, Tamsin will negotiate with it. We are not responsible for curses you invite into your own homes, but we will disclose anything we know."
He lets silence live for a moment, enough to make the next words matter.
"This is for everyone," he says. "Spend if you wish, shout if you like, cheer if someone else gets brave. Make friends, make stories, and if you must make enemies, please do it quietly and with taste."
He looks to Lyria. She gives the smallest nod. Tamsin squares the nearest row with two fingers. Bramble lifts his chin like a man who has practised looking heroic in mirrors and is finally in front of an audience.
Colin turns the chalkboard so Lot 01 faces the room. He sets his palm on the table, feels the old rhythm step into place, and smiles.
"Lot one," he says, voice bright enough to reach the back wall. "The goblin helm. Once worn by a goblin whose only purpose in life was to survive and return to its family. The helm represents the trials it went through. Each dent and scratch counts the adventurers it faced. However, there was an end. An end that we see here today."
Colin held the helmet up gently, letting everyone see. The oohs and aahs of the crowd fill the room. A dwarf scoffs at the helmet, muttering under his breath that he could make better. However, this is what Colin wants: talk. Conversation. For people to look and judge for themselves on whether the item is worth it or not.
"So, who will open at ten copper?"