A hand goes up before the echo of ten copper fades.
Colin lifts Gavel high. "Three Lutes, warm up your voices. When I say going twice, you say gone."
"Gone," the room answers, amused already.
Tamsin raps a single knuckle on the bar. The buzz softens. Dust hangs in the light.
"The goblin helm," Colin says, turning it slowly through a pale shaft from the east window, "dents like diary entries, smell of adventure politely removed. Who opens at ten copper?"
"Fifteen," from the aisle, practical and awake. Neighbours murmur, be kind, and a hand rises at once.
"Twenty," a woman near the bar, already calculating the story she will tell if she wins.
"Thirty," a man who likes being first at anything. He hopes his daughter will hear about this and think better of his hat.
"Fifty," from the back, tossed like a glove. He came for noise larger than his week.
Colin smiles. "Thirty to the brave. Fifty to the very awake."
"One silver," the elf in row two says, smooth as cream. He is here to be seen, noticing culture, and to go home knowing he did.
A dwarf scoffs. "Those dents are a cooper's hammer and hope."
The orc beside him grins. "Hope does not leave scratches on the inside."
Colin tilts the helm so the inside shows. "Inside marks. Our goblin met a door that refused to be polite."
"Door won," someone says, garnering a laugh here and there.
"Maybe then, but not today," Colin says. "One silver even. Do I have one silver ten?"
"One ten," from the bar. She is a brewer's wife and thinks a helm on the mantle will make customers talk longer.
"One twenty," Sir Bramble says, paddle raised just high enough to be admired. He is here to win and to look good doing it.
A whisper ring forms.
"Of course he did."
"He will make the peacocks wear it."
"Peacocks do not wear helmets."
"They will if he pays them."
Colin plants Gavel's tip, gentle as a metronome. Lyria lifts her chalk, poised over the ledger. Tamsin edges a lantern along the shelf to frame the platform. Subtle, patient light.
"One silver twenty to the gentleman with a heroic posture," Colin says. "Who dares one thirty?"
The elf lifts two fingers, then lets them fall with a sigh that asks the room to admire his restraint. "I yield to heroism and questionable birds."
"Going," Colin calls.
Lyria taps the ledger once, clean and clear.
"Going," Colin calls again.
Second tap. The sound sits the crowd down inside themselves.
"Gone," the room replies, smiling.
He holds the pause where everyone can see it, then, bright as brass, "Sold." Third tap.
Lyria writes 1 silver 20 copper neat as a vow. Tamsin takes the coin, passes the slip, and rests the helm by Bramble's elbow like a medal that tells its own story.
"Do not drink through it," she says.
"I would never," Bramble lies cheerfully. His eyes lit up as he scours the helmet, seeing if there was more hidden within its cracks.
A brief chorus rises, the background tables murmuring their reasons for being here. The clerk at the edge wants something dignified for a front desk that faces the world. The tea seller wants a display that makes noses linger. The students want belonging that feels like a decision. The blacksmith wants to hear money turn into a sound. The crowd of people here for fun and games is starting to feel the auction, and it was only just beginning
Colin flips the board.
"Lot Two, the mystery kettle. A polite dent by the spout, but still pours as straight as a sermon. The seller's claim is that it whistles when a liar stands within three paces. However, others claim it whistles when water boils. Both can be true. Ten copper to start."
"Ten," a seamstress, sceptical but curious. She is here to dress a window, not a conscience. Neighbours murmur, be kind.
"Fifteen," a student, much too keen. He is here because he wants to be the person who says yes first.
"Twenty," says the blacksmith. "Because kettles are kettles, even when they tell stories."
"Thirty," a clerk with ink-stained fingers. "Reception likes company."
Colin pats the lid. "Honesty test, no boiling. I will go first. I own five horses."
Silence. The kettle remains dignified metal.
"Fraud," someone declares, delighted to play along.
"I do not own horses," Colin says, pleased. "Kettle refuses to whistle without water. Quite a modest one. We admire modest cookware, right?."
The student half stands. Tamsin lifts one palm, and he freezes mid-idea.
"You may lie from there," she says.
He coughs. "I do not need notes for exams."
Half the room laughs. The kettle does not move.
"It is selective," Colin confides. "Like all good judges."
"Forty," the clerk says, practical as a paperclip.
"Forty five," the seamstress. "It will pull a window together."
"Fifty," a tea seller calls. "What? I like the handle."
"Excellent!" Colin exclaims. "Do I hear sixty?"
"Sixty," says blacksmith. His eyes wander to his competition, but there weren't intimidated.
"Sixty-five," calls the tea seller.
"Seventy," says the clerk.
"Seventy-two," the student blurts, then his mate hisses, "Rent." He lowers his paddle with dignity that earns a few kind claps.
Colin sets Gavel like a period. "Seventy copper. Going."
First tap. A friendly hush ripples outward. Tankards drum once and stop.
"Going."
Second tap. Tamsin raises the ladle a fraction, conductor at ease. The back tables still.
"Gone!" the crowd breathes back.
"Sold." Third tap. Lyria writes. Tamsin checks the handle with a tiny twist that only she notices, then passes the kettle over. "For tea," she says. "Not for fights."
Colin leans toward Milo at the edge of the platform. "Breathe when they laugh."
Milo nods, breathes, forgets, and then remembers with a bright face.
Colin drinks water. He wipes his lip with the back of his wrist. He drops his voice a fraction and shifts a lantern a thumb's width lower.
"Lot Three. A mantle piece that prefers honest light to loud talk."
He cups his palm over the lamp nearest the table. For a heartbeat, the specks in the light sharpen for him, then soften. Noon through the windows like veins in the stone gather the daylight and keeps it for the evening. A fork pauses halfway to a mouth. A joke loses its ending, and no one misses it.
"Thirty copper," says a quiet woman near the middle, surprised by her own voice. She came because she wanted to feel like the kind of person who speaks once and is heard, never did she think she would be bidding so quickly.
"Fifty," from the bar, because spectacle makes coin lighter.
"One silver," the elf calls, dignity restored by appreciating beauty in public.
"Before you all lose your heads," says a miner who has been quiet until now, "you should know some rocks glow because they have opinions about light, not because a wizard kissed them."
"That sounds like a wizard kiss," someone replies.
The demon clerk lifts her paddle. "One silver ten. Clients like to feel we know what we are doing when the door opens."
The orc scratches his jaw, then grins. "One silver twenty. My mate claims he can read by that thing. He cannot read. He will be happy anyway."
"Two silver," says the troll in the pressed vest, as if ordering tea again. He does not blink. He just watches the room, eyes pressing against the other gazes.
Colin lets his gaze pass across faces. Students glued to the edges of their seats, Bramble leaning forward with open approval, the tea seller tasting something good she cannot name. Tamsin slides a chair straight with the side of her boot and opens the window a finger to cool the heat of attention.
"Two silver ten," the clerk says, not to lose face in front of the idea of a front desk that glows.
"Two silver twenty," the orc, encouraged by his mates' laughter.
"Two silver forty," the troll, and the number settles in the room like a stone in a riverbed.
Colin keeps his tone careful and plain, so the price becomes real. "Two silver forty copper. Going."
Tap. First beat.
"Going."
Tap. Second beat. The hum slides down a step. Lyria's hand rests flat beside the number, steady as a plumb line.
"Oi," the miner calls, not unkind. "If it goes dim later, do not blame the mine."
"If it goes dim later," Colin says, "blame afternoon. You can always buy another afternoon."
The laugh is warm and brief, and then it is gone as everyone unanimously shouts.
"Gone!"
"Sold." Third tap. A clean cheer lifts and settles. Lyria's pen moves like water. Tamsin sets the stone down for the troll with care that says she respects anything that can catch light and keep it. The troll inclines his head. The clerk writes the price in her notebook and underlines it twice. Somewhere near the bar, a man thinks about the last time he felt this kind of together.
"Stretch your shoulders," Colin says. "Find out the name of the person beside you. Tell them they have excellent judgment."
"Your neighbour has excellent hair," someone says behind Bramble.
"Thank you," Bramble replies at once. His retainers both say of course in chorus, then glare at each other for the crime of harmony.
Colin turns the board for the next lot. He lifts his hand for the opening patter and lets a grin start.
"Okay! Lot 4—"
Bootsteps, tidy and sure, knock the door to the side, bringing in a gust of unwelcomed air.
The man in grey treads forward, chest held high and halts at the rope with a folded writ and the face of a person who believes paper can stop weather.
"By authority," he says, loud enough to skate across tabletops. "This auction is suspended."
Half the room's laughter and happiness dies in their throats. Chairs scrape. Paddles hang in mid-air like birds deciding whether to land. The elf folds his arms to prove culture is wasted on some people. A barfly mutters a word that rhymes with duck. The troll frowns in a way that makes a fence think about moving.
Tamsin is already between the man and the tables, shoulders square, eyes steady. She does not lift the ladle. She does not need to. "You are blocking the view," she says.
Lyria lays one palm on the ledger like a hand on a warm animal. "Please speak clearly," she tells the man in grey, as if he has trouble with both clarity and manners.
Bramble rises half an inch and sits again. Not his kind of story. Not yet. He thinks to himself, should he come up? Should he say something? But a finger taps his shoulder. His retainer points at Colin, and Bramble smiles, twirling his moustache in his hand.
Colin holds Gavel mid-air. He looks at the crowd, not at the paper. The room holds its breath as if a curtain is about to lift. He smiles the way a host smiles when the trick is only beginning.