"Suspended," the man in grey says, the word sharp enough to shave.
The room stops like a song cut at the chorus. Paddles hang. A tankard does not finish its small circle on a table. The light looks colder for a heartbeat, as if it is listening too.
Tamsin snaps a bar rag once. The sound is clean and final. She lifts a stick of chalk and draws a thin white line across the floor between the rope and the tables, a boundary with a bartender's confidence. The chalk squeaks on the last curve. A few shoulders flinch, then settle. She nudges a shutter with a thumb, and the lantern's wash cools the platform by a shade. It feels like stage lighting. It feels like the room knows its mark.
Lyria opens the ledger flat. The paper smells faintly of iron gall ink and last winter's smoke. Her quill sits poised, steadying the room more than the rope.
The man in grey advances to the chalk. He is all corners and polish. "Senior Assessor Halvern Pike, Guild of Standard Appraisers," he says, smoothing his lapel as if authority lives there. The writ gleams like a wet fish in his hand. Beside him stands a woman with a small leather case and the city seal pressed into its strap. Her expression is tidy. Her eyes count things. She says nothing.
Sir Bramble comes up half out of his chair like a ship taking wind. "Outrage," he begins. "I will…"
Colin is already there, two fingers light on Bramble's sleeve like a friend catching a sleeve before it catches fire. "Sir Bramble," he says, bright and warm. "Do me a real favour. Stand as patron, not battering ram."
Bramble blinks, then adjusts, then settles with a sense of ceremony. "I stand as patron," he declares, and sits a fraction taller. The mood in his row changes in his direction, not against the rope.
Pike aligns the writ's edge with the grain of the bar. "Pursuant to Chapter Fifteen of the Open Yard Trading Act, subclause eight, paragraph two," he recites, "these consignments are impounded for valuation."
Lyria's quill does not shake. "For the room," she says, tapping the clause with one clean fingernail. "Three Lutes is not a yard."
A rustle runs along the benches, not quite a laugh. Pike colours by a careful degree.
Lyria taps a blank margin line. "Additionally, indoor enforcement requires a city porter countersign here." She looks, not at Pike, but at the woman with the case.
Pike's eyes snag on her columns. "You keep the old guild stroke."
"I keep books that open," Lyria says, and the room smiles with her.
The woman acknowledges the space with a tiny nod. "Not activated indoors," she says. Her voice is practical, the kind that remembers where the door is.
"Registrar Maris Vale," Pike announces, pleased with the title as if it were armour.
Colin bows like a host meeting a favourite critic. "Registrar Vale, welcome. Your case has better posture than most nobles."
The corner of Maris's mouth thinks about it. Pike gives her sleeve the gentlest nudge with his elbow. "Proceed," she says, after clearing her throat.
Tamsin draws a small hatch mark at the end of the line. "Do not cross that," she says, friendly as a door that opens and closes when it should.
Colin does not look at the paper again. He looks at the people who have decided to spend part of their day believing together. The miner by the pillar fingers his lot tag and counts rent in his head by habit. The tea seller glances at the doorway and the slant of the sun. One of the students holds his coins as if they might try to run, and he must keep them brave.
"Registrar," Colin says, all host. "We respect the seal. We respect the crowd's time. Allow us a brief compliance interlude, on your lead, seen by all. Choose three lots at random from unsold storage. Test what you like. We will keep the flow and keep the room safe."
"Random, not yours," Maris says, crisp rather than cruel. "Dice."
"Your room, my rules," she adds.
"A pleasure," Colin says, softer. "I am very good with other people's rules."
A patron produces dice from a pocket like a magician who owes rent and faith. He rolls them on the bar. The bones click, then settle.
"Unsold shelves only," Tamsin says, already halfway to the cellar. "Winners keep what they won."
"Shelf two, place three," Maris reads, pen poised. "Shelf four, place one. Shelf one, place five."
Tamsin disappears through the cellar door like a stagehand and returns with the chosen lots from the list the room already knows: Decorative chain; Bent knife; Cracked goblet. She lays them centre, never crossing the chalk. She slides the shutters a thumb to give the table a bar of honest gold light. Dust rides it like slow rain.
Pike adjusts his clipboard and lifts the chain, speaking as if reading a eulogy for a link. "Alloy content within common trade variance. Wear at the third link from the clasp indicates frequent opening. The clasp spring has stiffness but no cracks. Acceptable."
Colin tilts his head, then translates without a sneer. "Translation to human. It will not betray your collar when you nod like a genius."
A ripple moves around the room that tastes like relief and a small laugh. Maris's pen hesitates a breath before it writes. She notes something exact. Coins click in a nervous pocket, then stop when Lyria scratches a neat tick beside the lot.
Pike sets the chain down and studies the bent knife. He squints at the edge. "Steel of modest quality. Edge rolled rather than chipped. Handle tight. Safe for display or light utility."
Colin considers the knife the way a man considers a past decision. "For the buyer who enjoys admitting a mistake before making a fresh one. Slices fruit. Slices pride gently."
A dwarf off to the side nods in agreement. The room chuckles. Maris's pen pauses again, then writes.
Pike reaches for the cracked goblet, turning it to the light. "Crystal with a tension flaw. Hairline is stable if kept dry. Display only. Not for drink."
Colin nods, approving. "A conversation piece, not a hydration strategy. Place it where it can judge you kindly. Sir Bramble, this one might be for you if no one else fancies a cup of stories."
Laughter arrives and leaves on time. The students grin like they helped. Lyria notes each outcome in the margin with a tiny mark that means passed and witnessed. Bramble looks pleased in a way that does not ask to be thanked.
"For the pour," Maris adds, looking past the table to the clerk who bought the mystery kettle. "From where you are, please."
The clerk, still at her seat, tips a finger of water from her newly bought kettle into a mug. Maris watches the line from the rope, not touching, not crossing. "No dribble," she says.
"A virtue in kettles and policy," Colin answers.
Lyria notes: owner-present visual check.
"And the helm," Pike says, eyeing Sir Bramble with the air of a man hoping for a seizure.
"Owner's choice," Tamsin says, tapping the chalk line.
Bramble stands with theatrical care and holds his goblin helm up from his row like a trophy, staying behind the chalk, sun catching the dents. His companions gaze in awe, showing off its metallic beauty. Dwarves give a small cheer even as their faces try for contempt.
"Honest wear," Maris says after a look. "Impact consistent with narrow passages. No evidence of tool-made distress."
A hunter at the back lifts a finger. "Saw that make in the west tunnel," he offers, full of certainty and stew.
Maris writes, "Honest wear," and initials it. She tests the nib on the margin first, one neat dot, then the letters, small as stitches. She looks up once, not at Colin, but at the crowd that has not tried to turn this into a fight. The miner has stopped counting rent and watches her pen instead. The tea seller is not watching the sun anymore. The student holds his coins like they might stay if asked properly.
Sir Bramble leans toward the rope with purpose and purse. "If it helps," he says, pitched for the nearest tables and not the whole house, "I will escrow the inspection fee. Let it not hold us all at dock."
"The Guild does not accept noble substitution for procedure," Pike says, aligning his clipboard again.
"Nor do we," Colin replies, bright. "Sir Bramble stands as witness, not wallet. Patron of transparency has a handsome ring."
Bramble sits taller, pleased to be called something he would frame if it were a sash. The crowd approves of the shape of that. While Bramble wants to weigh in further, he instead smiles like a piece of jewellery.
Maris closes the leather case a fraction and opens it again, a small private decision. She writes across the margin of the writ, "Held pending close," and places her initials beside it with care. "Proceed under observation," she says. "Records are reviewed at close. Registration is due within three days."
"Noncompliance will trigger immediate seizure of unsold consignments," Pike adds, relieved to have something stern to say.
"Noted," Tamsin says, without moving the ladle.
Colin risks one more line and keeps it gentle. "If our figures please you at close," he says, as if the idea is a leaf he might set on a stream, "I will make tea properly. Leaf, water, patience."
"Patience is rare stock," Maris says. It is not a smile, but it is closer.
"Don't worry, I have a source, and thank you," Colin says, sincere as a clean cup.
Pike steps back behind the chalk with shoes that sound like punctuation marks. Maris stands there one heartbeat longer than duty needs, then joins him.
Tamsin wipes the chalk dust from her fingers and squares the table with a thumb to the left. She slides the shutter back a fraction. The light warms. A latecomer at the door takes one step in and then two, and chooses to stand at the rope rather than try for a chair. Tankards drum two friendly beats and stop on their own, as if they know the second tap is enough.
Milo exhales like a punctured wineskin and then breathes properly. Lyria flips to a fresh column and rests the quill on the edge so it will not stain the next page.
Bramble leans in. "You could have used me to batter this through."
"You were more valuable standing exactly where you were," Colin says, quiet enough to be theirs. "Thank you."
Bramble sits back, satisfied. A newfound respect settles. Hard to find these days.
Colin turns to the crowd as if he can pick up a moment from the floor and set it back on the table unbroken. "You have just witnessed the rarest lot in Grand Exchange," he says, bright again. "A rule that behaved."
He lifts Gavel. "Count it with me. Three beats to remind the room how it works."
"Going," he calls. Lyria taps the ledger once. The sound is clean, small and perfect.
"Going," he says again. Second tap. The murmur sits down inside itself.
He holds the beat where everyone can see it. "Gone." Third tap.
The relief is not loud. It does not need to be. It lands on shoulders and smiles, the way people look at each other, like they are in on it together.
Pike consults his notes at the rope and writes something that will look official in the morning. Maris watches the room for a moment, then closes her case with a click. She does not look at Colin. She does not need to. The room will tell him what she thought later.
"Right then," Colin says, as if the world is ordinary and clever at once. "Lot Four did not come to admire itself." He turns the chalkboard, and the next card faces the crowd. The dust hangs in the light like a curtain about to lift. The city beyond the door remembers to breathe, and the auction remembers to be a show.