The chalk line stays. The room remembers how to be a room.
Colin rolls his shoulders once, lets the smile belong to him again, and turns the board.
"Lot four," he says. "Copper rings. Decorative, mildly jealous, proven to make fingers look like they belong to better stories."
At the ledger, Lyria squares the next column and steadies the quill so numbers do not smear. Each finished slip she ties with the same knot; regularity does what guards cannot. Along the bar, Tamsin nudges a shutter a thumb until a gentle bar of light finds the rings and makes them wink like promises.
"Ten copper," a student blurts, as if bravery has just tapped him on the spine.
"Fifteen," the tea seller says, already planning which tray will glitter.
"Twenty," the seamstress adds, weighing thread and shine in one glance.
"Twenty to the craft that knows how to finish a sleeve," Colin says. "Odds for the brave. Twenty seven to make the future interesting."
"Twenty seven," the student says, because his mate is watching.
A clerk raises a careful hand. "Thirty."
"Going," Colin calls. Lyria lets the quill knock once on the ledger and the tankards hush like they have been taught.
"Going." The second knock lands and the room settles into the rhythm.
"Gone." The third tap takes the pressure off shoulders.
Lyria writes neat as a vow and knots the slip with string. The air feels bigger. Colin turns the board as if revealing a joke he saved for later and lays the next lot on the table.
"Lot five. Historic boots."
Noise lowers by choice. The boots sit honest, leather scuffed into a small map of decisions. The boy hovers to one side, trying to look taller by remembering to breathe from the ribs.
Colin's voice softens, not sad, only careful. "Three winters of road. Two seasons of rain. They walked someone home and decided to retire. Seller says they stink. History often does."
A small laugh lands kind and leaves again.
"Ten copper," someone tries, testing courage.
"Twenty," says the cobbler, already seeing them cleaned and framed.
"Twenty eight," a miner offers, because sore feet remember.
"Thirty six," a woman near the bar adds, a collector of stories she can point at.
"Thirty eight," from a man who likes bargains more than faces.
A soft chorus rolls the benches, not loud, just certain. "Be kind."
"Forty," someone bumps, and the room smiles at itself.
Specks in the late light sharpen along the cracked leather for Colin, one heartbeat only, as if the day wants the number to land clean. He lets the boots take the light before he answers. "Prices talk. Fifty says you fix what tried. It says stop in, we know how to help."
"Fifty," the cobbler says, simple as a nod.
A big orc with gentle hands raises his paddle. "Sixty. For the story."
The boy's fingers tighten then loosen on the edge of the table.
"Seventy," the cobbler replies, smiling at the orc like a person who enjoys a fair match. After a beat he lifts again. "Seventy five."
"Going," Colin says. First tap.
"Going." Second tap. Lyria's palm rests on the ledger edge, steady as a plumb line.
"Gone." Third tap.
The cobbler grins. The boy lets out a laugh he did not mean to show. At the counter, a lemonade appears under Tamsin's hand and the boy drinks it like a secret. Lyria counts his share with tidy fingers and tucks the coins into his palm so they cannot escape. The orc claps the cobbler on the shoulder in a way that will turn into a discount later and both of them know it.
Pike writes in his notebook, jaw set to stern while his pen behaves. He adds, almost against his will, audience engagement reduces dispute risk, underlines it, and looks annoyed at himself for agreeing with a room. Maris watches the ledger rather than the lemonade and notes something precise. The chalk line keeps being a fact.
"Lot six," Colin says, brisk without being rude. "Cracked goblet. Display only. Not for drink. Perfect for judging others." Laughter lifts, runs the tables, and tidies itself. A short climb, a tidy price, three taps, done.
A rumble from the back table threatens to turn into chatter. Tamsin clicks a key ring once; the back tables remember how to listen.
He turns the board.
"Lot seven."
Milo is already a metre closer than good sense allows, hair shocked at the sky, hands hovering over the bottle as if unsure whether to bless it or apologise. The bottle sits centre, glass thick, contents glistening with faint, stubborn intent. Tamsin slides the lantern along its rail a finger's worth and the glass wakes in the light. Faces lean despite themselves.
Milo cannot help himself. "Right. Yes. Picture me, first floor, left corridor because right smelt like lizards and lizards mean paperwork, and there is this heap of bones that is fine at first and then one is not a bone, it is an artist, and the artist is a slug, and I think, that is culture, that is commentary, that is everything I have ever wanted if what I want is to own a mistake that stares at me."
He beams. The first laugh arrives on time. Then a voice calls, "Price," another calls, "Will it eat fingers," and a third tries a boo because booing is a hobby that travels in packs.
Milo colours to the ears and clutches the bottle like a child hides a drawing. For a blink he looks small.
Colin steps to his shoulder and leaves him dignity. "Thank you, Milo," he says, warm as a mug. "Translation to human. Untitled with Ego. Medium, found ambition. Provenance, the corridor that smelt like paperwork."
The laughter is proper now. Milo snorts and tries to pretend he did not.
"As to diet," Colin says to the heckler, "it only eats insecure fingers. You are safe if you like yourself."
"Ten copper," offers a table that collects poor decisions on purpose.
"Fifteen," says a woman who wants a story that begins with her name.
"Twenty," the orc calls, because someone should bring it to parties.
"Thirty," a clerk suggests, seeing a future where the office needs a warning.
"Thirty five," a student manages, courage shoved up his throat by a friend's elbow.
"Forty," Sir Bramble intones, paddle lifted just high enough to be admired. "As an icebreaker. It shall avoid the soup course."
"A cultured choice," Colin says. "Do I hear forty five from a mantel with a sense of humour."
"Fifty," the seamstress says, planning a window where customers pretend not to look.
"Fifty five," the clerk replies. The office needs a joke and he wants to be the one who buys it.
Bramble's moustache prepares to be famous. "Sixty," he says, firm.
"Going." Tap.
"Going." Tap. The bottle does not twitch. The crowd holds the breath politely, like a dog learning a new trick.
"Gone." Tap.
Applause rolls and sticks to Milo as it passes. "You did good," someone shouts, and it spreads into a brief chant before dissolving into cheers and tankards. Tamsin taps the bar twice; the room swaps the last ragged boo for "Milo, Milo," three beats long, then laughs at itself. Milo mouths thank you at the rafters. He attempts a bow and nearly drops the bottle, then does not. Progress.
Colin does not turn to Maris. He speaks as if she is listening anyway. "Registrar, please note, we also sell modern art."
"Then disclose the maintenance schedule," Maris says, pen hovering. The corner of her mouth considers treason, then writes instead.
Pike coughs a rule into order and the almost becomes professional again.
"Lot eight," Colin says, and a basket finds a crate with the inevitability of weather. "Margaret. Proven critic. Pecked two posters and a poet."
"Best chicken," Edwin says, proud as if he forged her from iron.
"Best chicken," the nearby tables answer, because the room has chosen to be this sort of place.
An orc squints. "Domesticated or opinionated."
"Yes," Colin replies.
"Is she house trained," asks a voice that enjoys being ignored.
"Only by houses with character," says Colin.
"Ten copper," the tea seller calls. "Window mascot. People will stay to argue with her."
"Twelve," a student adds, wanting to feel like a person who can feed something.
"Eighteen," a fisherman says, thinking she will remind him to go home.
"Twenty two," the seamstress says, imagining a bell on her door and a beak that judges every hem.
"Thirty," the troll in a pressed vest offers, gentle as always. "Courtyard companion."
"Thirty six," the seamstress answers, firmer now. A shop needs a guardian spirit that scowls.
Edwin breathes too fast; Tamsin slides him a small square of bread he did not order and his lungs remember how.
Colin steers without declaring it. "Margaret prefers a post with decent light and new fabrics to inspect. She will not work in shadows."
"Forty two," the seamstress says, already picturing the counter.
"Forty eight," she finishes, and the number sits right in the room.
"Going." Tap.
"Going." Tap.
"Gone." Tap.
The seamstress beams. Margaret pecks the slip. She eyes the chalk like a boundary she respects on principle, then pecks exactly beside it. The room cheers a citizen who knows her laws.
"Endorsement received," Colin says. "Refund policy. All complaints to Margaret between dawn and her second breakfast."
The seamstress salutes the chicken solemnly and the room cackles.
Colin turns the board.
"Lot nine," he says, brisk again. "Bent knife. Slices fruit. Slices pride gently." Quick bids in polite steps, a tidy finish, three taps, done.
"Lot ten. Decorative chain." A short climb. A clean close. Lyria's handwriting stays even. The House of Honest Noise lives up to its name.
Colin rests Gavel, draws a long breath of a crowd that has decided to be happy together, and bows toward the ledger. "You have bought three things today," he says. "Goods, stories, and each other. The first two fit in your hands. The third fits when we make room."
He taps once more, not a sale, just thanks. The answer is the kind of clapping that gets into your ribs. A tankard starts a cheeky clatter and dies on the second beat, tidy as a promise.
The auction closes without fuss. The work begins.
The room thins to a buzz. The chalk line remains bright. Buyers arrive with slips. Tamsin runs the counter like a station master, items laid in neat lanes, hands kept behind the line with a nod rather than a shout. Pike lingers at the rope, aligning his clipboard corners until the air obeys. Maris opens her case and sets out pens the way a surgeon sets tools.
Lyria and Maris take a single key together. Lyria calls, Maris answers, totals meeting in the middle like a bar of music. Pike tries a subclause. Tamsin clears her throat once and touches the chalk with the back of her hand. The line does the talking.
Then the snag.
"Decorative chain," Lyria says, narrowing her eyes a shade. "House side shows two copper short." She turns a page. "And paddle seventeen appears on two slips."
Stakes arrive on soft feet. The chain's seller hovers at the edge, thumb ink-stained from teaching letters in the mornings. Today's medicine sits on that missing coin.
Colin reconstructs rather than performs. "Seventeen sat third row on the aisle," he says, not guessing. "Hat with a frayed band. He bought the bent knife. He waved with the brim." He lays two slips side by side. For a heartbeat, specks in the ink sharpen for him and then soften. He says nothing about it. "This one," he taps the left slip, "was written before his hat wave. The order of the numbers gives it away."
Milo raises a hand, honest even as it shakes. "I might have… I swapped a paddle to help and then someone spoke to me and I put it back, only not back enough."
"Thank you," Colin says, and leaves the sting out. "We will fix the map, not blame the traveller."
"Seventeen," he calls. The man appears like a rabbit that has been waiting to be named. "Did you purchase the chain."
"No," the man says, relieved to be useful. "Just the knife. Proud of it."
"Witness," Colin says to the student on his left. "He only lifted once."
"Only once," the student says, bright at being part of the machinery.
"Good," Colin says. "The chain goes to the clerk in the second row. She offered twenty five earlier and took it at thirty." The clerk nods, surprised to be remembered.
Colin flips the tip jar, shakes out two stray coppers that wandered in from sentiment, and slides them into House. "Tips are for after we get the maths right." He adds, "House side, two copper belonged to the room and missed the column. My hands, not Lyria's. I was talking too pretty."
Lyria redraws the payout line with both witnesses watching. Maris initials the amendment, small and exact. Pike writes seller made whole in a neat box and looks annoyed that the phrase pleases him. Tamsin slides two copper across the table with one finger like a little boat finding its berth. The seller exhales and becomes a person again.
They work down the page. Slips meet faces. Coin counts true. The room purrs. At the end of the ledger there is nothing left to argue with.
Maris caps her pen. "Exact work," she says. From her it sounds like praise, not diagnosis.
Colin keeps it easy. "Leaf, water, patience," he says. "Tomorrow, if you have a moment."
"Tomorrow," she answers, and lets a small smile exist. "We will see if you can count to three without a crowd."
Pike clears his throat like an apology that got lost. "Registration is due within three days," he says, sharper to compensate. "A site review of the cellar shelves will be conducted."
"Understood," Lyria replies, calm as rain.
Sir Bramble lingers. "You could have waved me through it," he says, words meant for two people.
"You were worth more as witness than wall," Colin answers. "You made the room honest by standing where you stood."
Bramble weighs that, then beams. "A signboard," he says, clapping once. "Take one from my carriage. A proper board for your door. I will draft a letter of backing to the City Porters as well."
As he passes Maris, Bramble murmurs, "Civic theatre." She does not answer, but the pen in her case clicks shut like agreement.
"We will hang the board," Colin says. "Save the letter for registration day. It will look handsomer in daylight."
Tamsin brings the signboard in, a handsome plank with a clean border. She props it to let the varnish set and looks at it the way people look at pets.
"House of Honest Noise," Colin reads. "That will do."
Last chairs stack. Last coin clinks. The chalk line stays on the floor like a rule that is also a joke and a memory. Outside, the Ebon Spire steals the last of the light and promises more floors than sense. Inside, Lyria closes the ledger with a small satisfied breath. Milo practises breathing without dropping anything. Pike finds he has nothing left to align and dislikes the feeling.
Maris pauses at the door. "Do not erase the line," she says.
"Only when you say," Colin replies.
She leaves with that, and the room keeps her smile like a coin it will not spend too fast.