I agree with Simeon—but whose behaviour is it? That of a man who cannot bring himself to value a Draconean’s work, but wants to make certain everyone knows that work is his? I could see Gleinleigh doing that if he believed the translation would be terrible . . . but if he thinks we’re going to be met with ridicule when we publish, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. I am proud of what we’ve done, and although our fellow scholars will quibble with it (because scholars live to quibble), neither of us will be embarrassed to show our face in public afterward.
But that was only the start of my day, and by far the better part of it.
Simeon and I kept talking, until I noticed that if we didn’t leave soon, we were going to be late for the auction. So I ran downstairs to hail a cab while Simeon locked up his office, and even with that, we arrived at Emmerson’s with only a few minutes to spare.
The auction house was very full, which Simeon didn’t find at all surprising. “Normally a sale like this one would not be very significant,” he said, “as there are no artifacts of major importance or beauty in the catalogue. But with the congress coming up . . .”
I’ve heard that phrase a hundred times since arriving in Falchester. (Which is an achievement, given how few people I’ve spoken to outside my own family.) But it’s only to be expected, when even rural gentry like Lady Plimmer are taking pains to educate themselves on the subject; here in Falchester, of course it’s the main topic of conversation. And Draconean motifs are all the rage once more in decoration, so naturally everyone is stampeding to buy anything they can, and the wealthier ones want the genuine artifact.
Simeon went into the hall ahead of me to find seats while I registered us both and collected our bidding paddles. And then, just before I could go in, I heard an all-too-familiar voice say, “Hello again, Audrey.”
He was lounging against one of the columns with his hands in his pockets. Lying in wait for me? I can’t be sure. But there are times when I regret not being raised by an old-fashioned family—somebody like Lady Plimmer—because I don’t have the knack for being properly frosty. I did my best, though. I drew myself up very straight and said, “You have lost the right to be so familiar with me, sir.”
“Miss Camherst, then.” Damn him for sounding amused. Mornett pushed off from the column and sauntered toward me, hands still in his pockets, which for some reason felt even more invasive than if he had taken them out. “Here for something in particular? I had a look at the lots earlier, and can think of one that might catch your eye. You never know what treasures are waiting to be found.”
I wish it were practical to haul around a gramophone recording device, so I could play back statements like that and pick over them for clues. But so much of it is in the body language as well, the posture and the cast of the eyes: was he deliberately hinting at something? It would be just like him to play with me in such a fashion.
Whether he was or not, I was too flustered to respond well. If I’d had any sense I would have anticipated that Aaron Mornett might be there and prepared something cutting to say, but instead all I said was, “The auction will begin any moment now. I’m going inside.”
“The interesting things are all later in the catalogue,” he said indifferently, but bowed me toward the door. I walked as fast as I could to get there ahead of him, so that he would not have a chance to hold it for me. He caught its edge before I could let it swing shut in his face, though, and followed me in.
At least the chairs Simeon had found were nearly at the back of the hall. Mornett passed me as I sat down, with one last insinuating smile, and took an empty chair about three rows farther up, which meant I would not have to endure the whole auction knowing he was staring at the back of my head. But then I nearly swallowed my tongue when I realized the woman holding that chair empty for him was Mrs. Kefford!
He’s worked with her for some time now, of course. Who else could someone like her get to translate her acquisitions? But on the heels of everything else, it felt like Mornett was waving a red flag in front of me, flaunting . . . I don’t even know what, because I don’t know what they’re doing. I’m only sure there must be something.
I tried to put it out of my mind for the time being. Simeon had seen Mornett; he whispered to me, “Are you all right?” and I assured him I was. I don’t think he believed me, but the middle of the auction house was hardly the place to have that conversation, so we had to hush and attend to the sales.
Not that I was really attending. Instead I paged through Simeon’s copy of the catalogue, wondering what Mornett might have been hinting at. One of the inscribed pieces? They really weren’t very interesting; the only possibility was the basalt fragment, but stele usually just have royal declarations or boasts about how so-and-so won a great victory in battle. What reason could I have to be interested in that?
With no clues forthcoming from the catalogue, I resolved to watch him instead. His hair is still as casual as ever, brushed into place but no more than that, and every so often he turned to murmur something to Mrs. Kefford, or she to him. I tried valiantly to read their lips, but without much luck, until Simeon nudged me and pointed out that I was very obviously staring. Then I tried to stop, but without much luck at that, either. (I hope he could feel me glaring holes in the back of his head. Mornett, I mean, not Simeon.)
And then a large cylinder seal carved from hematite came up for bid, and Mornett raised his paddle.
I immediately looked to the catalogue, because I hadn’t really listened when the auctioneer described that lot. It was number 70, and described only as depicting “four Draconean figures in supplication to a god, extraordinarily well-carved.”
Four! Of course my thoughts immediately went to our four siblings, Samšin, Nahri, Imalkit, and Ektabr. The fifth—well, any time an ancient artifact depicts some impressive and unidentifiable figure we tend to label it a god, just as we call artifacts “ritual” when we have no real idea what they were used for. But with the journey to the underworld and back so fresh in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder: did it depict the Crown of the Abyss? Or perhaps the Light of the World, except that is probably what all those sunbursts and winged sun discs depict, so that was less likely.
All of these thoughts went through my head in the time it took for someone to outbid Mornett, and him to raise his bid in reply.
I sat for a few moments, thinking. Then I drew a deep breath and raised my own paddle.
“I have seven hundred from the lady in the back, do I have seven twenty-five, thank you sir, do I have seven fifty . . .”
This was not the first time I have bid in an auction, but I have never felt so tense. There were about six of us bidding, I think, but Mornett was the only one I really paid attention to. He bid steadily, not seeming to hesitate, but not showing too much eagerness, either. I raised my paddle like an automaton, scarcely listening to the numbers. Living at Stokesley, I’ve had hardly anything to spend money on, and whatever else I might say about him, Gleinleigh is paying me well.
Soon it was only three: myself, Mornett, and a gentleman on the right-hand side of the hall, whom I couldn’t see clearly. The price, I realized with a shock, had climbed above thirteen hundred. Not absurd for a cylinder seal, not if it was a particularly fine piece of work, but a good deal more than I should be spending.
And then Aaron Mornett turned in his seat, flicked his fingers from his brow in a mocking salute—and stopped bidding.
The other man didn’t. I faltered for a moment, then lifted my paddle. What should I do? I had entered this particular auction because Mornett wanted the seal—the only thing he had shown any evidence of wanting so far—and what he had said out in the hall hinted there was a reason. Only, how could he know anything about what I had read in the epic? Did Gleinleigh show him the tablets—not that night, because I would have seen them, but on some other occasion? He could not possibly have read them any more easily than Kudshayn and I have, but he is (damn him) an excellent philologist . . . or was he doing
this simply to run me out of money so I would not be able to bid against him when he went after his real target, one of the remaining lots in the auction?
My mind was caught in a sickening spiral. I could not think clearly. I knew I should stop bidding; Simeon hissed in my ear, “Audrey, for God’s sake, what are you doing?” Mornett leaned over to Mrs. Kefford and whispered in her ear, looking concerned. And then the auctioneer said, “I have eighteen hundred and twenty-five guineas from the lady in the back. Do I hear eighteen hundred and fifty?”
An electrical jolt ran over my skin. Eighteen hundred and twenty-five guineas. I could not cover that, not by myself; I would have to ask Papa to help me. And he would want to know how I wound up paying nearly two thousand guineas for a cylinder seal, and I would have no good answer for him.
“Going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going twice.”
Mornett raised his paddle and called out, “Two thousand.”
Murmurs sprang up all over the hall. A stupid impulse almost made me outbid him, but I clenched both hands around my paddle and kept it in my lap.
“I have two thousand,” the auctioneer said, looking from me to the other bidder. Mornett’s jump had discouraged him; no paddle came up in reply, and a moment later, the seal was Mornett’s.
I sat, shaking and sick, while the auction house’s assistants cleared away the seal and brought out a clay sun disc. That was disposed of in quick order, going for the pittance of two hundred guineas, and then I could not take it any longer. Not caring if Mornett noticed, not caring if anyone else chose to whisper, I got up and left the hall.
Diary, I should have gone home. Simeon could take a streetcar back to the Tomphries just as well without me as with. But I stayed out there, breathing the cooler air, until I heard the hall door open and shut behind me and knew without looking that I’d missed my chance to escape.
“Well,” Mornett drawled. “That got unexpectedly exciting.”
“As you intended it to, I’m sure,” I snapped.
He ignored my accusation. “That was rather more than you could cover, I think. Bit rich for my blood, too, if I’m being honest—”
“When are you ever?”
In the momentary silence, I resisted the urge to turn around and look at him. I did not want to see his face. Eventually he said, “I’ll have you know, I had to borrow from Mrs. Kefford to make that bid. For your sake: I didn’t want you to get into trouble.”
That finally made me turn. He was looking disarmingly open and friendly—but I know all too well how easily he can don such an expression. I said scathingly, “Yes, I’m sure that was all for my sake, and not your own ego and greed. I don’t know what game you’re playing, Mr. Mornett, but I have the edges of it now, and I will find my way to the center. And when I do, you will regret ever speaking to me at the Colloquium.”
I do not need some photograph to record his reaction for me, the better to later examine it. It is seared well enough into my memory. He stiffened, mock warmth giving way to sudden chill, and he did not say anything else as I left the auction house.
The only problem is, my declaration was at least half bravado. That he is playing a game, I am absolutely convinced: him, Mrs. Kefford, and Lord Gleinleigh. I think they’re up to something, and it must involve the tablets.
But what do I do now? These bits and pieces I have: are they edges or sections from the middle? It’s like having fragments of an incomplete clay tablet and no way to tell how they should be placed relative to one another. And one fragment I might have had—the cylinder seal—has now been snatched from my fingers. I should have outbid him, and damn the cost.
But no. I flinched, and now I will never
I refuse to admit defeat this easily.
What would Grandmama do?
Not give up, that’s for sure. And not let anything get in her way. Grandmama did not get to where she is, being one of the most famous and respected women in the world, by accepting that anything could stop her. She told the obstacles she was stronger than they were, and then she proved it.
So. If Aaron Mornett wanted that cylinder seal so badly . . .
Then I need to take a look at it.
ARREST #: 09KZ421
Date/Time: 20/06/5662 @ 0220
Officer: Constable Samson Torrell
DEFENDANT
Camherst, Audrey Isabella Mahira Adiaratou
#3 Clarton Square
Falchester, NOC 681
Date of birth: 17/10/5639
Place of birth: Vidwatha
Sex: Female
Age: 23
Height: 167 cm.
Weight: 65 kg.
Body: Slender
Hair: Dark brown, curly
Eyes: Dark brown
Complexion: Medium brown
Appearance
Clothing: Loose trousers and blouse of a dark colour, ankle boots, kerchief over hair
Glasses worn: no
Identifying marks: scar between thumb and first finger of left hand Family/Employment information
Father: Jacob Camherst
Marital status: single
Occupation: Philologist
OFFENSE
Location type: Hotel
Selwright Hotel
#31 Michaeling Street
Falchester NEE 154
Charge: breaking and entering, trespass to land
FALCHESTER POLICE DEPARTMENT
OFFICER’S NARRATIVE REPORT
Reference: #402957
Officer: Samson Torrell
At 2330 hrs on 19065662 I was sent to the Selwright Hotel following a phone report from the manager Mr. Peter Grance of a disturbance in the room of a guest on the third floor. When I arrived I was met by Mr. Grance, who conducted me to his office, where they were holding the alleged defendant and the alleged victim. The defendant was identified to me as Miss Audrey Camherst, and the victim as Mr. Aaron Mornett.
Mr. Mornett stated that he had returned to his hotel room following a late dinner and evening drinking at his club, Vine’s, to find Miss Camherst in the room. She had in her hand an artifact (a “cylinder seal”) he had purchased earlier that day at an auction of antiquities. He asked her how she had gotten in, to which she gave no satisfactory answer; Mr. Mornett said that she instead threw the artifact at him and demanded to know “why it mattered.” I asked him whether the item had been damaged and he said no, that he had caught it before it could strike the wall. He went on to state that the two of them became engaged in an argument loud enough that it drew the attention of hotel staff, and that upon being asked by the manager, he said that Miss Camherst had broken into his room to steal something that belonged to him. After this the manager called the police station and escorted Miss Camherst down to his office, accompanied by Mr. Mornett.
Following this statement, I informed Miss Camherst of her right to remain silent and then questioned her. She admitted that she had entered Mr. Mornett’s room unlawfully for the purpose of looking at the artifact, which she had failed to win during the auction earlier that day. I asked her how she entered the room, and she said that the sailors on her father’s ship had taught her “many interesting skills,” by which she appeared to mean the art of lock-picking. She insisted she had no intent of stealing the artifact, only of studying the figures carved into it. At this point Mr. Mornett interrupted to say that he regretted accusing Miss Camherst of theft, claiming that he had spoken in the heat of the moment. Miss Camherst said angrily that she “would not steal that thing for all the jade in Yelang,” adding that it was “quite worthless.” She then accused Mr. Mornett of luring her to his hotel room by buying the item, but when I attempted to question her further on this point, she became very silent and behaved in an embarrassed manner.
The artifact in question is a cylindrical piece of stone about three centimeters in length, metallic grey in colour (Mr. Mornett identified it as hematite), with a hole drilled through it and several figures carved into its surface. One corner is chipped, bu
t Mr. Mornett stated that damage was present when he bought the artifact at Emmerson’s Auction House earlier that day.
Mr. Mornett declined to press charges against Miss Camherst for her alleged intent to steal or damage his property. Mr. Grance pressed charges for unlawful entry to a guest room. Mr. Mornett attempted to persuade him not to do so, but failed. I placed handcuffs on Miss Camherst and transported her to the Bench Street station by foot. She made no attempt to resist. She was kept in lock-up until her father, The Hon. Jacob Camherst, arrived around 0330, stating that he had received an “anonymous tip” that his daughter was at the station. Miss Camherst was then released without bail, with orders to present herself to police the following day.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
20 Messis
At least this time I don’t have a broken nose.
No, instead I have public humiliation, which is so much better. I imagine it’s all over the papers by now—I haven’t dared to look—they always love it so much when a relative of somebody famous gets into trouble, and Grandmama is certainly famous, especially with her memoirs having been published recently. Even if Mornett keeps his mouth shut, which I doubt, all the rags scour the police charge sheets for juicy tidbits.
I wouldn’t even care, I swear I wouldn’t, if it weren’t for Lotte. And of course that was the first thing Papa said to me once the door closed safely behind us. “What do you think people will say?” he demanded. “I know you don’t give a tarred rope end for marriage and never have, and I support you in that. But Lotte does, and I support her in that, too—and now everyone will be talking about her sister, who broke into a man’s hotel room in the middle of the night.”
I can bear almost anything except Papa being angry at me. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” I said, but words can’t make up for this botch, and we both know it.
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