The auction continued, item after item was brought forward, displayed, and sold to the highest bidder. A collection of silver goblets from Zerekania. A tapestry depicting the fall of the Aen Seidhe, its colors still vibrant despite the centuries.
Then came the swords.
The auctioneer held up a long blade, its steel gleaming under the candlelight. "A witcher's silver sword," he announced. "Forged in Mahakam by a master swordsmith, according to the seller, a rare piece, gentlemen. Perfect for.."
"Trash," Lambert muttered, his voice barely audible.
Sebastian studied the blade from across the room. His witcher eyes picked out the flaws immediately, the uneven edge, the poor balance, the telltale ripples in the metal that spoke of rushed forging.
"Complete trash," Sebastian agreed quietly. "So much for a master swordsmith... Still, where did they even get their hands on a thing like that? Not everyone works with silver, and clearly this one is trash at it."
"Clearly made by someone who'd heard about silver swords but never actually seen one." Lambert said.
The bidding began, enthusiastic and uninformed, the sword sold for twelve hundred crowns to a portly merchant who held it up with the pride of a man who had no idea what he had just bought.
Lambert shook his head. "That's going to shatter the first time he hits something harder than a pillow."
Sebastian's lips twitched. "Not our problem."
The next item was a necklace, a delicate chain of gold, set with a single sapphire the size of a thumbnail. The auctioneer held it up, letting it catch the light.
"This necklace," he announced, "is said to have belonged to a Koviri princess, if the provenance is to be believed. A piece of history, ladies and gentlemen. Bidding starts at seven hundred crowns."
Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "Do you think it's authentic?"
Lambert shrugged. "Probably not. But does it matter? Look at them."
He gestured with his chin toward the assembled crowd. The nobles and crime bosses were already bidding, their voices rising with enthusiasm, their eyes gleaming with the hunger for something rare and valuable.
"They don't care if it's real," Lambert said. "They care that someone told them it's real." He paused. "That's how this world works, Seb. A crime boss says something is authentic, and suddenly it is, Logic itself bends to the will of those with power."
Sebastian watched the bidding climb. Eight hundred. A thousand, twelve hundred.
The necklace sold for fifteen hundred crowns to a woman in a gown of crimson velvet, who placed it around her neck with a satisfied grin on her face.
Sebastian said nothing, he filed the observation away.
Then came the paintings, they were brought forward one by one landscapes, portraits, scenes of battle and myth. Each one was displayed with the same ceremony, the same carefully constructed reverence, and each one was met with enthusiastic bidding.
But the final painting the one that Velm had been sent to sell, was different.
It was large, perhaps four feet by three, and it depicted a scene that Sebastian did not recognize: a forest of silver trees beneath a sky of stars that were not the stars of the Northern Kingdoms. There was a figure in the foreground, small and distant, its face obscured by shadow. The colors were strange, almost luminescent, as if the painting itself was lit from within.
The auctioneer's voice rose with excitement. "A masterpiece of unknown origin," he announced. "Elven, according to the experts, a scene from another world, perhaps, or from a time so distant that history has forgotten it, bidding starts at two thousand crowns."
Whoreson, who had positioned himself near the front of the room, raised his hand.
"Two thousand five hundred." he called.
Another bidder a thin man in a dark cloak, raised his hand. "Three thousand."
"Three thousand five hundred," Whoreson said, his voice calm.
"Four thousand." the thin man countered.
"Four thousand five hundred."
"Five thousand."
The bidding climbed, back and forth, each increment larger than the last. Whoreson's expression remained serene, his voice never rising above a conversational tone. The thin man, by contrast, was beginning to show signs of strain. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His voice cracked.
"Seven thousand," the thin man said, his voice almost a plea.
Whoreson smiled. "Eight thousand."
The thin man hesitated, his eyes darted around the room, searching for support that was not there. Then he shook his head and lowered his hand.
The auctioneer's voice was triumphant. "Eight thousand once, Eight thousand twice, sold to Master Alonso Wiley!"
The crowd applauded.
Lambert leaned toward Sebastian, his voice barely a whisper. "He only paid about three thousand for the whole lot, including the ones no one else bid on. Now he'll resell that painting for more than ten thousand. Probably to a collector in Tretogor, or maybe the king himself... all of this was just an act by the two of them."
Sebastian nodded slowly. "Yep, I'm aware, I guess now it's time for..."
He stopped as soon as something had caught his eyes.
The auctioneer's assistants were bringing out the next item, a small object, placed on a velvet cushion with the same reverence as the paintings. It was a mask, wrought of what appeared to be some sort of metal, its surface covered in faint, almost imperceptible runes that seemed to shift and move as the light played across them.
The auctioneer held it up.
"This item," he announced, "is of unknown origin, it was found in the belongings of a dead Koviri mage, who apparently kept it hidden in a chest that required three separate keys to open. We don't know how it works, we don't know what it does and we didn't have time to find out, but a mage we consulted guaranteed that this item is exceptional."
Sebastian's medallion trembled against his chest, the runes on the mask were ancient, older than the Northern Kingdoms, or any other human kingdom.
"Exceptional," the auctioneer repeated. "Bidding starts at two thousand crowns."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, then laughter.
"It's an ugly mask," someone called. "I wouldn't pay twenty crowns for that, let alone two thousand."
"Runes? Probably just scratches," another voice added.
"Who would even buy that? Some old mage's junk, probably wore it to hide his ugly mug."
The auctioneer's expression faltered for just a moment, he had expected more interest. But the crowd had moved on, their attention already drifting toward the next item.
Sebastian's eyes were fixed on the mask, his heart was beating faster than it should have been.
Lambert noticed. "Seb?"
Sebastian leaned toward him, his voice barely a whisper.
"I'm getting that mask," Sebastian said.
Lambert's brow furrowed. "Why?"
Sebastian's face had transformed, the exhaustion, the wariness, the annoyance, all of it was gone, replaced by excitement and wonder.
"Take a good look Lambert, at what the runes are saying.." Sebastian said, his voice trembling with suppressed energy, "Time is a river to men. Space is a wall to all. To the Elder Blood, they are neither."
Lambert's eyes widened. "Ciri."
Sebastian nodded. "Exactly, she might be able to do something with it, I need to take this to Yennefer first, or we could just meet in Kaer Morhen in the winter and find out what it does together."
Lambert raised both hands in defeat. "Alright..."
Sebastian turned to face the dais, and he raised his hand.
"Two thousand five hundred," Sebastian called.
The auctioneer's face lit up with relief. "Two thousand five hundred! Do we have any other bidders?"
For a moment, there was silence.
Then another hand rose, a man in the corner, his face obscured by shadow.
"Three thousand," the man called.
Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "Three thousand five hundred."
"Four thousand."
The bidding continued, climbing higher and higher. Sebastian's jaw tightened, the man in the corner was not hesitating, not showing any sign of strain, he was bidding with no intention of losing.
"Are you kidding me?!" Sebastian muttered. "No one was interested in it until I bid..."
Lambert leaned close. "Maybe you should give up on it, the price isn't worth it."
Sebastian opened his mouth to argue.
"Eight thousand."
The voice was calm and utterly confident, it came from behind them.
Sebastian and Lambert turned.
Dijkstra stood a few feet away, his cane resting lightly on the floor, his expression one of amusement. He was looking at the mask with the same detached interest he might have shown a mildly unusual piece of pottery.
The man in the corner, seeing that Sigi Reuven had entered the bidding, lowered his hand. He did not even attempt to compete.
Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "Of course..."
The auctioneer's voice rang out. "Eight thousand once! Eight thousand twice! Sold to Sigi Reuven!"
Dijkstra smiled. He walked toward the witchers, his cane tapping against the floor.
"Hello there, Sebastian," Dijkstra said. "Lambert." He inclined his head. "Seeing how fiercely you wanted the mask, I thought I might acquire it for you. Consider it a favor."
Sebastian stared at him. "You really just did this so I would owe you one? I was fine bidding on my own."
Dijkstra's smile did not waver. "Come on now, no offense, but that's a lot of contracts and hunting drowners in the sewers for one rusty-looking mask. All I know is that it's elven and that's about it. Not particularly useful, but since you wanted it, I assume it still has some magical properties or whatever. Either way, it doesn't concern me." He extended his hand for handshake. "You can have it."
Sebastian did not take his hand immediately. He studied Dijkstra's face, searching for the angle, the scheme, the hidden cost.
"Alright," Sebastian said slowly. "What do you want in return?"
Dijkstra's smile widened. "Like I said. A favor, one we will discuss in my office in the bathhouse."
Sebastian was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head.
"Don't give me that look, Seb," Dijkstra said, his tone almost paternal. "Trust me, it will be worth your time. You are friends of Geralt, I wouldn't dare to give you an impossible task. This is something only a witcher can do."
Sebastian's expression did not change. "It is precisely that we are friends of Geralt that I don't trust you. Last I heard, he didn't exactly mention you in a good tone."
Dijkstra's smile faltered, just a fraction, just enough to show that the comment had landed.
"True," Dijkstra admitted. "We are not on good terms at all, but it's not as if we would try to kill each other the moment I see him." He paused. "Well. He might try, but I'd prefer to avoid that."
Sebastian stared at him for a long moment. "Fine," Sebastian finally said. "I'll meet you at the bathhouse, after we're done here."
Dijkstra's smile returned. "Excellent, I look forward to it."
He turned and walked away, his cane tapping against the marble floor.
Lambert watched him go, then he turned to Sebastian.
"You just made a deal with a spymaster," Lambert said. "An unspecified deal, a favor, I hope you know what you are doing here Seb." He shook his head. "Because that's not smart."
"I know," Sebastian said. "But I feel like I needed this Mask."
Lambert stared at him and sighed. then, despite everything, he laughed.
"Come on," Lambert said. "Let's finish this, I still need my money, so let's have a small chat with Velm before he disappears."
Sebastian tucked the mask carefully. He looked toward the dais, where the auctioneer was already presenting the next item.
"Right," Sebastian said. "Let's get this over with, because I still need to find Dandelion."
/-\
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