There were about twenty of them. None of them were the rare sort: rubies, emeralds, or sapphires. There were some citrines, garnets, some quartz dyed to look like aquamarine and amethyst, and a couple of sunstones. Mags examined each stone carefully with the magnifying lens. All had flaws and inclusions; all had been cut to try to hide the flaws. He sorted them all into the cups at the edge of the tray. Nothing went into the one on the farthest right,which meant “worthless,” but none of them went into any cup higher than “inferior,” and the dyed ones he sorted out onto the counter.
The man was incensed. “What th’ hell, Weasel?” he demanded. It was clear to Mags that he knew what the sorting cups meant. “Them’s good sparklies! An’ what’s he sorted th’ purples an’ blues out fer?”
Mags made meaningless hand motions when Nikolas shook his shoulder, keeping his head ducked down as if he expected a blow.
::He’s trying to pass off dyed quartz as aquamarine and amethyst. All of the stones have been cut to try to hide flaws. Nothing is even up to ‘good’ grade, but the ones in the farthest cup left have flaws that are interesting, at least, and could be recut and polished to take advantage of them,:: he Mindspoke to Nikolas as his fingers flew. ::My sense is that he knew very well these were fakes. They are worth just about as much as cut glass or paste.:: Nikolas nodded, then his face darkened with rage. As his hand shot out to grab the man by the collar and haul him up to the bars, Mags ducked and scuttled into a corner.
“Yer tryin’ t’ pass off fakes!” Nikolas snarled, and shook the man one-handed until his teeth rattled. “Ye rat bastard, yer tryin’ t’pass fakes off on me!”
The man yelped and beat at Nikolas’ hand. “No! I didn’—I never—”
Nikolas let go and spat at him. “Liar! I should take these’n get a Constable!”
“I didn’ know!” the man sputtered, looking genuinely terrified. “How was I t’know ’e’d be carryin’ aroun’ fakes? I lifted ’em fair an’ square!”
::’E guessed. ’E don’t know stones, but ’e guessed that these wasn’t wuth much.:: Mags was positive of that. The man was terrified of the rage in Nicolas’ eyes, because he hadn’t expected it, so he was lying his head off, hoping to somehow wiggle out of this without Nikolas making good his threat.
::He jest admitted t’ stealin’ ’em,:: Mags added.
::I noticed that. Which would make me a receiver of stolen property. If I call the Constables now, I’ll be in as much trouble as he is.::
“Ye damn fool, didn’ ye figger ’e’d be holdin’ a drop-pouch? Idjit! That boy has more sense’n ye do!” Nikolas spat again. He made no reference to the fact that the stones had been stolen, but he also was not talking about Constables now either.
“Well, they ain’t all fakes, is they?” the man asked desperately. “I mean, the boy didn’ sort ’em all out!”
“Nah, but they ain’t wuth what ye was tryin’ t’git outa me, neither,” Nikolas snarled. “Not even close. Gold? Not a chance. Not even siller. Copper, I’ll gi’ye. Two apiece, an’ nothin’ fer th’ fakes.”
“Two? Ten!” the man yelped, and they settled down for some serious bargaining. Mags had no idea that Nikolas was such a ruthless bargainer. Two copper was about what a glass or paste “gem” was worth. Even the fakes were worth twice that. But then again, these were stolen. While it was not likely that the Constables would be searching very hard for the thief who had taken something so small in value, there was still a risk for Nikolas in taking them. Eventually the man, worn down to nothing by Nikolas’ sharp tongue and threats to expose him to the Constables as a thief after all, settled for five silver and twenty coppers for a pile of small gemstones worth, in Mags’ estimation, about twenty silver.
Mags wondered what he was going to do with them.
Nikolas counted out the money reluctantly and shoved it under the bars. The man trudged away.
Nikolas pointed to a stool in one corner and handed Mags some horsehair, then made some meaningless signs. ::You have to look busy,:: he Mindspoke. ::Reading would be out of character, so I supposed you could braid some trinkets to sell here in the shop.::
Mags nodded, scuttled over to the stool, and began to make a pretty, round braid for a bracelet. People came and went, some legitimate, some not. Mags soon learned that Nikolas was a moneylender as well, taking peoples’ possessions as surety against a loan. Those who came in and repaid their loans a bit at a time got their property back. Those who defaulted lost it, and presumably Nikolas sold their goods. One fellow came in and joyfully redeemed his carpentry tools. Nikolas grumbled the entire time he was handing them over.
::This fellow’s a good, honest man,:: Nikolas was saying in Mindspeech as he berated the carpenter. ::He just fell on hard times. I found someone who could take him on so he could get his tools back. He’ll be fine now.::
::Reckon ye didn’ overcharge ’im, neither,:: Mags replied, keeping his face still.
::Well, it would have been out of character for me to be easy on him. Weasel is known as a sharp man, but fair, when it comes to a plain loan.::
But as the night wore on, people came in who were not honest. There was no reason why a fellow with dirt caked black under his fingernails and who clearly had not washed himself nor changed his clothing in a year would own six silver spoons, nor why a woman with paint caked on her face so thick it was cracking and a threadbare velvet gown so low-cut Mags was afraid her breasts were going to pop out of it should have a double handful of silk handkerchiefs, both plain and embroidered. Nikolas bargained with both of them as sharply as he had the gem thief, and with as little evidence that he cared where the loot had come from or how the possessor had acquired it.
Finally, as the trickle of customers slowed and dried up and Mags judged it was getting near dawn, the first man came in again.
“Here!” he said, thrusting something under the bars. “Now thet’ll be worth somethin’!”
Nikolas gestured to Mags, who left off his braiding and joined the Herald at the counter. On the worn wood between them was a brooch set with carnelians and silkstone cabochons. Not worth much in and of themselves, but the workmanship of the brooch itself was incredible, made all of twisted wires of a metal that was so red it looked a little like copper—but which proved on application of the touchstone to be gold. And not plated, either.
Who would mount common stones in a setting of gold wires?
“Huh,” Nikolas said, and stroked his chin. “Huh. I don’t rightly know how t’value that. ’Tis gold. Carnelian and silkstone ain’t worth a lot. But setting—’tis gold. I could gi’ ye th’ gold-weight value... I don’ s’pose this’s somethin’ nobody’d miss.” The last was said with so much sarcasm the words practically sank beneath the weight.
“H’actually, they won’t,” the man said smugly. “I got yon off a corpus. ’E won’t be lookin’ for it, and I misdoubt there’s any sad relations about to shout thief.”
“Grave robbin’, now, are ye?” Nikolas cackled. “But if yon relations should come ’cross it in me shop—”
“They won’t. Or if they do, they won’t say nothin’.” The man grinned smugly. “Furriners what weren’t s’possed t’be here. Fool got hisself kilt by dray wagon this mornin’, an’ his friends lit out babblin’ in some furrin tongue. I might’ve been follerin’ ’em, seein’ as furriners don’t know city an’ might need a guide.”