Changes

in darkness and shadows that they had to grope their way along the alley it let out on to find a street. Not a nice street, either. Not a dangerous street, but there were a fair number of disreputable looking characters and establishments on it. Mags fell into his character immediately, sticking close to Nikolas and not reacting to sounds at all. Unlike the street of their inn, this one smelled. It wasn’t rank, but there were faint suggestions that someone had been sick, overlaid with beer, cheap wine, and burning grease smells.

The neighborhood gradually became dirtier and darker. Not that Mags could see the dirt, but he could smell it. Places where cats and dogs (and probably people) had relieved themselves. A stink of unwashed bodies and unwashed clothing. Slops poured into the gutter only added to the reek, which would persist until a rain came and washed it all down to the collection basins. People living here weren’t supposed to do this, but unless you actually caught someone at it, it was hard to tell who the culprit was.

Finally Nikolas paused at a shuttered storefront halfway down the street from one of the few streetlamps, took a key out of his belt pouch, and opened the door. The universal symbol of the pawnbroker, three coins, was painted beside and above the door. The paint was fading. The symbol was the visual representation that the pawnbroker would lend you two coins but would get back three, whether he got it when you redeemed your pledge or when he sold it.

It was as dark as the inside of a hat in there, and the place smelled musty. Mags held absolutely still while Nikolas groped around at the edge of the door. He came up with a tallow-dip, which he took to the dim little streetlamp and held it up until it took. He brought it back, sheltering it from the breeze with one hand, and Mags followed him and the light inside.

The shop seemed to hold a mish-mash of just about anything and everything; there were tables heaped with old clothes and shoes, battered tools and kitchen utensils hung on the walls, and above them were shelves with boxes on them. Everything on the wall had a paper tag on it. Only half the shop was open to the public; the other half was behind a wall with a barred window in it and a counter behind the window. It had another locked door, which Nikolas unlocked after lighting a lamp in the front. They both went inside, and Nikolas locked the door behind them.

This, clearly, was where the valuable things were kept. Tools in much better condition, silver plate, some jewelry in trays. There was more in labeled boxes on shelves along the walls. Mags didn’t have a chance to do more than glance around when a bell over the door rang and a man entered.

“I hope that boy of yours came with you this time, Weasel,” said the man, sounding irritated, as he pulled a small box out of a pouch and shoved it under the bars of the window.

“He ain’t my boy, and aye, I got ’im,” Nikolas half snarled. Since Mags had been standing away from the window looking at the things hung up on the wall when the man came in, he gave no indication that he had heard anything until Nikolas reached over and shook his shoulder, roughly.

He turned, hunching over in the same servile posture he used to take at the mine when one of the owner’s sons accosted him. Nikolas pushed him toward the counter and opened the box, spilling out the rough-cut gemstones inside onto a tray. There was already a magnifying lens on the tray, waiting. Mags nodded, and Nikolas brought over a cobbler’s lamp and lit it so that the clear light fell on the tray. Mags picked up the lens and the first of the stones, doing his best to ignore the man’s beer-laden, foul breath, as he leaned forward to watch Mags sort.

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