Herndon stared at the noble. A second son—ah, yes. A familiar pattern. Second sons, propertyless but bearing within themselves the spark of nobility, frequently deviated into shadowy paths. "I had the pleasure of outbidding your brother this morning," he said.
"Outbidding Moaris? Impossible!"
Herndon shrugged. "His lady beckoned him in the middle of the auction, and he left. Otherwise the proteus would have been his, and I'd have nine hundred stellors more in my pocket right now."
"These two," Benjin said, indicating the commoners, "are named Dorgel and Razumod. They have full voice in our organization; we know no social distinctions. And this—" gesturing to the girl—"is Marya. She belongs to Dorgel, who does not object to making short-term loans."
Herndon said, "I object. But state your business with me, Benjin."
The dried little man said, "Fetch a sample, Razumod."
The burly commoner rose from his seat and moved into a dark corner of the poorly-lit room; he fumbled at a drawer for a moment, then returned with a gem that sparkled brightly even through his fisted fingers. He tossed it down on the table, where it gleamed coldly. Herndon noticed that neither Heitman Oversk nor Dorgel let their glance linger on the jewel more than a second, and he likewise turned his head aside.
"Pick it up," Benjin said.
The jewel was icy-cold. Herndon held it lightly and waited.
"Go ahead," Benjin urged. "Study it. Examine its depths. It's a lovely piece, believe me."