The proteus squirmed and became a pain-smitten pseudo-cat on the auction stand. The crowd giggled in delight.
"Six-seventy-five," came the voice.
It had become a two-man contest now, with the others merely hanging on for the sport of it, waiting to see which man would weaken first. Herndon eyed his opponent: it was the courtier, a swarthy red-bearded man with blazing eyes and a double row of jewels round his doublet. He looked immeasurably wealthy. There was no hope of outbidding him.
"Seven hundred stellors," Herndon said. He glanced around hurriedly, found a small boy standing nearby, and bent to whisper to him.
"Seven-twenty-five," said the noble.
Herndon whispered, "You see that man down front—the one who just spoke? Run down there and tell him his lady has sent for him, and wants him at once."
He handed the boy a golden five-stellor piece. The boy stared at it popeyed a moment, grinned, and slid through the onlookers toward the front of the ring.
"Nine hundred," Herndon said.
It was considerably more than a proteus might be expected to bring at auction, and possibly more than even the wealthy noble cared to spend. But Herndon was aware there was no way out for the noble except retreat—and he was giving him that avenue.