The apprentices drew the black silk off the second flask. The first sale had shown every man in the hall that there would be no quiet bargain when the bids were done.
“Two hundred and fifty,” said Patriarch Wu.
“Three hundred,” called an Iron Sword elder, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
The masked royal envoy in Box Fourteen raised an ivory tablet. “Four hundred.”
“Five hundred,” Wu said. He gripped the arm of his chair until it creaked.
“Five hundred and fifty,” said the envoy.
Lord Beitang stayed at the rail in Box One. He had spent five hundred and fifty on the first flask. Another full bid would tie up the stones that kept his northern forts supplied. He had sent his man to the vault. All he could do now was watch the other buyers.
“Six hundred high-grade stones,” Wu called. His voice broke into a cough.
