Richard quickened his pace. He couldn’t put off getting the Sphinx Oil Lamp any longer.
It was less than a half-hour walk from his home to the alley where Clement Antiques was located.
He walked south along Grafton Street, passing the department store branch where he and Evelyn had looked at gloves before.
The window display had changed. Autumn and winter scarves and hats had replaced the gloves.
Turning into the alley, the wooden sign for Clement Antiques looked even darker under the overcast sky. Another small piece of paint had peeled off.
A copper bell chimed as Richard pushed the door open and went inside.
The shop was the same as always.
The shelves lining the four walls were filled with old objects, and the gas lamp on the ceiling cast a yellow glow.
Albert Clement was sitting behind the counter, oiling an old knife.
"You’re here?" the old man said without even looking up.
"I’m here."
"The lamp’s over there. Hasn’t moved."
Richard walked over to the shelves on the wall by the window.
The Sphinx Oil Lamp sat in its original spot, a fresh layer of dust covering most of the patina on its wings.
He picked up the Oil Lamp and weighed it in his hand. Its heavy, solid feel was still the same.
"Two pounds." The old man set the knife on the counter and held out his hand.
Richard took two one-pound notes from his inner pocket, flattened them on the counter, and slid them over.
Clement picked up the notes and held them up to the light to check the watermarks.
’The last time this kid came in, he was wearing shabby clothes with frayed cuffs. He looked like a broke student who was short on cash.’
’He’s still wearing the same coat now, but his whole demeanor is completely different from before.’
Clement folded the notes but didn’t rush to put them in the drawer. "Young man, where did you scrape together two pounds in just over a month?"
"Prize money from a competition."
"What competition?"
"The Cicero Cup."
The old man’s fingers paused on the drawer handle.
He slowly turned his head, his eyes staring at Richard from behind copper-framed glasses.
"The Cicero Cup? The one in the Imperial Capital?"
"Yes."
"What place did you get?"
"Second."
The old man put the notes in the drawer and stood up from his chair.
"You’re a student at Greenwood?"
"I am."
"A student from Greenwood took second place in the Cicero Cup?"
"Yes."
The way Clement looked at Richard changed completely.
The old man walked around the counter to the door and flipped the wooden sign from "Open" to "Closed."
"Sit."
Richard pulled over a folding stool and sat down.
Clement returned to his spot behind the counter, took a sip from his teacup, and looked at him.
"Mr. Clement, is there something you need?"
The old man set down his teacup.
"I worked at Stuart Auction House for thirty years. On the surface, the auction house has one appraisal process, but in reality, it has two."
"The second process is only initiated for certain items.
When an item submitted for auction shows inexplicable anomalies during a routine appraisal, the appraisal department transfers it to the second process."
"The head office in the Imperial Capital keeps two in-house consultants on staff to perform special appraisals for the auction house each year.
But the branch offices don’t have the budget for that. When a branch comes across a suspicious item, they either send it back to headquarters to wait in line for an available consultant, or the branch manager has to figure something out on their own."
Clement took off his copper-framed glasses and wiped the lenses with an oilcloth from the counter.
"Those big buyers in the Imperial Capital always do a risk assessment before making a move.
They scramble to get their hands on Marvels with clear functions. Even if the price is ten or twenty times higher, someone will always buy them.
But items with unknown functions could be treasures, or they could be trouble. Most people would rather not touch them."
"And referring them for appraisal is also a hassle. Who do you refer them to? How long is the wait?" Clement spread his hands.
"Experts in the scholarly fields are even rarer than consultants with Spiritual Vision. Imperial University only has a handful of professors of Epigraphy.
The appraisal schedule is booked from the beginning of the year to the end. It’s normal for an item to wait six to eight months for an appraisal."
"The consignors can’t wait that long, and the auction house doesn’t want items taking up space in the warehouse for extended periods.
Once the auction window closes, this batch of items with ambiguous appraisal results is returned to the consignors or cleared out at rock-bottom prices to second-hand markets, antique shops, and flea market stalls."
He pointed his index finger at Richard.
"This lamp in front of you is one of those items."
"The auction house bundles up the unsold items to be cleared out, distributing them through internal channels to affiliated antique dealers in various places.
I still keep in touch with a few old colleagues from Stuart. Every year, they send me a list of clearance stock from there.
The prices are pushed way down, calculated at one-fifth to one-tenth of the original estimated value."
"This lamp cost me two pounds and five shillings. By selling it to you for two pounds, I’m actually losing five shillings plus shipping."
Richard looked at him. "Selling at a loss?"
"Not much of a loss." Clement leaned back in his chair.
"Unsold items just take up shelf space in my shop. It’s better to get rid of them quickly.
Brighton isn’t the Imperial Capital. There’s no market for this kind of thing locally.
The occasional customer comes in, thinks the design is interesting, but when they hear it costs several pounds, they turn around and leave."
He took another sip of his tea. "Young man, I’m not telling you all this just to spin a yarn."
"If you’re interested... from now on, when I receive lists of unsold items marked ’Category Two,’ I can call and notify you first.
You can come take a look at the items in person. If you think they’re valuable, you can buy them. If not, just leave them. No pressure from me."
Richard was tempted. This would mean he had another channel for acquiring Marvels.
But after a moment’s thought, he still asked, "I still don’t quite understand. Why are you helping me like this?"
Clement picked up the old knife and resumed wiping the blade with the oilcloth.
"I have two grandsons. The older one is fourteen, the younger is eleven."
He flipped the knife over and wiped the other side.
"Both of the little ones are ordinary people, and I don’t intend for them to touch that other world.
Whether it’s the tax office, the railway bureau, or a bank counter... living a safe and stable life in the Surface World is better than anything."
He wrapped the knife in oil paper, his movements slow.
"But life in the Surface World isn’t easy either.
The factories in Brighton have had three rounds of layoffs this year, the civil service exam for the tax office gets harder every year, and the streets are full of students graduating from Grammar Schools.
For my two grandsons to establish themselves in the city, grades and diplomas alone won’t be enough. They’ll need connections."
He placed the wrapped knife into the drawer beneath the counter.
"I worked at the auction house for decades. All the connections I built are in the antiques circle. Those connections can’t help my descendants."
"But you’re different. The top three winners of the Cicero Cup usually don’t end up doing too badly.
Whether it’s in academia, the Church, the auction houses, or even the official system.
Once you’ve established yourself in the Imperial Capital, the connections and resources you’ll hold won’t be anything a retired old man like me can compare to."
He folded his hands on the counter and looked at Richard.
"I’m helping you build this bridge. Once you’ve crossed it, if I ever want a letter of recommendation for a good school, or to ask someone about a job opening...
I can swallow my pride and come ask you. If you can help, you help. If you can’t, there’s no obligation."
"It’s as simple as that."
He took a business card from a holder on the counter and handed it over.
"The most useful lesson I learned in my whole life at the auction house is this: the worthy bet isn’t on objects, but on people.
An object’s value has a ceiling. A person’s doesn’t."

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