Free Florian's Gate by T. Davis Bunn

her momentarily in the spotlight. Otherwise attention was immediately drawn on to the next upward move by pointing to the bidder and then stating only the next asking price.
    â€œSixteen thousand. Seventeen thousand. Eighteen thousand. Twenty thousand. Twenty-two thousand. Twenty-four thousand pounds. It’s with you at the very back, madam, at twenty-four thousand. Twenty-six thousand. Thirty thousand.”
    The next bid increment was set by the auctioneer and offered as a statement, not a question. Never a question. There was no doubt in his voice, no hesitation shown as the size of the jump increased as the bidding price escalated.
    â€œThirty thousand, thank you. Thirty-two thousand. Thirty-five thousand. Thirty-eight thousand. Thirty-eight thousand pounds. The bidding now stands at thirty-eight thousand pounds.”
    Initially the bidding was fast and furious and came from all over the room. At thirty thousand pounds the storm abated, and at thirty-five there was a moment’s hesitation. The lead bid came from a gallery owner named Sarah, with whom Jeffrey had placed several works. From the light in the woman’s eyes, it was clear she knew she was walking away with a steal. Thirty-five thousand pounds for such a painting was a rare bargain, caused by the recession that had wreaked random havoc throughout the art world.
    â€œThirty-eight thousand. Am I bid thirty-eight thousand.Ah, thank you, bid from the phone for thirty-eight thousand. Forty thousand.”
    A new opponent had appeared, an invisible bidder whose presence was announced by a heretofore silent telephone operator raising one hand and accepting the thirty-eight thousand bid. Jeffrey watched the gallery owner’s excitement turn to brassy defiance. Sarah accepted the forty thousand bid with an angry gesture. The auctioneer recognized the beginning of a battle with a smugly satisfied smile.
    â€œForty-two thousand. Forty-five thousand. Forty-eight thousand. Fifty thousand. Fifty-five thousand. Sixty thousand. Sixty-five thousand. Seventy thousand pounds.”
    A light hum rose from the room as the bids began rising at increments of about eight thousand dollars. Sarah continued to make counter-offers with furious jerky gestures of her card. The card had a number, assigned to her prior to the auction’s start, and was utilized by habitual buyers to both ensure no confusion over purchases and reduce the need to be identified and fill out forms while the next lot was being offered. The steely grip with which the gallery owner continually thrust her card upward gave her fingers the look of talons locked in a death grip.
    The young lady manning the phone read the newly accepted bid-value from the computer board, and relayed it into the telephone with a voice pitched too low for Jeffrey to catch the language she spoke. With each new bid from Sarah and subsequent price-rise offered by the auctioneer, she would whisper, wait, then lift her eyes and nod to the waiting auctioneer.
    â€œNinety-five thousand.” Another pause, this one from the gallery owner. Jeffrey kept his hands still by clenching the auction catalog in his lap. “Ninety-five thousand against you at the back. Thank you, madam. One hundred thousand. Am I bid one hundred thousand pounds. Yes, from the telephone. One hundred and five thousand. At the back one hundred and five thousand pounds is bid. One hundred and ten thousand.One hundred and ten, thank you. One hundred and fifteen, yes, thank you, madam. One hundred and fifteen is bid at the back. One hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”
    The telephone assistant spoke the bid, waited.
    â€œAm I bid one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”
    The girl spoke again, waited, then looked up and shook her head with an apologetic smile. The entire room finally took a breath.
    â€œA valiant try,” the auctioneer said to the telephone assistant. Then with a smack of his gavel he said, “Sold for one hundred