Chapter 35: The Genuine Article (2)

After whispering something to Quinier, the butler Duchamp came over to me.

“My apologies, appraiser. Would you mind waiting a moment? I’m afraid we haven’t shown you proper hospitality. We’ll bring you tea and refreshments right away.”

“Of course.”

Duchamp smiled again at my answer and summoned a maid.

“Tea and refreshments for our appraiser. Spare no expense. Bring out our very best.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then Duchamp promptly left the room.

I sighed.

“Looks like he’s going to call another appraiser.”

“That’s right.”

Quinier readily admitted it, as though there was nothing to hide.

He couldn’t possibly trust my methods, so he intended to call in another appraiser. But since Quinier had introduced me, he couldn’t afford to be rude and was doing it in secret.

“He still hasn’t even asked my name. Or introduced himself.”

“I know. Not much trust there.”

Quinier chuckled as she spoke. He’s your butler, you know.

Meanwhile, the maid brought tea and refreshments. Just as Duchamp had instructed, they were visibly of the finest quality.

As I sipped my tea, taking a break while I waited, Duchamp returned sooner than expected.

“How is it, appraiser? Is everything to your liking?”

“I think anyone would enjoy this tea.”

It was an honest compliment. Duchamp smiled, apparently pleased.

People generally keep pleasant exchanges short and unpleasant ones long.

Praise ends after a word or two, but arguments involve dozens of repeated, raised objections. One compliment about an absent person suffices, yet people can gossip about them for an hour without tiring.

So if you want to keep a conversation short, offer a compliment.

All I wanted was to finish quickly.

“Then please begin whenever you’re ready.”

“Yes, let’s start right away.”

I set down my teacup, and the maid deftly gathered the dishes and withdrew.

As before, a servant set an item down. I looked at it and said,

“It’s genuine.”

“...”

This time, the servant took the item out without a word.

Apparently, it was being delivered to the appraiser in another room.

...

A long while later, I sat in my chair with my chin propped on my hand.

It looked a little insolent, but I couldn’t help it.

If I didn’t at least prop up my chin, I felt as though I would slump over and fall asleep.

“Here is the next item.”

The servant placed a piece of pottery on the shelf.

“Genuine.”

The servant carried it out. It was a long time before they returned.

“Here is the next item.”

The servant placed a necklace on the shelf.

“Genuine.”

The servant carried it out. Once again, it was a long time before they returned.

“Here is the next item.”

The servant placed a cut gemstone on the shelf.

“... A diamond. I don’t know how much it’s worth.”

“Yes. Thank you for confirming.”

Quinier, who had been watching from beside me, interjected.

“Hey, are you actually doing this properly?”

“Extremely properly. My body and soul are united in doing this properly. At this point, I’m practically hoping a fake turns up.”

There wasn’t much to the work itself.

I stored the items in the Workshop to check them, using the Analysis skill when necessary.

The problem was how boring it was.

Other appraisers would examine tiny scratches and grain patterns through a magnifying glass, poring over relevant reference materials to determine authenticity. I only had to look.

On top of that, they took everything I appraised to the newly summoned appraiser for a second opinion, leaving me with even more time spent sitting around.

I almost wanted to tell Duchamp, “I know you called another appraiser. Just let us work side by side.”

Besides, I wasn’t the only one getting bored.

“Look around, Quinier. You’re the only one here whose eyes are still sparkling.”

At first, the estate’s maids and butlers had watched me with interest. Quinier had introduced me as a brilliant appraiser who could recognize genuine articles at a glance. That wasn’t technically wrong, so I hadn’t objected.

But I really did check them ‘at a glance.’

Now, everyone around me—not just the butler—was looking at me suspiciously. I must have looked like someone who simply answered “Genuine” no matter what they brought out.

Understandably so. If I saw someone else doing this, I’d think the same thing.

Right now, practically everyone here, myself included, was probably thinking:

‘Please let a fake turn up.’

Then the servant set down the next item.

This time, it was a pendant. A purple gemstone sat in its center, surrounded by an intricately assembled mechanism of considerable complexity. Three concentric rings encircled it, each capable of rotating about an axis.

... Oh? Now this was interesting.

“It’s genuine.”

At my words, the servant took the item out. Now I had to wait yet again for the other appraiser to finish.

Just then, Quinier approached and whispered in my ear.

“There’s something to that one, isn’t there?”

I whispered back.

“How did you know?”

“It was written on your face.”

That was Quinier for you.

Appraising objects might be another matter, but few could rival her when it came to reading people.

A little later, the servant returned with Duchamp.

“Um, well, appraiser?”

“Yes?”

“About the pendant you just examined. It...”

I scratched my cheek. I could guess what Duchamp was going to say.

The outcome would be the same anyway, so I might as well make it easy for him.

“You called another appraiser, didn’t you?”

“... Pardon? Ah...”

“I don’t mind. Please bring him here. It seems we’ve reached different conclusions.”

Duchamp looked a little surprised, then bowed deeply and left again.

Soon, a thin, middle-aged man entered with him. His narrow eyes and glasses gave him a decidedly exacting air.

I stood, and we exchanged greetings.

“How do you do? My name is Quentin.”

“I’m Frondier. A pleasure to meet you.”

Since he hadn’t given his surname, I only offered my first name as well.

Dropping the Roach name would be pointless here anyway, and rather unbecoming. Beside us, however, Duchamp tilted his head at my name, looking off to one side as though thinking something over.

“Let me begin by saying that this pendant is a fake.”

The appraiser who had introduced himself as Quentin declared this with confidence. He held up the pendant in a gloved hand.

“The central gemstone is certainly genuine. However, I found differing degrees of wear on the joints connecting the rings and on the rings themselves. In other words, parts have been replaced. I surmise that the original buyer damaged or lost them for some reason and had replacements fitted.”

Quentin cast a sidelong glance at me.

“Our young appraiser appears to have pronounced it genuine based solely on the gemstone’s authenticity, but a proper appraiser must consider the details of the piece as a whole. You still lack experience.”

He spoke as though he understood my mistake, but his eyes were filled with contempt.

He had probably heard about my methods from Duchamp. He saw me as nothing but a fraud, so even that much of a defense was as polite as he could possibly be.

That made me feel a little bad.

“The reason this pendant’s rings were replaced...”

Because I was about to demolish a veteran appraiser’s assessment.

“...is that the maker changed the parts.”

Quentin gave a derisive laugh.

“The maker replaced the parts? Why would they do that? Altering the original ornamentation would only reduce its value.”

Quentin was right.

As he himself had demonstrated, the replacement parts were readily identifiable. Naturally, a mixture of old and new ornamentation could only lower the value of the piece as a whole.

But that principle didn’t apply to this pendant.

“The rings on this pendant aren’t decorative.”

I put on gloves and extended my hand to Quentin. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he handed me the pendant without comment.

I lifted it and began manipulating the rings.

Let’s see. According to the instructions provided by Analysis...

CLICK.

CLICK, WHIRR.

As I worked through the correct sequence, the layered rings suddenly began moving on their own.

Once aligned, they drew closer together, filling the interior of the purple gemstone without a gap. Then the gemstone began to glow.

And voices rang out.

[“... Mistilteinn wasn’t a tree branch.”]

[“What do you mean?”]

[“We were deceived! Mistilteinn isn’t some branch that happened to acquire Divine Power! It was a manufactured weapon from the very beginning! It’s—”]

The two voices stopped abruptly, as though the recording had been cut off.

... Well, I hadn’t expected to hear that. Anyway.

“This pendant isn’t an ornament. It’s a mechanical device with security features. With a little magic engineering added to the mix.”

“...”

Everyone simply stared in astonishment at my explanation. Quentin was no exception.

“This pendant won’t open unless it’s manipulated in the correct sequence. But for it to actually function, it requires remarkably precise craftsmanship. That’s why the parts kept being replaced. In other words, this pendant is the final, finished product, preserving all the maker’s countless failed attempts.”

Rather like a report labeled ‘Really Truly Final Final Revision.’

I looked at Duchamp. I probably should have addressed Quentin, but I felt awkward about it, since it would hurt his pride too much.

“So this is genuine. As I said before, though, I don’t know its price.”

“... I-I see.”

Duchamp answered reflexively.

* * *

Quinier had watched with genuine amazement.

She had trusted Frondier, but what he demonstrated far exceeded her expectations.

‘He realized that ornament was a mechanical device, then operated it himself to prove it.’

And it had taken him only about three seconds of appraisal to determine that.

So that was it. The pendant was a recorder protected by a code. It stored sensitive information in audio form, ready to be retrieved when it mattered.

... But what happened now that he had cracked that code?

‘And the contents are troubling, too.’

It had been a conversation about Mistilteinn, the voices terribly grave and urgent. Moreover, it had cut off before they could finish.

Deciding to think about that later, Quinier approached Frondier.

“Impressive, Frondier. You certainly haven’t lost your touch.”

Then she gave Duchamp a pointed look.

“Don’t you have something to say?”

“... My apologies for doubting you so rashly, appraiser. No, Master Frondier.”

This time, Duchamp bent at the waist in a formal, ninety-degree bow. Quinier smiled at his apology. Doubting Frondier was no different from doubting her judgment in introducing him.

Of course. Her eye for people was impeccable.

“By the way, Quinier.”

Frondier spoke up.

“Yes?”

“I’m beginning to think a mere apology isn’t quite enough.”

“... What?”

Frondier smiled at her.

She had seen that smile somewhere before. Where was it?

Oh. It resembled the expression she practiced in front of the mirror.

“You’ve always placed great importance on ‘compensation,’ haven’t you?”

“... Ah, huh?”

“I’d like to sell some items to your family. Would you be willing to buy them?”

“Huh? What did you buy?”

“Various things from Terst Department Store.”

Quinier’s gaze wavered at that. ‘Department store’ sounded respectable, but on this continent, the term meant a place where the upper and lower limits of an item’s value were truly boundless.

“Of course, I’ll need you to buy every last one. Without exception.”

As he spoke, Frondier continued to smile at Quinier.