"Now that's a handy to spell to have," Lambert smirks. "Knowing when someone's trying to cheat you."

Still, given the Ringmaster's explicit instructions not to fuck with the Caravan, he's not going to get the chance to test the limits of any such spell -- if it exists. It could very well be a spell the Ringmaster placed on her workers herself, like the one she'd cast to give all of them a daemon. Even at Lambert's pace, it doesn't really take that long to get to where the caravan's set up shop, and he looks everything over with a critical eye, brows raised.

Even at a glance, he can already tell he doesn't recognize what at least half of this stuff is for, though some of it has the vague familiarity of objects from Portland. Some of it is just plain fantastical, making his medallion hum against his chest with magic. That seems to promise usefulness.