The gum farmer's name was Elmund Herzin. He lived in the village among fellow farmers outside the western wall. Having been a farmer herself, Meya had been leery for them to venture beyond the wall only to arrive at an empty house, and thus they decided to ascertain his whereabouts first.

This proved to be just as well; a copper coin to a member of the roadside gambling ring revealed that Elmund had entered the west gate with his son and passed by nary a quarter hour earlier. He was headed for The Tunnels, and had promised to return with gold to spare in an hours' time.

The alarming piece of intel sent them hurtling after Elmund's trail at full speed—or rather, the highest speed possible on a one-lane bazaar street crammed with tourists, locals and wagons.

The Tunnels was their other destination, the underground—figuratively and literally—market recommended by Tyriel Wert, where Greeneye 'goods', among other illicit merchandise, were traded. What part of his poor boy was Elmund meaning to trade this time? It couldn't have been another eye, as he could have just revisited Tyriel for that. That wasn't a reassuring realization.

As Meya fidgeted with Coris's brooch, the pad of her index brushed past the ring of scar tissue on its regenerated twin. And the notion hit her like a battering ram to the belly.

Greeneyes can regrow body parts. Which means...

Meya had nothing left in her stomach to expel by this point, yet her brain was having trouble comprehending that. Not surprisingly, since it seemed to be spinning freely around inside her skull.

Oh no. Oh please. Please no.

Meya fell against the headrest, burrowing with the back of her head into the supple cushions. Taking deep breaths, she closed her eye and pressed the lid down tight, trying to squeeze out the late afternoon light streaming in through the windows.

The carriage slowed to a halt then. Meya swallowed her nausea, sat up and peered outside. Jerald had parked at the lip of a seedy arcade between an apothecary and an alehouse.

Another two coppers down the gambler's pocket had coaxed out clear directions to the elusive flea market, which took Jerald three patient repetitions to commit to mind and paper; its entrance was concealed in the maze of side alleys that ran along the main marketplace.

The alleys were too narrow to accommodate horses, let alone a wagon. A fleeting survey of the general populace—wicker bins spilling out rotten produce, rabid overgrown rats chasing mangy cats, vagrants huddled up against filth-stained walls, drunkards flexing their vocal cords, addicts guzzling down laudanum-laced gum drink—resulted in a heated spit-spraying match between Jerald and Gretella versus the youngsters.

Much to their chagrin, Frenix and Amara were forced to remain behind under Gretella's watch, while Jerald led the older girls onwards.

They ventured forth in single file, Meya leading the way, followed by Arinel, Heloise, Fione and Agnes. Jerald brought up the rear, a hand on the scabbard of his sword and another on its hilt, glaring menacingly back at the alley's stirring inhabitants.

Rats slunk in and out of sight atop mounds of decomposing garbage. Mangy hounds barked their displeasure but dared not draw near at the sight of the wooden rod in Meya's hand. Some cats were still hungry enough to approach, though. And with a desperate swipe, she sent them scampering back to the wayside, where they lingered, hissing curses at her as she threaded her way around scraps of rotting cabbage, gnawed-dry chicken bones, and blobs of their combined shite.

It was overwhelming even for a peasant, but as much as Meya longed to glance around to check on her noble companions, she didn't think it wise to lose sight of such a treacherous path, especially not when her field of vision was already limited to half of what it once was.

"Take a left at the next crossroads." Arinel's warmth drew near and her whisper trickled into Meya's ear. Meya nodded, her eye lingering warily on the drunkard to the left. The eye sockets of his mask hovered at the level of her bosom, and he was licking his lips.

Meya clutched the ruby brooch in her cloak pocket and hurried forward to take the turn, making a mental note to ask Zier if he would teach her how to swing a sword, once they were safe in Jaise Castle.

These remnants of life, however wretched, faded as they advanced deeper into the maze. After about a quarter-hour, Meya arrived at what Arinel promised was the penultimate step; counting manhole covers.

"Four...five...six...seven. Here we are."

Gathering up her skirt and cloak so their hems would not sweep up the litter on the pavement when she rose again, Meya crouched down beside a thick circular metal plate embossed with the chough, Jaise's symbol animal.

The plate was caked with grime and dusted with grit. It was hinged on one side, and a horseshoe strip of curved metal was welded onto the opposite lip.

Meya spun the tip of her rod up against the hole, trying to weasel it in, to no avail. Jerald strode smartly to the nearby wall and returned with the hook-topped stick leaning against it.

Meya scrambled to her feet and made way, shuddering at the thought of descending underground again so soon, as she watched the knight slot the hook into the slit.

"Could you fit a whole market in there? What's a manhole, anyway? " She turned and thrust the question at the party at large. As Jerald braced himself to pop the lid, Agnes tugged Meya's sleeve for her to retreat further.

"Manholes open to underground tunnels where the pipes run and plumbers work. We'd find them in large towns like Meriton or spa towns like this."

She explained over the grinding creak of the hinge as Jerald heaved up the heavy plate—it was about as thick as Meya's middle finger is long—then gave the dingy alleyways a swift glance,

"This section's probably been disused for some time."

Jerald rested the lid with the softest thud he could manage, and the girls crowded around the gaping hole it left behind. The late afternoon sun sliced a slanting path down the brick-laid wall, revealing a metal ladder leading away into solid darkness.

Meya glanced around the ring. Even with her mask on, she could spy Heloise's discomfort from her restlessly churning lips. Jerald's cloak rustled as he got to his feet. With a simple bow of his head, he reached for the ladder and lowered himself down the hole first.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Meya planted her hand firmly on the ladder to signal she would be second. The dull clangs of Jerald's boots hitting the rungs grew fainter with every yard he descended, and were topped off with a flump of feet on stone. There was a pause they hoped was Jerald surveying his new surroundings, then his voice echoed back up to the surface.

"All is well. Please come down, I'll receive you."

The peering girls heaved a sigh of relief as one. Meya tightened her grasp on the rusting metal, reached for the other railing, then dipped her first foot towards the top rung, which fell about an arm's length below the lip of the hole. She descended nimbly with arms strengthened from a decade working the plow and thrashing bushels of wheat. The gray-black darkness dispersed into orange-brown light as she neared the bottom of the pit. She looked back over her shoulder, and saw Jerald's outstretched hands waiting for her.

"There we go." Jerald grunted as he eased Meya down to the stone floor. As he turned away to await the next arrival, Meya whirled around towards the light.

They were standing in a circular alcove beside a narrow stone-paved passageway. Rusty copper pipes ran the length of the vaulted ceiling towards nowhere, their journey illuminated by pole-mounted lamps flickering at regular intervals along the meandering path, stalls and stands hosted by masked merchants crammed in between.

Sacks of salt, sugar and spice lined the walls alongside barrels of wine, and bundles of untaxed Tyldornian silk, satin and leather. Raw jewels and metal ores twinkled and gleamed on threadbare carpets, illegally mined in Latakia. Unregistered prostitutes mingled with browsing clients on the sparsely populated lane, distinguishable by their yellow cloaks. If not for the luxurious and illegal nature of the goods, Meya would probably have mistaken it for a regular weekend bazaar, albeit subterranean.

At long last, Heloise made her way down to Jerald's supporting arms and touched her feet to solid ground. As she glanced around, taking her bearings, Jerald peered out the alcove for a quick survey, then withdrew and turned to Meya and Arinel.

"Elmund's mask has nothing but his name on it." He cocked his head, indicating the note Arinel had again taken out to consult. "I propose we stay close together. Keep an eye out for stalls trading Greeneye parts. I'll do the asking."

They stepped out into the thoroughfare in pairs; Jerald with Meya, Arinel with Agnes, and Fione with Heloise, taking note of crossroads where the avenue branched away to similarly vibrant corridors.

Fione spotted a stall toting unearthed Greeneye bones and eyes on a side-lane. The masked merchant was carrying a heated haggling session with a masked woman, who held her baby in one arm and held its leg up with the other. A Lattis bangle shimmered over the babe's ankle.

Jerald approached them both with a silver coin, but none of them recalled seeing Elmund. Their search resumed, then stopped two crossroads later.

They were standing a few steps away from the intersection. A queue of around a dozen masked men and women hugged the wall, leading towards the lip of the sidelane to the right, where a masked man had set up his table. An off-white cloth sign swung from its metal arm nailed into the stone, bearing a large, vivid red teardrop.

The woman at the table had finished whatever business she had with the doorman, and she proceeded forth into the lane. The next man in line edged up to the table.

Meya rushed forth to see better, prompting Jerald to pick up his stride. Curiously, the table had nothing upon it but the doorman's hands, a flickering candle, and an upended needle stood on a stone.

The man, however, seemed to know what he was supposed to do. He reached his hand towards the needle, his pointer finger outstretched. He pricked it with a swift flick, then hovered his bleeding finger over the candleflame.

A minuscule drop of magenta blood plummeted from the oozing pool. The fire rose up to swallow it—then flashed acid green.

The doorman nodded, and the Greeneye man advanced into the lane. Meya strained her neck to keep him in her sight, and what she saw in the avenue froze her blood in her veins.

A row of dozens of chairs and tables lined the wall, more than half occupied by men, women and even children as small as Mistral. Gum tubes trailed from one of their arms they had laid on the tables, one end swinging in thin air above a tin jar at the floor, dripping red liquid.

Over at the opposite wall, three large vats like the ones back in Hadrian Castle's scullery sat billowing steam. Masked men stood on benches around them, stirring with enormous paddles what appeared to be crimson soup.

It became clear to Meya, then. Elmund Herzin wasn't selling his son's other eye. Nor his regenerating limbs.

He was selling his blood.