Argent shadowed the servant as he pushed through the bustle of the crowd, pausing to gawk at a woman in a glass tank, so small it was almost a coffin. Her body ended in a long, blue-scaled tail, but most people were staring at the exposed and human side of her. The poor thing huddled in the corner of her tank, clutching her hands across her chest.

The man paused to leer but not for long. He hurried on, into the section of the market that stunk of alchemy, of chymical caustic scents.

On sale were pickled specimens in jars and mysterious powders in airsafe containments, glass orbs containing colorful liquids; the sellers handsigned for love potions, virility tonics. They sold things for the special clientele this market brought out, ‘night-lanterns’ that dimmed the surrounding light and tinted lenses to see in the dark, oils to let you climb walls like a spider.

He proceeded past all of these without a glance. No doubt, this fellow had a purpose at the market today. In the farthest corner of the alchemy district he exchanged a book wrapped in oilskins for two jars. As Argent edged closer we saw black soil within the jars. Beneath the dirt, something was moving, causing the glass to shake faintly.

As he left, Adamant was there to follow him. Argent slipped up the golems cloak and joined Izzis in hiding within his hood.

With the man heading directly back the way he came, I quickly realized we weren’t going to get any more answers out of him. He would return to the Institute where we couldn’t follow. If we let him.

And I didn’t intend to let him.

Adamant extended a hand and crooked one finger, calling to the earth in the jars. The glass cracked, the man turned, the contents came spilling out and there was a flash-

Half the market was blinded by the dazzling burst of light, the eye-searing wave of blue that washed out with a percussive boom of thunder as a thunderbolt leapt up from the shattered jars, splitting apart into numerous smaller threads of shuddering lightning as it struck against the ceiling; for a moment it looked as if a tree of lightning had bloomed within the market.

As the lightning faded, the man was left twitching on the floor. Adamant slid back into the crowd as the masked guards rushed forwards to seize him.

Argent clung to the edge of an enormous, sumptuous barge. The entire boat was made of rich red timber with gold leaf on the railings, with a dragon carved into the masthead. Black flags depicting nine rats joined by the tails into a wheel hung over the sides.

As we hung on to the sides, water lapping over Argent’s tiny body, the electrocuted servant was hauled before the master of the market. We couldn’t see from where we were, only listen in.

“I-I-I-” The first man was easily recognized by his thunderstruck stammering.

“Spit it out man, or I’ll take that useless tongue and feed it to my lovelies.” The second had a foreign curl to his vowels, an imperious and proud way of speaking.

“I s-serve the High Mmmage.”

“And if his majesty wanted skygrist why not ask me, eh? Why slink about the market when I’ve always given mister high and mighty everything he wants?”

“H-he d-d-d-” There was a muffled thump of flesh hitting flesh and a wretched groan.

“I can tell when you lie. Before you even finish your s-s-stammering I can tell.” Smugness emanated from every word the second man spoke. “Now tell me why, or I’ll start letting my pets take nibbles off you.”

“I-”

There was a whistle and the stuttering man cried out. “N-no! He- he thinks you poisoned his l-l-last experi-i-i-”

We crawled higher. One man was kneeling on the floor, held down by two guards, while the second speaker was lounging on a throne of cushions beneath the barge’s canopy of gold-embroided cloth. He was whip-thin and lavishly dressed, with long oily black hair. All around him smoke curled in ribbons that twisted through the air of their own accord, teeth and eyes briefly forming in the billowing grey smog.

Standing behind him was a pale woman in a loose, diaphanous dress. She had no eyes- from the bridge of her elegant nose two wings extended, dark brown moth wings spotted with ringed patterns, covering the places where eyes would be.

She turned suddenly, ‘looking’ right at us. Without a moment’s hesitation I had Argent drop down into the water and swim away at all speed.

As she paddled for the shore, there was a scream and a splash behind us. Blood billowed up in the water as the unfortunate servant’s body sunk like a stone.

Trivelin woke up in a prison. And not for the first time in his life.

He groaned, stirring, noticing a strangeness in the surroundings. Not the usual dingy cell, no. There was a flowery sweetness to the air, a fine gold dust that plumed up as he shook himself awake. It had settled over his clothes and filled the space beneath his collar. He sneezed and a cloud of gold expanded with his breath and spittle.

The bars were made of glass.

Pausing, Trivelin began to carefully recite everything that had happened the day before. He had gotten drunk, of course, as one does. He had taken two of his more sober crewman and headed for the silent market…

And then…

A man made of dirt. An explosive trap. A stumbling run that ended in darkness.

Then he woke up here.

He flopped onto his back and groaned, horrified. His crew would be setting sail in the morning, if it wasn’t morning already, and his scum of a first mate would waste no time leaving him behind. Curse the man.

A small, batlike creature perched atop the cage. It stared down at Trivelin with its wide goblin eyes.

“Hello?” He asked, puzzled.

The little imp laughed at him, a mean little snicker. “Awake? Sleep well? Upsy-daisy now, the boss wants to speak with you.”

“The boss?” He asked, to no answer. Straightening up he glanced around. A garden of glass, a forest of fungal shapes in all colors; a subtle light glowed from the spore and celia of the jungle beyond. It was among the stranger things he had seen in his career.

As he watched, the roots of the mushrooms nearest to him wriggled across the ground. Dozens of strands tipped by tiny glowing bulbs interlocked in curling formation to make letters.

CAN YOU GET ME INTO THE MAGE’S INSTITUTE

“Inside the Institute? I can, I can, but if you’re planning to take something out-” Trivelin paused. It was in his best interest to be useful here but exaggerating would only land him in worse peril. “No.”

The fungal stalks rearranged, forming a new question.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT OLIN FRAMPT

“The High Mage? He runs things down here, he’s the force beyond the Cammontalla, but everyone knows that. They say he’s mad, but that’s true of all mages. They say…” He leaned forward, whispering this last and most juicy tidbit. Although he knew it wasn’t much to save his skin. “They say he steals women away and they’re never seen again.”

DO YOU KNOW THE MAN WHO RUNS THE SILENT MARKET

“Captain Immer?” A third question that Trivelin didn’t have a proper answer for. He gulped. “No. No, I’m very much afraid that I don’t know him.”

This time, the letters did not rearrange.

Which meant he had lost his captor’s interest. A very, very dangerous thing to do.

“Tell me… Am I talking to a Dungeon..? The strange creatures, the living environment, the faceless questions. Trivelin had wandered long enough to know what he was seeing.

Nothing. No answer. The silence was as good as a death sentence.

“Wait, no, I can still be of use to you…” Trivelin pleaded, wringing the fabric of his mud-stained shirt in clenched fists. With a sudden realization he reached up to his neck, finding nothing there. His pendant was gone.“You took my necklace! My sharktooth necklace! You wanted that, didn’t you, well there’s more! More where that came from!”

Silence pervaded the air, but he felt as if it was a listening silence, not an ignoring silence. And it couldn’t make his situation any worse to plead his case.

“I am a poacher sir. I make my honest living in stealing and smuggling and I can tell you, there is a world out there of men like me and men much richer than me, all of them dealing and thriving in golden eggshells, in the horns of exotic beasts, or the teeth of seamonsters.” Suddenly remembering his manners, he pulled his hat from his balding head and clutched it to his chest.

“And who do you imagine stands atop that world, dear sir? Dungeons! With a whim you can produce wonders! Things men like me will pay hand and arm for.“

“Have you heard, my dear Dungeon, of far-off orchards where a fruit grows that can extend the lifespans of mortal men? Of phoenixes that lay sapphires in place of eggs? Precious herbs that can cure any illness? Tonics that strengthen the body?” His eyes glistened with mist, as if the memory of those beautiful, expensive things was moving him to tears.

“Sir, my dear sir, they all come from Dungeons. Let me live a little while and I can explain to you how to have anything your heart so desires.“

He waited, breathless, on his knees. Slowly the mushroom stalks began to writhe their way into a new question.

TELL ME MORE, they asked, ABOUT THESE SAPPHIRES.