The stall was hot, bright with summer, the salty sea air filled with an unpleasant scent of fish and unwashed city streets. A reddish tint filtered through the cloth above, casting a light shade over the table. Beside Arya sat a portly wine-seller, who was calculating the market value of a particular vintage, and across from her sat an elderly Minnese man, his slanted eyes darting suspiciously over the wine-seller’s work. She could see a shining bead of sweat forming on his forehead, and she found herself wondering idly whether he would be too offended if she wiped it away.

“Tell him his request is ludicrous,” the wine-seller said.

“☬ ⁂♣♮ ⚜♦,” Arya said hesitantly. [i]It is not possible. The price is too high.[/i]

Angry chattering in Minnese. 

Arya turned back to her irate employer. “He says he won’t take any less. He wants you to stick…” She paused. “He wants to end the negotiation unless you accept his offer.”

The fat wine-seller struck the table in frustration. “Wonderful. Well, by the gods, I’ll take his damn deal, but don’t ask me to be happy about it.”

Arya repeated his acceptance. The Minnese trader’s scowl deepened, and he cursed, muttering about being cheated. They shook hands.

It was not out of the ordinary for negotiations to become tense, even around her. Managing the egos of wealthy men was part of the job description, and with such large fortunes at stake, emotions inevitably ran high. This, however, had been a particularly heated argument. The wine-seller didn’t want to tarnish his reputation by selling cheaper wines, but the Minnese trader was the only one to come through the region in a month, and if he didn’t buy his stores, he’d lose customers. He’d agreed to purchase his whole stock at a greatly inflated price, but the trader still wanted more. Minnese men were always particularly resistant to her brand of light persuasion. [i]Stubborn bastard. He wouldn’t know a good deal if it smacked him in the nose. [/i]

After the negotiation was formalized, she left the stall, her work completed. The midday sun beat down like a physical weight, and the lazy humidity only made matters worse. Business was slow, and everyone shuffled from shade patch to shade, the wealthier ladies fanning themselves and the poorer ones splashing water on their faces. Work was torturously slow, and men carrying goods or negotiating trades were few, far between, and generally unhappy about it. The Emblem of Neutrality - a heavy white sash issued by the Guild, the symbol of her trade - rasped on her bare shoulder, and she found herself compulsively shifting it, as if trying to get out from under the weight. 

Arya ducked into a pub near the center of town, the Old Red. Settling down in a dark corner, she extracted a small black notebook from her handbag, and absently ran her eyes over the symbols she had drawn before. It wasn’t as if she could do much without a Dictionary of Symbology, but the mystery still drew her eyes to the page. 

Her reverie didn’t last long. A loud voice approached along the street, and the door banged open, revealing a fat man and a shorter, skinnier companion, both wearing Guild emblems. “- long and short of it, oh yes, it was a right scene. I don’t agree with the Guild renting out member facilities to hooligans. A good Deepwood wine!” He snapped. The barkeep raised an eyebrow, but made no complaint. “It’s no good,” he continued, sitting down heavily by the bar. “Next election, I’m going to vote for someone who’s dedicated to the integrity of our fine institution!”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“And why is this Kismet girl allowed such privilege? Tut tut. Another flagrant violation of well established traditions! Favoritism! I sense something underhanded.”

“Yes, yes. Must be, must be.”

The first man looked pleased at this. “See, you’re a good fellow.” A large tankard slid towards him on the bar, and, grasping it by the handle, he raised it in a gesture of respect to his companion. “Stick with the folk like us, the respectable tradesmen. You’ll go far.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt, none at all.” They clinked glasses, and drank deeply.

“I saw an odd fellow, wrapped from head to toe. Couldn't even see his face. Made my skin crawl.” 

Arya’s eyes narrowed. She had heard stories that certain dark wizards couldn't uncover their skin, or they would burn. Could this be the presence she'd felt in the night?

“It seems they’re going off into the Fog tonight,” the thinner man said, raising his eyebrows. 

“What do you mean, going off into the Fog?”

“I mean, the girl Siana is leading them off. That’s what the meeting was for.” 

“By the gods, are you sure? Are they mad?” 

The thin man shrugged. “Seems so. She claims to have found an inland lake, surrounded by paradise, or portals, or some such nonsense. I wasn’t listening too closely.”

“These are certainly strange times.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

They fell silent for a moment. Arya’s mind whirled. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? A mysterious figure suddenly appearing in a sleepy seaside Guild town, an impossible mission into the fog… Arya wondered whether there really was something underhanded going on. [i]Black magic,[/i] she thought, dread creeping along her spine. [i]Wonderful.[/i]