There is a saying among the Alchemists of the Spire: "Volatility is just potential energy waiting for an excuse." Right now, sitting in the back of a rickety wooden wagon disguised as a manure transport, I felt like I was the excuse.
We were moving twenty barrels of Red Sludge—unstable, liquid mana-nitrate—through the potholed streets of the Lower District. Every time the wagon hit a bump, the liquid inside the lead-lined barrels sloshed. GLUG. GLUG. And every time it sloshed, Cian Aurelius stopped breathing.
"Zane!" Cian hissed, clutching the side of the wagon, his face a mask of sheer terror. "If you hit one more pothole, I will have you executed! Drive smoother!"
"It's the Slums, Princess!" Zane shouted back from the driver's seat, whipping the reins of the two tired horses we had rented. " The roads aren't paved with marble here! Brace yourself!"
THUMP. The wagon wheel dropped into a deep rut. The barrels rattled ominously against each other. Cian squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a prayer to the God of Commerce. Nothing exploded. Yet.
I sat on top of a barrel, calm but alert. I was holding a Stabilizer Rod—a device I had jury-rigged to absorb excess kinetic energy. It was glowing faintly red. "Relax, Cian," I said, checking the gauge. "The solution is stable up to 40 degrees Celsius. Unless we get hit by a fireball, we're fine."
"We are sitting on enough explosive power to level a city block," Cian whispered, looking at the barrels with hatred. "And we are delivering it to the Thieves Guild. My father is a Baron. I am a distinguished student. If I die here, buried under pig sh*t and illegal explosives, my ghost will haunt you for eternity, Aren."
"If we die here," I replied dryly, "there won't be enough of us left to haunt anyone. We'll be pink mist."
We were heading to The Warrens. Deep beneath Sector 9. The territory where the City Watch didn't go. The place where things that fell off the back of airships ended up.
The Checkpoint - Sector 9 Border
"Halt!" A lantern swung in the fog. Two City Watch guards stepped out of the shadows, blocking the narrow bridge. They looked tired, corrupt, and bored. Their armor was rusted, and they smelled of cheap ale.
"Night inspection," the older guard grunted, tapping the side of our wagon with a spear. "What's the cargo?"
Cian froze. He was used to flashing his Noble Crest to bypass guards. But if he showed his Crest here, in a manure wagon at 3 AM, it would raise more questions than it answered. He looked at me. Do something.
I leaned out of the back, pulling my hood down. I rubbed some dirt on my face to hide my pale "scholar" skin. "Fertilizer, officer," I said, pitching my voice lower, rougher. "High-grade night-soil for the fungal farms in the outer ring. Fresh from the sewers."
The guard wrinkled his nose. The smell of the actual manure we had smeared on the outside of the barrels was overpowering. "Smells like a corpse took a sh*t," the guard muttered. "Open the back. Need to check for contraband."
Cian's hand went to the hidden dagger in his boot. If they opened a barrel and saw the glowing red liquid, we were dead. "Come on, boss," I complained, scratching my neck like an addict. "If I open it, the methane leaks out. My boss docks my pay if the quality drops. Look, it's late, you're cold..."
I reached down and "accidentally" dropped two gold coins. They landed in the mud with a soft plink. "Whoops. Clumsy hands."
The guard looked at the gold. That was a week's salary for him. He put his boot over the coins, hiding them instantly. "Right," the guard said, stepping back. "Don't want to let the... methane out. Move along. But keep it quiet."
"Bless you, officer."
Zane flicked the reins. The wagon rolled forward. As we crossed the bridge, Cian exhaled a breath he had been holding for two minutes. "Bribery," Cian said, straightening his coat. "Disgusting. But effective."
"That wasn't bribery," I corrected. "That was a toll fee. Welcome to the underworld, Cian. Everything has a price."
The Warrens - The Mole's Den
We left the wagon in a hidden alcove guarded by two street urchins (paid with a copper coin each). We rolled the barrels down a spiraling ramp into the deep underground.
The air here was thick with smoke, spices, and sweat. The Warrens were a city beneath the city. Markets sold stolen watches, unidentified meat, and illegal spells. No one looked at our faces. Everyone looked at our hands (to see if we had weapons) and our pockets (to see if we had gold).
We reached a massive, reinforced steel door embedded in the rock wall. There was no handle. Only a small sliding grate. I knocked. Rat-a-tat. Tat. BOOM. The rhythmic knock of the Black Iron Syndicate. (Another detail from the game lore).
The grate slid open. A pair of mechanical goggles stared out. They zoomed in and out with a soft whirrr. "Password?" a scratchy voice demanded.
"The bedrock cracks before the shovel," I recited.
"Wrong," the voice cackled. "That was last week's code. New code is: 'Gold is heavy, blood is light'."
"Damn updates," I muttered. Cian stepped forward. "We have twenty barrels of Aether-Fuel. High volatility. Are you buying or should I sell it to the Goblins?"
The eyes narrowed. The mention of "Goblins" (competitors) did the trick. "Goblins don't pay in minted coin," the voice scoffed. "Come in. Don't touch the walls. They bite."
The massive door groaned and opened.
We stepped into The Mole's Den. It was a tinkerer's paradise. The walls were covered in blueprints, digging tools, and explosives. Sitting on a pile of dynamite crates was The Mole. He wasn't a beast-man. He was a Dwarf. But he was barely recognizable. His limbs were replaced with brass mechanical prosthetics. One eye was a gem-lens. He was smoking a pipe that emitted green smoke.
"Quartermaster Moltor," I greeted him. "We brought the spice."
Moltor hopped down from his crate. His metal legs clanked on the stone. He scurried over to the barrels, sniffing them. He pulled a small drill from his mechanical finger, bored a tiny hole in the lead, and extracted a drop of the Red Sludge. He put the drop on his metal tongue. HISS. Smoke rose from his mouth. He grinned, revealing gold teeth.
"Spicy," Moltor rasped. "Pure. Uncut. This isn't standard blasting powder. This is... alchemical runoff. Highly reactive." He looked at Cian. "You're the Aurelius boy. I recognize the smell of expensive soap. Daddy cut you off?"
"My finances are none of your concern," Cian said coldly. "We agreed on a price. 1,000 Gold per barrel."
"Market fluctuates," Moltor shrugged. "City Watch is cracking down. Risk is high. 800 Gold."
"1,200," Cian countered instantly. "Because unlike standard powder, this liquid can be poured into cracks. It breaks foundations silently before the boom. It's tactical."
Moltor paused. He looked at the sludge again. "Tactical..." he mused. "1,000. Final offer. Or I feed you to my pet rock-worm."
Cian looked at me. I nodded. "Deal," Cian said. "20,000 Gold. Upfront."
Moltor snapped his fingers. From the shadows, two massive Golems made of scrap metal lumbered forward, carrying heavy chests. They dropped them at our feet. CLANG.
Cian opened one. It was filled with gold bars. Illegal, unmarked bullion. "We can't spend this in shops," Cian whispered to me.
"We aren't shopping," I whispered back. "We're going to a black market auction. This is the preferred currency."
Moltor began directing his golems to move the barrels. "Pleasure doing business," Moltor cackled. "By the way... be careful on your way up. You aren't the only ones buying boom-juice."
I paused. "What do you mean?"
Moltor took a puff of his pipe. "House Valerius. Their agents were here yesterday. Bought my entire stock of Flash-Powder and Binding Chains." He looked at us meaningfully. "They aren't mining, boys. You don't use Binding Chains for mining. You use them for hunting."
A chill went down my spine. Binding Chains were used to capture high-level monsters... or high-level mages. House Valerius was preparing a trap.
"Thanks for the tip," I said.
The Climb Back
We loaded the gold into the wagon. It was heavier than the explosives. Zane drove us out of the Warrens, the horses straining up the incline.
"Did you hear him?" Cian asked, sitting on the chest of gold. "Valerius bought Binding Chains. Why?"
"The Midterms are over," I reasoned, my mind racing. "They lost the glass monopoly. They are desperate. If I were Lord Valerius, and I wanted to regain power quickly... I wouldn't hunt a monster." I looked at Zane. "I would hunt the people who stole my money."
"Us?" Zane asked.
"No. They don't know it's us yet. They suspect, but they don't have proof." I realized something. "The Auction. The Heart of the Chimera." "What about it?"
"The Chimera Core isn't just a crafting material," I explained. "In the wrong hands, it's a biological weapon. If Valerius gets it, they can breed war-beasts. They can regain their military contracts."
Cian's eyes widened. "So we aren't just buying it to build a machine. We are buying it to stop a war."
"Correct."
Suddenly, the wagon stopped. "Zane?" I called out.
"Roadblock," Zane said, his voice tight.
I looked out. We weren't at a checkpoint. We were in a dark alley in Sector 7. Blocking the path were four figures. They wore cloaks, but I saw the glint of steel. And on their chests, a faint magical crest glowed. Not the City Watch. The Syndicate. Low-level thugs looking for a toll. They must have seen us leaving the Warrens with a heavy load.
"Exit tax," the leader growled, holding a jagged sword. "Leave the wagon. Walk away."
Cian sighed. He looked at his watch. "I'm tired, Aren. I'm dirty. I smell like manure. And I have a Transfiguration exam in four hours." He looked at Zane. "Zane. Please remove them."
Zane grinned. It was a terrifying sight in the dark. He didn't draw his sword. He just cracked his knuckles. "With pleasure."
-Five Minutes Later-
We were moving again. Behind us, four figures lay groaning in the mud. No one was dead, but there were a lot of broken ribs.
Cian wiped a speck of blood (not his) from his cheek. He looked at the chest of gold. 20,000 Gold. Plus our previous savings... we had enough. We had the entry ticket to the big leagues.
"Aren," Cian said softly.
"Yeah?"
"Today... I sold illegal explosives to a dwarf, bribed a guard, and authorized a violent assault on gang members." He looked at his hands. "I feel..."
"Guilty?" I asked.
Cian looked up. His eyes were shining with a strange light. The adrenaline of the deal. The thrill of the underworld. "No," Cian smiled. A genuine, dangerous smile. "I feel alive."
I laughed. The Prince had fallen. Or maybe... he had finally ascended. "Welcome to the game, Cian."