The topology of the Speech followed the same well-worn contours every time Johan gave it. It had all the structure and preparation of a stream of thought, and it poured out of the paladin king in a torrent of quips and jokes, wistful remembrances and nostalgic entreaties, boasts and bravado. Yet beneath the gleaming smiles and trumpeting laughter ran an undercurrent of discontent.

“When I slayed the noctomancer Detarr Ur’Mayan or the council of Orc warlords, I didn’t need to worry about their paperwork.” Johan smiled wistfully into the distance as he spoke, as though he could see better times just over the far horizon. “We knew what was right back then! Things were simpler.”

The crowd cheered. Weaver toasted, presumably cued by the applause rather than any agreement with—or awareness of—Johan’s words. Goldson and Baggs shifted in their seats, bracing themselves for what would come next. Such an appeal to selective nostalgia and general righteousness was almost invariably followed by some decree or suggestion that wouldn’t fix the problem, but certainly seemed connected to today’s woes in the minds of the enthralled masses.

“That’s why it’s time for me to go back to professional heroics,” Johan said. “To assemble a team, and fight for justice once more! Andarun, meet your new heroes, the Golden Dawn!”

The crowd erupted into their most ecstatic cries yet as curtains parted and five new heroes walked onto the stage. Stage lights gleamed on golden armor emblazoned with suns and rays of light.

Baggs smiled at his partner. “No new edicts for us,” he predicted. “And much better than the tax hike you feared, Goldson.”

The old Dwarf scowled down at the stage. “They look like a bunch of ragged miscreants in expensive armor,” he growled.

“That’s professional heroes for you,” said Baggs.

Goldson shook his head and muttered something lost in the roar of the crowd, unconvinced. The audience didn’t quiet enough for the Dwarf to speak until Johan was done introducing his new party and started heaping superlatives on them.

“What is the matter, Goldson?” Baggs asked, troubled by his partner’s pensive expression.

“Do we know who these people are?” Goldson said.

“Who cares?” said the Halfling. “I’d have expected you to be happy to skip the details. Or at least no more unhappy than normal.”

Goldson shot him an impatient glare. “Our firm, Mr. Baggs, has long enjoyed a special relationship with the crown and the guild. When Handor was king, we knew the kingdom’s position on everything. We advised. We provided support, and in most cases, we earned a decent margin on it,” said Goldson. He nodded down to the five heroes standing behind the king. “Who are those lot? Why are we financing them? What opportunity are they pursuing, and why weren’t we presented with it? Does this pertain to the king’s secretive business in the Royal Archives, or does it mean he has new plans for our, ah, joint venture?”

Baggs’ mouth set in a deep frown as he listened. “It’s been apparent for quite some time that Johan is the proverbial tiger that we have caught by the tail, Mr. Goldson.”

Goldson sipped his drink and nodded in agreement.

“Still, I think you’ll agree that in such a situation, the key is, metaphorically speaking, to not get caught and to not let go.” Baggs took a sip of his own brandy. “Our only course is to ride the beast as best we can.”

“Of course. But I should like to better know where we’re going,” grumbled the old Dwarf. “Johan’s loyalty to Handor always had its limits. We should assume his alignment with our interests is… similarly constrained.”

“Naturally,” murmured the Halfling. He spoke up and turned to the drunken guildmaster. “Weaver? What do you know about this so-called party of heroes the king has assembled?”

Weaver Ortson was refilling his glass and sloshed a little wine onto the crimson carpet at the mention of his name. “Jus’… jus’ shigned the papersh,” he slurred.

“You do know something, though,” Baggs pressed.

“Jus’ shigned some papersh…” Ortson shook his head. His hands trembled as he poured. “I jus’ shigned…”

“Thrice curse it, man! What did you sign!” barked Goldson.

Yet Ortson said nothing useful. It was unclear whether this was because the guildmaster possessed a particular determination to keep a secret or because he was inebriated to the point of amnesia. It was also irrelevant; all of the bankers’ attempts to badger the man only yielded incoherent mumblings and some stains on the carpet.

“Leave him,” Baggs growled to Goldson eventually. “He’s useless to us like this.”

“As if that’s different from the norm,” grumbled the Dwarf. He stared down at the stage, where the king promised that he and his party of heroes would protect the people from the threat of the Red Horde. “Something is afoot, Mr. Baggs. Uncertain times are ahead.”

“I suspect you’re correct, Mr. Goldson,” said Baggs, turning back to the stage with a grimace. “And nothing is worse for the market than uncertainty.”

Feista Hrurk’s favorite thing about trading on the Wall was the uncertainty. The possibilities. The potential. The sense that, as much as the bankers and brokers wanted to know what the market would do next, anything could happen here once the bell rang and commerce was set loose upon society. She took a deep breath and savored the thrill of the market. It felt like an electric tingle buzzing from the fuzz on her ears down to the tip of her tail.

She watched the traders and brokers mill about in the shadow of the great stone edifice. The Wall was constructed such that its top remained mostly level, while its bottom dropped with each tier of the city down the mountain. It towered over the buildings and streets down at the Base, but was no taller than a hedge fence up on the ninth and tenth tiers.

On the Sixth Tier, the Wall was still taller than many of the buildings next to it—even taller than the great dome of the Andarun Stock Exchange. The exchange’s clerks had erected a great signboard above the trading grounds, built with long slats that could have numbers and letters slotted into and out of them. A large crew of Kobolds, House Gnomes, and Goblins dashed over a network of ladders and girders surrounding the sign, swapping out letters and numbers as prices rose and fell.

From her vantage at the edge of the trading grounds, Mrs. Hrurk could watch entire markets move. Her keen eyes tracked power and wealth as it migrated across the economic landscape. She could practically hear the pulse of society with every ebb and flow of the prices. The market itself seemed alive.

And like any living organism, it was messy. Traders and brokers pushed and shouted and waved packets of parchment in the air in a ritual that was some strange crossbreed of an auction, a melee, and a stampede. Buyers, candle-runners, and onlookers were caught up in the boil and added to the general confusion.

It put Feista in mind of Muskie’s Fish Market down by the Riverdowns. The only difference was that they sold paper instead of fish up here, and the sellers were convinced they didn’t stink as much. Feista knew otherwise; having a dog’s nose was a blessing and a curse.

First up on Mr. Poldo’s list was a way to short Conglomerated Silversmiths, though Mrs. Hrurk was too savvy to risk shorting outright. Feista’s ears perked up to hear better, and the thrum of the crowd separated into a thousand conversations, deals, and shouts. A man was angry about the price of the dragon’s hoard. A woman was yelling that she wanted barrels of tannin. A financier was hawking stock loans and short sales.

The last one sounded promising. She pushed through the crowd to a heavy Halfling in a garish purple suit with a matching top hat. “Stock loans! Get rich today! Pay tomorrow!” he hollered.

“You sell options?” Feista barked at him.

The Halfling looked her up and down, his red mustache drooping under the weight of a sudden frown. “You sure you’re in the right place, honey?”

“No, I’m not sure,” said Feista, working to keep her hackles down. “If you do put options, I might be, but if you keep asking dumb questions, I’ll have to take my money elsewhere.”

The Halfling held up his hands in apology. “All right, all right. Sorry. It’s just that options are complicated, right? And there’s, you know, minimums.”

“I’m optioning on eight hundred thousand giltin today, if I can find someone who doesn’t waste my time. Do you, or do you not, sell put options?” the Gnoll growled.

The financier perked up immediately. “Oh, um, yes! Yes, I’m your guy. Put and calls, short selling, derivatives, you name it. What do you need, darling?”

“Mrs. Hrurk,” she said.

“T. D. Swabber.” He held out his hand, mistaking her correction for an introduction.

Feista suppressed a sigh. “A pleasure. I’m looking to buy put options on ten thousand shares of Conglomerated Silversmiths. Three-month time frame, strike price of eighty giltin per share.”

“Are you sure you⁠—”

“Mr. Swabber, I’ve got deliveries coming to the home, contractors working on the kitchen, and three pups doing their best to destroy everything I manage to build. I am very busy. If it was just a short against the box I could have sent sprites to make the trade, but my partner doesn’t think there’s much chance of a bounce and they haven’t figured out how to make a sprite that can handle the per-share cost yet, so I have to be here. That’s an opportunity for you to earn a decent commission, if you don’t waste my time trying to figure out if I know what I’m doing. I do.”

“My apologies, hon—Mrs. Hrurk,” said Mr. Swabber. He counted off his fingers as he ran through some quick mental accounting. “That’s a two thousand and forty-four giltin fee, plus a ten percent commission.”

“Two thousand forty-four!” barked Feista. “Did you not hear that I know what I’m doing? That’s almost double the going rate! A thousand for the fee and a flat hundred giltin commission is more than fair.”

T.D. Swabber grimaced. “One thousand? That’s below the rate I’d charge a... uh.”

“Yes?” prompted Feista.