“Ugh. Nobody wants to see that,” said Gorm Ingerson, his lip curling into a sneer.

“Why is it so… pink? And quivering?” Heraldin’s face twisted up in disgust.

“It’s been a while,” said Jynn. “Things build up.”

“It’s unnatural, s’what it is,” Gorm grumbled. The three of them stared at what had recently become the most reviled sight in Andarun. A small oak drawer was set in the wall of the archmage’s office between two windows. As Jynn reluctantly stepped toward it, the drawer rattled and shook with manic energy, loosing flashes of rose-colored light as it threatened to break open. A brass plaque on the front said, “INBOX.”

“I thought all this fancy new magic was supposed to make life better,” said Gorm.

“There are always bumps on the road to progress,” said Jynn distractedly. He sidled up to the inbox cautiously, as though it might strike at any moment. It flew open as soon as he touched the latch and erupted into a cacophony of shrill shouts.

“A special offer for you!”

“It’s almost Mordo Ogg’s Day!”

“Mr. Ur’Mayan, an invitation!”

“Report from the fifteenth of Frostfall!”

“Is your sorceress satisfied?”

“A Mordo Ogg’s Day Sale at the General Store!”

“Silence!” barked Jynn, waving a hand over the drawer.

Most of the sprites’ shouting died down, save for one hopeful cry of “I am an Umbraxian prince…”

Gorm edged closer and peered into the inbox. Within it, dozens if not hundreds of messenger sprites were packed into a trembling mass of arms, legs, and wings. Their tiny, glowing faces swiveled toward the archmage with laser intensity, but they managed to fall mostly silent. A thought struck the Dwarf as he considered the tiny couriers. “Mordo Ogg’s day was weeks ago,” he said, unable to hold the reproach from his voice.

Jynn pursed his lips. “It has been a while,” he repeated tersely, then looked down at the sprites. “Now, I want the sprite from⁠—”

The tiny shouts began anew, the sprites shaking in frenetic desperation.

“The sprite from Oopa of Many Hues!” Jynn shouted over the din. “From her report on the fifteenth of Frostfall.”

A chorus of disappointed groans and sighs played out over the susurration of a multitude of tiny feet shuffling, but one excited sprite pulled itself from the mass and began hopping up and down atop its peers. “Report for the fifteenth of Frostfall!” it piped. “Report for the fifteenth of Frostfall!”

Jynn beckoned it to his desk, and began to shut the drawer over the protests of the sprites within. He paused as it was halfway shut and snarled into the opening, “And if any of you are about sales for any holiday, promotional offers, or marital enhancements of any kind, consider yourselves dismissed!”

A collective sigh of relief rose in a pink cloud from the mouth of the drawer as the vast majority of sprites within evaporated. The remaining stragglers sulked as Jynn slammed the inbox shut and turned back to his chosen messenger. “Now then,” he said. “Report.”

The sprite hunched down as if to avoid attention and whispered into its own hand. “I went to the Crimson Grove,” it said in a voice that, though high-pitched and piping, was clearly meant to resemble a low whisper. “It was a risk, but I saw the trees and they’re full. I mean, they’re laden with fruit. That’s because they grow year-round. They’re always in season! And the growers aren’t happy I found—” The sprite stood up straighter and gave a rasping cry, like a child imitating a distant shout. “Have to run!” it concluded, then turned back to Jynn expectantly.

“That’s clear as mud,” Gorm said.

“Out of context, I suppose it is.” Jynn unlocked the drawer of his desk with a thread of magic and began rifling through the papers inside. “My father spoke to me three times after his death. Once at the Ashen Tower, once at Highwatch, and once as I defeated him in Andarun. And in the first two of our encounters, he mentioned Kesh, and claimed the olive markets there are the greatest example of depravity in the world.”

“The merchants there are said to be ruthless,” said Heraldin.

“Perhaps, but ruthlessness was a virtue to my father.” A shadow passed over Jynn’s face. “As was an inquisitive mind; if he mentioned it twice, he intended for me to investigate. So I sent hired agents to find anything amiss with the olive sellers.”

“And what did they find?” asked the bard.

“Mostly what you’d expect.” Jynn pulled a folio from the drawer and set it on the desk. “Merchants gouging prices, tampering with scales, hiring bandits to steal from one another, that sort of thing.”

“In other words, bein’ merchants,” interjected Gorm.

“Indeed. Ah, here.” The wizard produced a slip of parchment from the folio and scanned it quickly. “Yes! We found a few suspicious threads to pull at, and I kept Oopa on to investigate them. By my notes, last week she went to the Crimson Grove to investigate the scarcity of Imperial flame olives on the markets. And according to her message, their rarity has nothing to do with a lack of production or seasonal cycles. On the contrary, the groves are full, and flame olives are always in season.”

Heraldin’s brow screwed up. “Then why are they always so expensive?”

Gorm grinned. “Somebody’s buying them up.”

“Exactly,” said Jynn. Which means that someone has cornered the market on the key ingredient of Arth’s most potent flame oil.”

“And if we find out who’s buyin’ all that oil, we can find who’s makin’ all the Arson’s Friend,” said Gorm. “We follow the trail far enough, and we’ll find our so-called dragon. And I’m bettin’ we’ll find Johan and them Goldson Baggs bastards sittin’ there as well.”

“The olives,” said Jynn.

“What?”

“The olives,” the archmage repeated. “They’d likely transport the whole olives. The oil is too volatile to make the journey up from the Empire.”

Gaist nodded.

It made sense to Gorm. He hadn’t traveled with a group carrying Arson’s Friend on a quest since he was a newblood, when he witnessed poor Topher Guggins slip and fall on a vial. The guild coroner had to scrape the old thief off the ceiling. “I suppose you’re right. Haulin’ barrels of Arson’s Friend across the desert would be suicide. One errant arrow from a bandit would vaporize a caravan.”

“Even carrying the olives is dangerous,” said Jynn. “They can combust if they’re exposed to too much heat or jostled too hard. Transporting them must involve some amount of magic or engineering, and they’re still safest to move by sea.”

Gorm scratched his beard. “So our culprit is bringin’ huge amounts of olives, in secret, up to somewhere near Andarun usin’ magic, Gnomish gadgets, or boats.”

“Or all three,” said Jynn.

“That’ll take a sophisticated smuggling operation,” said Gorm. “Now all we need is a way to track ’em.”

“Ahem.”

Dwarf, wizard, and weaponsmaster turned in unison to the bard, who had steepled his hands at the edge of the desk. “It sounds like you’re in need of a particular set of skills and connections. Skills and connections that I, as it happens, have. And you three, as we have discussed, have something that I need as well. This seems the makings of a good deal, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely not,” snapped Gorm. “Out of the question!”

Gaist shook his head forcefully.

“I’ll keep your share of the royalties at ninety basis points. That’s above average for a ballad,” Heraldin shot back. “The contract will be as generous as they come. All you have to do is sign over the rights.”

“Counteroffer,” growled Gorm. “Ye help me, and I don’t take ye down to the docks and use ye as bait to fish for the great Tarapin.”

“This is how the people will learn of the moments you single-handedly fought the liche, buying time for Jynn to weave his ultimate spell!”