A Tinderkin in opulent robes rolled her eyes as she passed, but Heren ignored her. more people were coming down the lane. Heren perched on the corner like a bear at a salmon run, and bellowed with just as much volume. “Learn why the fate of the Freedlands and your pension hang in the balance! Extra!”

A silver-haired Human in a blacksmith’s robe sidled up to her. “When’s all of this supposed to be done with?” he demanded.

“That’s extra,” Heren reiterated, jangling the coin pail she wore around her neck. “They’re to set out within the week,” she added when he deposited tuppence into the bucket.

“And this party’s got a chance to succeed?” asked an old Halfling doubled over beneath a load of firewood.

“’Course not!” snorted the blacksmith. “King Johan nearly died on this mission.”

“Ah, but this time⁠—”

“Five reasons why the new party is doomed! Extra!” said Heren loudly.

There was a thoughtful silence as the wood gatherer and the blacksmith considered the offer.

“How much extra?” asked the wood gatherer.

“One shilling, or five pence if you’ll listen to a special offer from the General Store.”

The Halfling produced five copper coins and listened patiently as the town crier told her about the General Store’s commitment to quality rope, hatchets, and stepladders. Heren gave her a blue, wooden chit worth five pence off her next purchase, and a one-shilling commission to Heren if she used it. She gave another chit to the blacksmith, and a third to the round woman who had joined them before launching into her list.

“The first and least reason,” began the town crier, “is that dragons are the most deadly monster the Heroes’ Guild has ever categorized. A dragon is big enough to eat a man in one bite, has scales like thick armor, and can fly faster than any horse. But worst is their fire. Experts at the Zoological Society of Monchester say that dragonfire is a flame so pure it can burn anything outside of a dragon. Legends tell us that the Weeping Rocks of Eastern Daellan were a mountain until the dread dragon Pyritax melted them with a gout of his flame.”

“See?” said the blacksmith.

“Heroes’ got potions for dealin’ with fires,” said the wood gatherer with the deep-seated confidence of the truly ignorant. A couple of more recent onlookers nodded in agreement, though most of the small crowd gathering around the town crier were clearly on the blacksmith’s side.

Heren handed out General Store chits to each newcomer without skipping a beat, as though her hands and head were being operated by different people. “The second reason is that Johan the Mighty and the Golden Dawn failed to defeat the monster. King Johan is arguably the most fearsome hero on Arth, and even he couldn’t defeat the dragon.”

“See?” said the triumphant blacksmith. “That ought to be the end of it. If Johan can’t do it, none can.”

“He couldn’t kill the liche,” said the wood gatherer.

“He killed Detarr Ur’Mayan the first time,” snorted the blacksmith. “’Sides, a dragon’s different, innit? You heard the girl; a dragon can eat your armor in one bite, and fly better than your horse can.”

“Um, my horse can’t fly,” offered an onlooker. Heren reflexively flipped him a blue chit.

“Flies better than even them winged horses,” corrected the blacksmith. “And its fire will toast any hero before they get close enough to shoot an arrow.”

“Not if they got a potion,” insisted the wood gatherer.

Heren quickly moved to cut them off; a little debate was good for business, but you had to stop the comments before things got out of hand. “The third reason the heroes are doomed,” she said loudly, “is that a third of their party hasn’t been adventuring in almost a year. Among the heroes to face the dragon, only Kaitha of House Tyrieth, solamancer Laruna Trullon, and Gaist the weaponsmaster have consistently quested. Gorm Ingerson has only run one job, and⁠—”

Heren would have noted that the party bard had not worked in a year, but at that moment the stone wall she was leaning against exploded outward in a shower of shale and dust. A hulking form stepped into the street, small stones dripping from its gray fur. Two crimson eyes locked with Heren’s, and a voice like an avalanche roared at her. Amid the screams of the fleeing townsfolk and the pounding of her own heart, it took Heren a moment to realize it was shouting words.

“Did you say Kaitha?” bellowed the Troll again.

Heren found that, despite her profession and training, her mouth was no longer forming syllables. Her lips flapped up and down soundlessly, and her knees buckled under even that strain.

The Troll held up a pair of gnarled hands and leaned in so close she could feel its hot breath. “No! No. Look, you’re having a physiological reaction. Perfectly normal! Just breathe. Relax!” To emphasize the need for calm, it flashed a set of teeth like a Goblin armory at her.

Heren sobbed.

“Now, listen. Stay calm,” said the Troll with the slow deliberateness of someone swaying on the edge of panic. “Did you say Kaitha of House Tyrieth is going to fight a dragon?”

The now-literal town crier managed to nod as she wiped her eyes.

“All right. Stay calm. Just breathe,” said the Troll slowly, though it wasn’t entirely clear he was talking to Heren. “And… and you think she and her party might not… they all might… not make it?”

The desperate timbre of the question triggered an instinct seared into the grain of Heren’s entrepreneurial soul. Slowly, automatically, she extended a trembling hand clutching a small blue chit worth five pence off the Troll’s next purchase at the General Store.

The Troll stared at the chit.

Heren followed its gaze.

Their eyes met again. The rest of Heren’s instincts, the elder senses used to keep primitive Man alive amid the primordial monsters and spirits of old, kicked back in, and she lowered the chit slowly and squeaked an answer.

“What?” said the Troll.

“They say it’s certain death!” squealed the town crier, squeezing her eyes shut.

The Troll’s pupils dilated, as though focusing on something far away. “Certain… death,” he repeated in a tone so flat, so level, that for a moment Heren thought whatever panic had propelled him through the stone wall had ended.

She was wrong.

“It’s a complete meltdown,” said Feista Hrurk. She pointed to a vellum chart next to her. It looked like someone had attempted to draw a line up and to the right, but then decided to scribble in half of the parchment instead. “It’s chaos. The Wall panics one moment and it’s manic the next. Shares of the Dragon of Wynspar spike and drop on any rumor. If Gorm Ingerson so much as sneezes, half a billion giltin appears or evaporates.”

Asherzu Guz’Varda steepled her fingers as she considered the graph. Around her, Warg’s board wore various shades of concern and avarice. “And have the fundamentals changed?” she asked.

“Not that I can see,” Feista said. “The dragon hasn’t been on a raid or slain any heroes since the Golden Dawn, so its hoard can’t be any more or less valuable than the equipment Johan’s party carried. The only change is in the trader’s heads.”

“And so it can be used against them!” said Izek. The Goblin wore an eager grin. “Their cowardice weighs them down! Now is the time to strike with cunning trades!”

Asherzu looked doubtful. “I think the advantage is to not make trades,” she said. “We were wise to be rid of our shares of the dragon’s hoard.”

“When the enemy is panicked, you strike!” insisted Izek.

“Not when they are panicking because their war barge is sinking,” countered Pogrit. “That is the time to sit back and watch them founder.”

Izek shook his head. “But surely there is some device we can use to our advantage here. Some derivative fund or Heroes’ Guild procedure that can be leveraged?”

“I am proud of our traders,” Asherzu said. “They have grown swift and cunning in their time roaming the Wall. But the Lightlings have many more years of experience than us, and their derivatives are often traps laid for the unwary. We lack the skill to exploit this opportunity.”

“What if the dragon has much gold?” said Freggi. “Not as much as the inflated price of its hoard implies, but still much. Even if other funds sink, will not their institutions get a sudden infusion of… uh, how do the Lightlings say skib’dibarg? Molten gold?”

“Liquid assets,” corrected Feista.