“Yes, that,” said the Goblin matriarch.

“Can we afford to miss out on being as molten as the other banks?” asked Izek.

“Liquid,” said Feista.

“Our balance sheet is wet enough, since we divested from the dragon’s hoard,” said Guglug.

Feista rubbed her forehead. “Just the one word. Liquid.”

“We had to sell shares in every financial institution and reinvest directly in commodities and non-combat sectors,” continued the Slaugh.

“And the timing was right,” said Asherzu. “Our stock price touches the sky, and our cash reserves are as full as the sea. All of our foes envy our stability and untainted balance sheets.”

“But, Great Lady, there is a risk to inaction,” insisted Izek.

“There is wisdom in your words, Izek of the Li’Balgar. But there is a greater risk in holding shares of the dragon, beyond that which Feista Hrurk has already told us.” She looked at Burt. “Our sources do not think that Gorm Ingerson’s party will find a dragon at all.”

The Kobold pulled a drag from a ratty cigar. “They’re betting on it. And if they’re right… well, no dragon, no treasure.”

The other Shadowkin exchanged worried looks.

“I have heard such a rumor on the Wall,” said Pogrit. “Yet none give it much thought.”

“Nor will they,” said Asherzu. “As long as everyone believes the dragon is wealthy beyond measure, they are rich. If everyone was to say there is no dragon, their fortunes would be as dust in the wind. The cautious among them will try to quietly divest of the dragon’s hoard, and those who cannot accept the possibility will buy the stock up, though I cannot say if it is because they believe in the hoard’s value or if they wish their illusion to live a little longer. The indecisive will do both, at different times.”

She gestured to Feista’s chart. “And it will be, as was said, a complete meltdown. Chaos.”

The board stared at the jagged lines of the graph, which looked like the outline of a forest fire, and imagined the turmoil and panic behind it.

Another thought, tired of patiently waiting in the queue, struck Feista. “Wait,” she said, shaking her head. “If Gorm Ingerson’s party doesn’t think there’s a dragon, what are they doing down there?”

“Survival is priority number one,” said Kaitha. “And frankly, it’s going to take everything we’ve got.”

The Elf paced in front of a large map nailed to the oak wall. It profiled Mount Wynspar, with the tiers of the city running up its left side and a maze of corridors and ancient chambers running through it like the innards of some bizarre shellfish laid bare on a dissection table. Toward the city, the drawing was a map with specific rooms and caverns noted, but closer to the heart of the mountain, the map trailed into vague outlines around particular regions and woodcuts of monsters, traps, and nightmarish cavescapes. “There are no safe zones in Mount Wynspar. No shops of traveling merchants, and nobody to come if we need help. If we get caught in a bad situation, if we lose focus for just one moment, someone will die.”

The other heroes nodded grimly, glaring at the dungeon map as though it was covered in offensive graffiti.

“Successful parties follow five rules for survival,” continued the Elf. “First, be prepared. Bring the right gear, check and make sure it’s in the right place, and always be ready to fight or flee. Preparation is everything.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Gorm swept out an arm to encompass the room. The sales consultation room at Creative Destruction’s main shop had several fine chairs arrayed around the map, two reinforced podiums for demonstrations, and shelves filled with every sort of adventuring gear, from silksteel rope to explosive vials. “To get geared up!”

“Hear, hear!” said Boomer from the back. A tattooed Scribkin built like an Orc, Boomer was half of the duo that ran Creative Destruction Incorporated, Andarun’s most prestigious and innovative adventuring consumables company. His co-founder and partner, Buster, was a scaled Gremlin in a white coat that smiled and quietly raised a fist in the air.

“I thought we were here so we could use their map,” murmured Heraldin.

“That too,” Gorm whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“The second rule,” Kaitha continued loudly, “is don’t split the party. Stay together as much as possible, in the most literal way. Third, keep moving, but don’t rush. Dawdle and the big dungeon predators will come. Get reckless and we risk falling into traps. We camp light and quickly. We keep marching when we’re up. Fourth, fight smart. We’ll be in enclosed spaces with hostile, unfamiliar terrain. No brash moves.” She leveled a glare at Heraldin, then shifted her steely gaze to Laruna. “And no fireballs! Nothing explosive at all.”

The solamancer rolled her eyes and gave a begrudging nod.

“And fifth…” Kaitha’s bravado and shoulders dropped in one long sigh. “Fifth is that we finish the job, whatever happens. If I fall, mourn me when the quest is done. If you fall, I will do the same. But if we let grief or pain or rage cloud our judgment for even a moment, it can mean another of us dies. Or all of us. We all know the risks. We all know what’s at stake if we fail. So no matter what, we keep moving. We take the next step. We finish the job.”

A solemn silence filled the salesroom for a moment.

“Aye,” said Gorm, leaning back in his seat. “No matter what, we see this through to the end.”

“To the end,” said Laruna, raising a fist.

“No matter what,” said Jynn.

Gaist nodded.

“Just make sure they only say good things about me in my ballad,” said Heraldin.

“Gonna be more of a jingle, then,” said Gorm.

“If we stick to these rules and follow the plan,” Kaitha said, “we’ve got a shot at finding the truth, facing whatever’s down there, and making it home. If we don’t, we’ll be lucky to have any bard mention us.”

“The principles seem sensible, but what is the actual plan?” asked Jynn.

Kaitha pointed to the edge of the map closest to the city. “After we enter the Dungeon Gate, we’ll be in the Lower City. Standard subterranean ruins, and it shouldn’t be too dense as the Golden Dawn cleared them out a couple of weeks back. Expect Dire Rats, your basic slimes and oozes, scargs, and bandits.”

“What about… uh…” Laruna turned to Buster. “What’s the polite thing to call Shadowkin who may rob or kill you?”

“What? Oh, I wouldn’t worry about addressing anyone who’s trying to kill you,” said the Gremlin, looking up from a clipboard.

“She means, what should she call ’em now?” said Boomer.

“That makes more sense, I suppose.” The Gremlin turned back to the solamancer and adjusted his spectacles. “I’d say ‘bandits’ covers it.”

“Right, but how do I distinguish Orc and Goblin bandits from, uh… other bandits?” The mage’s question wilted near the end, and she wore the expression of a rafter looking down the river at an ominously roaring cloud of mist.

“How do you distinguish Elf and Halfling bandits?” asked Buster.

Kaitha came to the mage’s rescue. “Expect a diverse variety of bandits,” she said firmly.

Laruna shot an apologetic wince to the Gremlin. Buster waved the offense away.

“We’ll head through the northern passages instead of downward, so we can skip the sewers, the Reeking Deep, and the Fungal Passages entirely,” the Elf continued, tracing a horizontal line from beneath the Fourth Tier to just underneath the Seventh. “If it’s still clear after the Golden Dawn, that should bring us to the Low Way within the first day. If foes have crept back in and started rearming traps, could be up to two days.

“The Low Way will take us on a steep descent, and when we’re down far enough we’ll hit the Necropolish, and that’s a labyrinth.” The ranger drew a line down a straight corridor into a maze of thin passages positioned roughly beneath the Ninth Tier to the area below the Pinnacle. The area was decorated with woodcuts of tentacled monsters and imposing subterranean buildings.

“We need to focus on pressing northward through the Necropolish, and⁠—”

“Excuse me, but are you saying ‘Necropolish’?” asked Jynn.