"We want her in a position where she needs what you can give. If you've already resurrected one of the mummies, you've effectively already given her what you'd be offering, and she can get what she wants without acknowledging your outrageous request."

"Ah. Gotcha."

"So, we tell her you can bring back the dead, and you'll cooperate with the studies of the Department of Thanatology if she agrees to take on your Rubbery Scholar. What else... We need some way to keep this from getting Benthic shut down. My sister can call in some favors with Hell, keep them from coordinating on the matter, but the Bazaar is still a problem. I don't suppose you have some hidden connection to the Masters?"

"...Well, not as such, but I have been meaning to go yell at Mr. Fires for the whole Orphanage business."

"...well, while you're at it, see what it would ask to allow a Rubbery to attend Benthic."

"Okay! I guess that's my next stop, then!"

"Best of luck! I really hope this all goes through."

"...Okay actually do you know where the Masters...live."

"That would be the Bazaar, in the middle of the city. They live in the highest spires, and they don't let just anyone in. It's possible you're not 'just anybody', though."

"I'd like to see them try to keep me out," she snorts. "Alright, I'm off." 

She heads towards the bazaar. 

She isn't wearing Hephaesta's concealing outfit; instead she's garbed in an old white dress of her mother's that accentuates the fact that her hair is white, not just a really pale blonde; right now, she's going for impact and drama. She stalks with purpose, keeping the tallest spires in sight. 

When she reaches the gates of the Bazaar, there is something like lightning and thunder, blasting against her with bone-shaking force. It's the Correspondence - in its pure, spoken form. Concepts, no connective tissue. A great beast waking from sleep at the approach of one it knows, but has never met. A child, young as a dying mayfly, coming to visit their ancient progenitor. An occurrence that was never dreamed of, for the dreamer did not know to dream it.

What. 

Uh. 

Gosh. 

She speaks in return. Her voice is different, less lightning and thunder and more crystals tumbling against each other in a river. 

The righteous coming to confront a transgressor. The traveler, encountering one along the road whom they had never thought to meet. The discovery of an unknown connection between previously established individuals?

The discovery of an unknown connection between previously established individuals, the Bazaar repeats wonderingly. It begins to explain. A lowly messenger, sent by its beloved master, the Sun, to deliver a troth of love to another star. The rejection of a troth. The refusal to deliver a message, the second-greatest crime a messenger can commit. The seduction of a master by their servant, the greatest crime imaginable. Flight to a place where one cannot be found. The birth of a hybrid. A diamond, the size of a mountain, shining with vital light.

The assumption of a lowly form by one high on the Great Chain of Being? it asks in turn. An inquiry, without judgment, as to the birthing parent of one's conversational partner.

A human traveler, forbidden the surface but exploring as far as is allowed her. A great mountain shining with light that gives light. A child refusing to speculate on the topic of their parents having sex. The traveler returning to her home and her firstborn. Giving birth in secret to an unprecedented hybrid. 

The Bazaar crackles with something like laughter at her refusal to speculate. The desire to someday meet the mother of one's grandchild. The breaking of the Great Chain of Being by two successive generations of a family. Curiosity about the continuance of a pattern.

The observation that rearing children is perhaps a responsibility left to those slightly older. The openness to possibility. A lack of plans in a given direction at present. 

A concession. More crackling laughter.

It sobers. A transgressor. The existence of many who could be called transgressors making their nests among one's spires. The contractual obligation to protect those one has largely grown to loathe. The stern forbiddance of violence against entities under one's protection. Conditional on the previous point being accepted, an invitation to speak to the one who the referent seeks.

The concept of transgressions whose most notable feature is their insanity rather than their transgressionness. Acceptance of offered conditions.

The casual observation that one's oath of protection likely could not be fulfilled if a conversation were arranged elsewhere than within one's own spires, the Bazaar "whispers" with a flicker of light and a crackle like ice breaking underfoot. The equally casual observation that the oath does not compel vengeance in the event that an entity under one's protection should somehow meet its end.

The outermost door of the Bazaar swings open.

She steps inside and pats the doorway affectionately on the way through. 

She passes through six more doorways as she travels upwards through the tunnels that criss-cross the inside of the Echo Bazaar. The final door is made of steel, and when she passes through it she is greeted with ten passageways. Each bears a burning sigil.

That which sustains.

That which breaks.

That which burns.

That which makes, and destroys.

That which elucidates.

That which dulls and delights the senses.

That which glitters.

That which conceals.

That which quenches.

There's one other passageway, dusty and cobwebbed. The sigil has been savagely clawed at; it's difficult to tell whether it means That which lights the way or That which devours.

Mildly concerning and she will probably inquire about that later. 

She knocks on the door which says That which burns. 

The door opens immediately. She is greeted by a ten-foot-tall bat-creature.

"Wastelander," it says, in a surprisingly high-pitched, half-whispering voice. "I doubt you will believe me when I say this, but it is a pleasure to meet you properly."

"What the fuck was your goal with the moon-miser and the Orphanage and the hybrid," Lucy says, having no patience whatsoever with Mr. Fires to waste on pleasantries. 

It hisses out a laugh, and picks up a pen.

Such things should not be discussed under the very eaves of my master, it scrawls on a sheet of vellum. If we are to have this conversation, I would rather do it on neutral ground. Say, Wolfstack Docks? There is a particular address that would serve to illustrate my points.