The nearly-forgotten sensation of hope.

The restoration of privileges to those who lost them, conditional on the restoration of that which they destroyed. Leading a healer to what they must heal?

The glad agreement to go to a designated location and perform a designated task. Joy in making the world a place with just a little less suffering in it.

The particular set of passages under the shell of a messenger that lead to the location of the Cladent Lobe. A door opens before her.

She enters the door and follows the directions given her, paying careful attention to everything she passes. 

She passes rather a lot of doors. Or, well, they look like doors to start with. As she follows the path deeper into the Bazaar, they look more and more organic.

Eventually she comes to a vast chamber. It is defined, clearly, by the absence of something that should be inside it. Something very, very large. The size of a sailing-ship, or a small house. The walls of the chamber are smooth, but they're particolored, pink and red and silver, a catalogue of different kinds of scar tissue.

The "voice" of the Bazaar comes from all around her. A human surgeon. Hands steadier than stone. A knife that cuts, and cuts, until there is nothing left to remove. A story relayed secondhand, because while it occurred the storyteller was insensate with pain.

She swallows. 

She nods, even though she doesn't think the Bazaar can probably see it. 

She lights up, pushing her healing glow to go brighter, stronger, better.

As the light plays over the walls, the scarring goes from silver to red to pink, and when it's pink the wall begins to distort. First, holes open in the flesh, trickling strange fluids. Then, thick veins begin to grow around the holes, and connect to other walls. Gradually, at the center of the room, an organ grows - much like a human heart, if the heart were the size of an African elephant.

Eventually, things stop happening. The Cladent Lobe pulses, once every minute or so.

...the impossible sensation of one's purpose returning, the Bazaar marvels. The powerful desire to deliver a message long deferred. (A reassurance that the referenced desire can be staved off for another century or two.) Unrelenting love. The impossibility of properly rewarding a worker of miracles.

...Being a younger sibling, infinitely treasured by one's parent and one's elder sibling. The fact that individuals who have demonstrated strongly exogamous inclinations may be supposed to have done so more than once. Two beings, neither in possession of the simple certainty of being only one kind of thing, yet neither of the exact same kind of being as the other. 

Beings created for servitude and despised at every level of society. The general shape of a squid. The necessity of hiding that which distinguishes one from humanity. The desire for one's loved one to not need to be afraid. ...The desire for one's loved ones to get along with each other.

There's a long pause.

The abominable spawn of the children of Axile? the Bazaar asks eventually. The belated observation that certain phrases carry undue connotations. The desire to correct oneself. The beings known to humans as "Rubbery Men"?

The confirmation that the referent has identified the correct subject. The appreciation of the observation of connotations and correcting to a phrase without. The observation that prior to discovery it was not known that certain forms of hybrids were even possible. The firm assertion that an unusual individual is a good person.

...The desire to meet, at some point, with an individual who inspires positive feelings in one's grandchild. A promise to use one's considerable influence to improve conditions for a specified under-class. A warning that an undertaking will not be immediately effective. The general stubbornness of humans when it comes to hatred. A reassurance that progress will be made, well before the fall of the next city. A reassurance that the next city will call the beings known to humans as "Rubbery Men" steadfast friends.

The recollection of an errand intended to be run. An individual of a relevant species with desires to better themself through knowledge. A promise of aid as part of an unspecified transaction. The attempt to convince a scholar to admit a socially catastrophic pupil. The consideration of amelioration of consequences; a promise to request an absence of sanctions in the event that the pupil is admitted. 

Fascination at the persistent desire of even the lowest on the Chain to better themselves. Agreement not to make a nuisance of oneself. A request, addressed to one not involved in the conversation but listening in on it, that they supply documentation to this effect. A pause. That which creates and destroys.

Gratitude and joy, she says, and heads for the Masters' quarters. 

She reaches them uncontested. Would she like to additionally go down the hallway labeled That which creates and destroys?

Yep, that is exactly the thing she is going to do. After pausing to give another disturbed/concerned look to the door with the scratched sigil. 

The door of That which creates and destroys opens as she's looking at the scratched sigil, and its inhabitant pokes its head out. Bats don't have much in the way of facial expression, even giant anthropomorphic bats, but if they did, this one would be raising its eyebrows.

"Hi! Uh, Fires explained that," she gestures at the sigil, "and it sounded pretty fucked up."

It nods and beckons her into its chambers.

Once she's inside, it writes on a sheet of paper, IT WAS, AS YOU SAY, PRETTY FUCKED UP. BUT SUCH IS THE CONSEQUENCE OF INVOLVING ONESELF IN THE INTRIGUES OF THE BAZAAR. CANDLES WAS ITS FAVORITE OF OUR NUMBER, YOU KNOW.

"They were?"

It shrugs. IT CERTAINLY MADE EXCEPTIONS FOR CANDLES THAT IT WOULD NOT MAKE FOR OTHERS. IT TOOK ON THE CHILDREN OF AXILE AT CANDLES' RECOMMENDATION. IT GAVE CANDLES THE DOMAIN OF DREAMS, THOUGH WINES AND SPICES BICKERED OVER IT FROM THE FIRST. I HAVE EVERY REASON TO BELIEVE IT LIKED THIS PET BEST OF ALL. PERHAPS IT SAW SOMETHING OF ITSELF IN THE RUNT, CAST OUT FOR NO CRIME OF ITS OWN. BUT THAT DID NOT STOP IT, IN THE END.

"...Mmmmmmaybe it was mad over the Axile thing."

It lets out a whistling shadow of a laugh. ALSO A POSSIBILITY.

I HAVE NOT INTRODUCED MYSELF; I APOLOGIZE. I AM CALLED MR. IRON. I BELIEVE I WAS INTENDED TO GIVE YOU THIS.

It hands her a page of its own handwriting, mathematically precise black sans-serif capitals stating that the Bazaar will not involve itself in the matter of the University choosing to take on a Rubbery Scholar. At the top is an elaborate seal, pressed in still-warm violant wax, which implies the lines and curves of a Correspondence sigil she can't quite make out.

I WAS NOT ENTIRELY CERTAIN WHICH SIDE OF THE UNIVERSITY WOULD BE ADMITTING SAID SCHOLAR. BENTHIC SEEMED MORE LIKELY, BUT CLEARLY YOU ARE NOT SOMEONE WHO SETTLES FOR THE PROBABLE.

"I am not! But Benthic was correct! Thanks!" 

IT WAS MY PLEASURE. YOU IRRITATE FIRES, AND THAT IS REASON ENOUGH TO AID YOU. TO BE CLEAR, MANY THINGS IRRITATE FIRES, BUT RARELY DOES A LIVING CREATURE LIVE TO IRRITATE IT EVEN AFTER SUFFERING ITS PERSONAL ATTENTION. I HOPE YOU WILL CONTINUE TO IRRITATE IT FOR A VERY LONG TIME.