Dagon moved through the green-glass gate, where he left the humid warmth of the greenhouse for the direct heat of the markets and traded loam-soft footsteps, birdsong, and—murmurs and gasps that weren’t always the fountains—for the many-voiced mob of buyers and sellers. Kiosks, opportunistic merchants, and their prey thronged the white-brick road. They all squeezed themselves wherever the glass-fronted buildings gave them room. Most of the business owners longed to someday have space in one of these tall, respectable buildings, with their name above the door. Most of the pedestrians wanted to get out. Dagon moved to take a step, and then he paused.
The loam. Dagon stopped here, within the gate’s shadow. A human boy loitering with his little cart beside the gate moved up to kneel at Dagon’s side. Dagon lifted his feet as the boy’s cloth and brush required. He saw the boy’s hands still over their work on the fine, fine leather. He watched the boy’s eyes move up the fine breeches, to the gleaming brocade tunic, and—finally, his neck bent double, the boy met Dagon’s silver eyes.
“Dr—” Before the boy spoke further, the man pressed a coin into his hands. It was the size of a man’s palm, and overlarge in the boy’s hands.
“Thank you, child. Get out of the sun, have a meal, yes?” Dagon’s eyes combed through the mob, but the elf was nowhere; she wouldn’t be here for some time, even if she’d left soon after Dagon himself. The urchin had eyes as big as his new coin; he scampered away. Dagon continued on the sparkling path with his clean boots. Overhead and on the various buildings and stalls, stained- and blown-glass suncatchers, figurines, and containers caught the sunlight. Caught it, and multiplied it; after the green shade, it was unbearable. The press of the people: stifling.
But never a true press. Never any pushing. The people here moved like a shoal of fish. They never touched, and never shoved. Merchants called for shoppers, harangued, beseeched, but never caught at sleeves or shoulders. Wherever the people and the merchants and the buildings weren’t, guards stood and glowered. Their clothing and custom were spare; most of them, even the women, had shaved heads and cloth-wrapped feet. Dagon avoided them and their suspicious eyes. The guardsmen had posts in the other quarters, of course, but here they were legion.
Dagon looked around at the market as he moved. Ornaments and signs strung between the buildings rained down colored light that dappled the harsh white stones. There were elves here, but none of them seemed to be the woman; the light distracted him from his search. The sight and smell of the crowds of halflings, humans, young dragons in their myriad of mortal guises, and even the odd orc troubled Dagon’s nose. Some few immature dragons were bold as bronze in their true forms, and the crowds parted as they waded through. Other dragons in all colors were—harnessed, trussed to service as wagon beasts. Not slaves. No slaves in this city. Each fledgling was an employee; some actually owned the businesses for which they schlepped.
The Dragonguard kept his eyes light and roving. He waited at the intersection where pedestrian path met business way, and ignored the monks’ eyes drilling into him from their alcoves. He caught a glimpse of his pale-skinned target across the street. A wagon obscured her, and he lost her in the light and the crowd. He hadn’t noticed her pass him; had she cut through the common? She might be here already. Dagon ambled across the road to linger over the innumerable glassworks, the foods that had survived the drought, and the clothing for which it was far too hot. Dagon seemed to consider the marginally-cooler shadows inside the establishments as he peered through their walls. Glass held few secrets, but the elf wasn’t here.
In this district full of measured handshakes and careful passings, the tug on Dagon’s jacket and the muffled curse that followed startled him. His hand snapped out to grasp a delicate wrist, and his eyes followed. The boot boy.
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