Work Text:
Every once in a while, in one of the Bazaar’s many spires, the Masters gather to discuss making a deal to bring Paris down to the Neath as the Sixth City.
Fires always starts up in a rage at the start of the meeting. You’ll take London from my cold dead claws, it says. That can be arranged, Cups retorts. Wines mutters vaguely about the last time there was an argument on this scale over a deal for a city. Iron whacks it upside the head and tells it to shut its mouth.
In the middle of this discussion, another Master tries to make an argument in favor of taking some other city as the Sixth. Perhaps Spices begs to make a deal for New Dehli for the umpteenth time. Perhaps Pages just binge-read a bunch of obscure American romance novels and has convinced itself that the love present in Amish Country, Pennsylvania has a charm not present anywhere else. Perhaps Stones wants whatever part of Africa diamonds were discovered in last week. Whatever argument is made, the other Masters are unanimous in rightly rejecting that suggestion as a foolish idea not worth consideration.
In the end, the argument goes nowhere. Each Master leaves for its own spire in a huff. Veils slams the door on its way out in frustration. In the confusion, nobody seems to notice that neither Mirrors nor Apples even bothered to show up.