In the past, Ben had been hurled out of a magically-contracting alley like a cannonball; he had ridden a centaur across forest terrain at a breakneck pace; he had fled from monsters as fast as his legs would carry him uphill; and he had free-fallen across an interdimensional void three times in a single day. His previous experiences had not prepared his stomach for the speed at which the clandestine elevator ascended the beanstalk, nor his brain to fathom the surreal nature of such a situation.

Ben held on for dear life and to his last meal, stealing a glance at his companions for reassurance. Unfortunately, the reassurance from his companions provided little comfort. Wilhelm was as unfazed as ever, with a pleased aspect while humming a tune and leaning against the wall. Sybil peered out of the sole, circular window to catch the view, wide-eyed with fascination.

How high are we even going? Ben wondered as he fought wave upon wave of nausea. Wherever they were headed, it certainly surpassed Machen in terms of height. After a few more agonizing minutes, the contraption finally lurched to a halt. As soon as the doors swung open, Ben bolted out and retched on the floor in a sudden bout of nausea. Sybil and Wilhelm walked around him leisurely.

“Ew, that’s awful,” Sybil grimaced, grossed out by Ben’s display.

“I just—I just need a moment,” he groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned around to see the beanstalk, but in its stead, he only found a brick wall. “Hey, it disappeared! How is that even possible?”

“Proprietary secret, remember?” Wilhelm said, as he tapped his head and winked. He then looked at the wall and sighed wistfully. “I remember the first time I rode the pod. Can’t say I did much better than you, lad. We could’ve walked, of course, but it wouldn’t have been the best idea with Sybil accompanying us. Not with our enemies walking among us.”

Ben struggled to his feet and dusted down his trousers, attention shifting to the new surroundings he was in. His eyes widened with amazement, a sentiment growing increasingly common in the City of Wonders, as the breathtaking vista before them captivated him. “We’re out of the Undercity alright.”

“That we are,” Wilhelm replied. “Welcome to the Hanging Gardens, home to the affluent and powerful of the Circle. The World That Is or the World That Is Not… Some things are simply the same everywhere.”

Ben remembered the cavernous ceiling he had seen as he first entered Dool, so high up that it could’ve been the sky. Now, at such a close distance, he noticed that it was covered with gemstones that gleamed with every conceivable color, bathing the Hanging Gardens with a dreamlike glow as they shone against the sunlight. He followed the path of the sun’s rays, and his gaze settled upon the horizon. The sea white like a shimmering mirror, and in the distance, the barely visible outline of an island enshrouded by mist. He then looked down and saw the gatehouse from which he had entered the city. The ever-present line of travelers looked like ants from where they stood.

“Quite the sight, eh? We’ll have plenty of time to look at it afterward. For now, we better move and make it home.” Wilhelm said.

He hadn’t realized it at first, but the street they were on was bustling with activity. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. A paragon of elegance. It was a far cry from the teeming bazaars of Dool Proper and the grimy alleys of the Undercity. Majestic storefronts lined either side, and the pedestrians dressed in attire that matched the opulence of their surroundings.

Ben’s sharp urge to explore the place and uncover its secrets was abruptly halted by Wilhelm. “Uh-uh, we’re headed the other way. You won’t be able to afford much on Nebuchadnezzar Avenue anyway. Come, we better hitch a ride with a snail-coach the rest of the way.”

Wilhelm stepped out of the sidewalk and lifted a hand, beckoning at traffic in hopes of being spotted by a driver—and he was. It took him less than a minute for a snail-coach to slide its way toward them.

The rider bowed courteously and pulled a latch next to him, unlocking the wagon’s door. It spoke similarly to the one Ben had already met. “Where will this sagecap take you this evening, mushi?”

“Ochrefriars 404 my good man, thank you,” Wilhelm said as he dropped a clump of groats into his hand. He then held the door open for Ben and Sybil. “Hop on, you two.”

They did as instructed. Sybil went in first and claimed a spot by the window, as was becoming customary. The interior of the snail-coach wagon differed greatly from the one he had previously encountered, leaving him pleasantly surprised.

Wilhelm entered after them and swung the door closed. He then rapped on the wooden panel behind his seat, a signal for the sagecap to get under way. The snail-coach slithered to a dependable start.

They picked up the pace, and Nebuchadnezzar Avenue shrank into the distance until it disappeared behind them.

Ben looked intently with his head against the window glass. Wilhelm broke the silence, as if divining his thoughts.

“That’s not the only spectacle you’ll see in the Hanging Gardens, lad. Sorcerers have a penchant for flamboyance after all, and here’s a place where they can afford it.”

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As if on cue, Sybil exclaimed in wonder, her eyes twinkling with excitement. Following her gaze, Ben was greeted by an incredible sight. Next to them, they saw spires of cluttered buildings built inversely, one on top of the other, with their foundations above the cavernous ceiling and their roofs below, increasingly lower. Some of them were hewn from the rock itself, while others were built with wood. Ben even spotted beautiful gardens and parks in between the manifold structures.

“That’s impossible. Gravity would…” Ben trailed off, his eyes averting to the precipice where the spires would fall.

Wilhelm leaned closer and tapped the window, pointing at the magical buildings. “Those won’t be taking the plunge anytime soon. Hells, I doubt an earthquake could take them! Their cornerstones have been carved with powerful runes, and lowspells are constantly cast to reinforce their old bones.”

“Why go to such lengths?” Sybil asked as she crossed her arms.

“Because they can. To show they can, more precisely. It takes a lot of groats to maintain such standards of living, but I doubt groats will ever be a problem for these sorcerers. This is as old as old money can get. Most of them are descendants of the original signers of the Treaties of Dool and most likely currently serve in the Council of Three.”

The Council of Three, Ben echoed in his head. He made a mental note of it, making a point of inquiring about it later. He’d heard of the Treaties before, but this was the first time he heard anything about a council.

The snail-coach took a turn, and the spires disappeared from sight. They entered a narrow street, and the surrounding atmosphere changed once again. Derelict chateaus and manses lined the path as far as the eye could see. They trawled along, and after a few more minutes uphill, they finally came to a halt. Before them loomed the front gate of an eerie residence.

“Here we are, Ochrefriars 404!” Wilhelm exclaimed with cheer. His enthusiasm was palpable as he stepped off the wagon.

Ben gulped and followed him, not with a twinge of apprehension. He helped Sybil down, who put a reassuring hand on his arm and offered a few uplifting words.

“It hasn’t been long since I first arrived, but you shouldn’t worry. This place’s scarier than it looks,” she said with a comforting smile.

They thanked the sagecap as it departed, then turned his attention to the mansion before them. Wilhelm rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Off to meet our benefactor, shall we?”

The front gate swung open on its own, almost invitingly. As they walked toward the entrance, they passed through a solemn garden, its beauty touched with an air of melancholy. Ben couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding as they approached the jagged silhouette of the house.

Not for the last time, curiosity got the best of Ben. “Who’s our benefactor?”

“None other than the Mad Alchemist himself, dear lad. A sorcerer of profound knowledge, to say the least.” Wilhelm answered almost reverentially.

“He... Means well?” Sybil added with uncertainty, which did not help Ben any better gauge their host’s temperament.

“He certainly does,” a deep voice said behind them, joining the conversation. Startled out of his wits, Ben turned around to find a tall man standing there, who looked every bit as somber as the garden they were in; he had a buzz cut and a diagonal scar marred his face, and his muscles tightened the fabric of the black suit he wore.

Wilhelm’s face lit up with recognition as he embraced the man, who reciprocated with a stiff grunt. “If it isn’t Robert!” He then extended a hand at Ben. “My friend, this is the young man I was telling you about.”

Robert sized him up with a look and then bowed formally. “Robert Orangier, at your service. Lifelong butler of the Sweeney family and its current master, Sir Ambrose Sweeney. I am grateful for the assistance you provided Lady Blake back in Dunport-Salem.”

Ben was taken aback by the contrast between his good manners and his tough appearance. He bowed and introduced himself in return. “Benjamin Umber. Um, at your service, too.”

The ghost of a smile danced around Robert’s lips, but he quickly turned all business-like. “If you’d follow me, the master awaited your homecoming. We’ve received news, and I think you’ll find them of the utmost import.”

They nodded and followed the butler without saying another word. As Orangier escorted them toward the main house, a sudden explosion rumbled from within—the force of the blast flung the doors open with a resounding bang, and the house belched forth an acrid, purple smoke.

Orangier sighed wearily. “The master is at his experiments again. He’s been feeling... Inspired, lately. Come along now. The fumes shouldn’t pose any danger momentarily.”

Wilhelm chuckled out loud and followed Orangier. Ben shot a worried look at Sybil, who stifled her laughter behind a hand. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she followed the adults. Ben sighed in defeat and followed them into the abode of the Mad Alchemist.

The acrid scent of the purple fumes lingered in the air, although it had dissipated significantly as they entered the house. The interior of the mansion was dimly lit, with ornate furnishings and peculiar contraptions scattered about. Ben’s uneasiness had not dissipated, but rather the opposite; he analyzed their surroundings as they stopped in the middle of the large lobby.

Orangier stood beside the base of a stairwell and bellowed upstairs, “Your guests have arrived, Master Sweeney!”

An old man with a long, crooked nose from which a pair of thick-rimmed glasses hung, and disheveled hair in a manic sort of way, bolted into the stairs and thundered his way down them. He wore a white lab coat that flapped behind him.

“Watch out! It’s coming right for you!” The old man shouted, his voice filled with urgency. A giant purple slime suddenly hurled its way down the stairs in close pursuit of him. Ben and Sybil took a step back, panicked by the sudden appearance of the amorphous monster.

“Bolster,” Orangier intoned. “Quicken. Fortify.”

The rush of magic sent shivers down Ben’s spine. He recognized the words, armspells all. He’d seen them being used on separate occasions by separate sorcerers, but unless his ears deceived him, Ben had heard the butler cast the three consecutively.

Orangier became a black blur as he crossed the room in a split second. He utilized his momentum and slammed the purple slime with his bare fist, his muscles bulging with the effort and ripping the fabric of his sleeve.

Such was the strength of his punch that the monster instantly exploded into a rain of lifeless ooze. It had all taken place in the space of a few seconds. Orangier became stiff again, and he addressed the old man. “Please be more careful, Master Sweeney.”

The old man—Sir Ambrose Sweeney—scratched the back of his head and laughed guiltily. To Ben, this so-called Mad Alchemist looked like a frail old man, but if the power shown by his butler was any indication, he should not go off appearances alone.

Orangier turned to them and bowed again. “If you’d make your way to the dining room, I will clean up this mess and have dinner served to you shortly.”

“A capital idea, my friend!” Sweeney said. “Damned slimes. That’s all I’ve been getting lately. At least this one was purple. Well, what are you waiting for? The dining room’s this way.”

And thus, they followed their eccentric host down a grand hall without another word.