Wisdom and Merchurio

We stepped through shadowed doorways below the eaves of a city. Spindling pathways, interconnecting veins slicing communities, marking unseen borders; such paths we followed. Me leading, she grasping my hand so tightly and following close behind.
We used the eventide well, to cloak our movements through these old corridors, these thick passageways between buildings, where the walls have been laid so close to one another that it appears there is no room to proceed. They close in, such walls, upon two lonely children running together away from families and light; avoiding sentry and night-watchman; breaking curfew and command.
Somewhere, a darkness calls us, and we go to him. This man, so enshrouded, has waited almost half an hour longer than agreed. He is angry. He wishes to be paid double; paid double to take us to Merchurio.
I give him all I have and he sneers and spits on the ground. He has a face like lemon peel, and hair grows from his every wrinkle and sore. The creature eyes Leda, attempts to paw her and ask her name. I pull forth my dagger and brandish it close to his hand. He laughs once, and turns his back to me. I don’t know if I’m winning or not. Leda’s grip advances up my arm.
He beckons us on, through streets where fetid streams wash away the sins of gin-soaked sleepers, dead and bloated on the cobbles. He beckons us on, toward Merchurio.
To the east, the city drifts downhill and flattens out at its borders with the forest. There is little change from picking our way through the claustrophobic maze of streets and buildings to dodging huge trees and overhanging branches. And it is just as dark here. The moon finds it as difficult to prick the shadows of nature as it does the shadows of man.
“Soon enough,” says our odious guide, “soon enough,” as though answering our unspoken questions as to our arrival in the house of Merchurio.
As the dense canopy appears to give way to a clearing ahead, I fancy I hear the roar of the dragon and the snort of the bull nearby. Through the trees, the moon is able to illuminate gilded spectres dancing in the forest glade. Are these satyrs and devils? Do the gods walk abroad in this place? I slow my pace, and Leda holds me across the chest, burying her head in my side. But we strive on.
As we break the treeline, an assortment of a strange and fearful kind cast their eyes towards us for a moment and then go back to their business. They are people, not faeries, demons or other and they are revelling with ale, laughter and flame. Beneath the shelter of the larger tree boughs are sat huts and skin-tents. We are not pointed in the direction of the largest of these abodes, but rather to a battered erection covered with stitched hides, where smoke drifts aimlessly from a small vent and strange lights dance within.
A flap of skin is peeled back and we are bidden entry to this hollow of madness. Inside, smoking a small pipe, sits Merchurio.

...to be concluded...