There was a blackened smudge on the ground in front of the cathedral: the only testament of Lady Malory’s demise just hours before. Around the corner from there, the cathedral’s marble walls shone silver while the Moon hung over a twinkling sea. It would have been a serene scene, had there not been the incessant hollering from the street vendors.

The edge of the square was lined with pieces of rectangular fabric proffering wooden animals, leather flowers, homemade cheeses and jams. Ari craned her neck in case one of the stalls was selling bollock knives. Owning one would be a dream come true.

‘Young man! What about the finest jewellery for your lady love?’ A woman with hair as stringy as Claribel’s shook her wares at Natty: necklaces and bracelets stringed from rosary peas, just like the ones that Lucy wore.

‘Who needs jewellery? It’s all about filling your belly,’ said the woman next to the first street vendor, tapping an earthenware jug. ‘The finest pickles in the whole of Eirene!’

At the stall next to hers, a hooded figure shifted and clutched his sack a little tighter. Instinctively, she looked up and saw – nothing, of course. In this world of fiction, disconnected from the framework that reality offered, there was no way to tell the difference between a suspicious figure who’d lead to a helpful item versus a plain old psycho.

‘What do you sell then?’ said Natty, blinding the figure with a kilowatt smile.

‘Are you serious?’ Ari muttered under her breath. She wanted to take back her comment on Natty’s common sense. ‘Why are you talking to the dodgiest guy around?’

‘That’s exactly it. I can’t just walk past him. There are so many questions… Like, why does he have a stall if he doesn’t want to sell anything? This can’t be a leisurely way to spend an evening.’

‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

‘But it also gave birth to the star-nosed mole.’

‘Is that a real saying? Wait. Is it even a real animal?’ With Natty, it was hard to know whether she’d just been exposed to a buried nugget of knowledge or a completely made-up fact.

Natty shrugged, and the hooded figure cackled.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ari. ‘It’s been lovely talking to you.’

‘Do you know what I sell?’ His voice grated like gravel. ‘Do you want to know what’s in this sack?’

~I think I want to know what a star-nosed mole is more than I want to know what is in the sack.~

Claribel had finally put the whimpering behind her, and now attempted to regain the cheerful, harmless air she’d projected before. Ari was happy enough to play along.

~Do you think its nose is star-shaped, or just extremely bright? A bit like a mole-shaped firefly?~

The hooded man untied his sack and threw it at them with a ‘ha’, and a piece of parchment rolled out. For a split second, Ari held her breath as she unrolled it. Was this how you acquired skills in this senseless world?

Instead, the world was more senseless than her already-low expectations; there was merely a single word on the parchment: ‘Nothing’.

The man cackled once more. ‘The real question is: is there nothing in the sack when ‘Nothing’ is in the sack, or is there–’

The woman selling pickles in the neighbouring stall bopped him over the head with her wooden ladle. ‘I’ll tell you what. There’s nothing in your brain. That’s what. You’re that crazy man with more hair than sense, aren’t you? Going around the place trying to make people think useless thoughts. Tell you what you should be making people think about. Pickles! As you crunch into the mix of cucumbers and carrots within this special mix of salt and vinegar, you may burst upon a thing quite unlike the other two. Why don’t you buy a scoop and find out what that may be?’

‘It’s onions,’ said the man. And with another smack of the ladle, his hood fell back, revealing a set of twinkling eyes and a majestic peppered beard that grew almost as thick as the man’s hair.

There might have been a gasp from Claribel. Before Ari could ask her for a reason, the pickle-seller launched into a tirade.

‘Why, why… Only once every full moon, on blessed days with no rain do I get to sell my pickles late into the evening. Why do I have to get stuck next to this old fly? If you like thinking so much, tell me why you haven’t bought some of my pickles yet. It’s going to help with your thinking, I’ll tell you that. The onion was an onion when it first came out of the earth, and then it was chopped up and placed in my jar with the carrots and the cucumbers. It’s now no longer white, because it’s been stained by the carrot. But still, you call it an onion. Is it still the same onion as before? And what of when you pay a very fair-valued Farthing for a ladle and eat it? Has it become you? Where do you end and where does the onion begin? Yes, it really is just a Farthing, kind sir. Would you like a taste?’

‘My good mistress,’ said the once-hooded man, ‘you are a true thinker! My name is Coell. You must come to my school – it’s by Levia’s sun arches. You too, good sir!’ He turned to Natty. ‘I have been sitting here all evening, and no one has let their curiosity overcome their other senses. You are the kind of mind I have been waiting for! Have you ever questioned the nature of the world? Have you ever asked, “Who am I?”’

‘Have you ever questioned, “Do you like carrots?” Have you ever asked, “Why are some purple, and some yellow?”’ said the pickle-seller, unmoved by his speech.

‘Wait a second,’ said Claribel. ‘Repeat that again?’ The ache inside her head was getting worse than the sting of the nettles on Claribel’s face.

‘Do you like carrots?’

‘No, no, no… They’re… purple?’

The woman gave her an odd look and laughed humourlessly. ‘Just how long have you been around? Have you ever doubted whether the purple you see is the same as the purple that your husband sees?’

More importantly, why were carrots orange? Beetroots and radishes were purple, and parsnips and turnips were yellowish. Were the carrots of her world just more… chosen, more… special, more… interesting, more… not like all the other root vegetables?

Focus, Ari, focus…

‘How much does it cost to attend your school?’ said Ari. She knew a scam when she saw one.

Coell’s eyes widened in fake surprise. ‘I am not in want of money.’

‘Then buy my pickles.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, I will buy the whole bloody jar.’ He took so long rummaging within his breeches that it was a surprise when what he pulled out really was a gold coin minted with a blazing sun.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The pickle-seller bit down on the coin and rose to her feet in a flash, waving at the jar. ‘There you go then. Good luck. Don’t eat it all at once.’

‘Wait… Are you leaving the jar too?’

The pickle-seller waved again but didn’t bother to look back. ‘Have it for free. And the ladle too.’

‘Wait. Oh, in the name of the Fated One. Argh… It’s too heavy to lift!’

Ari’s own curiosity got the better of her. She braced her arms around the jar, pushing from the knees. At most, it was the weight of a disembodied head and two chopped off limbs. Her real body could lift it with one arm.

‘Wow. They do say that women from Aquilon are as strong as bulls and as fierce as wolves, but still as graceful as swans,’ said Coell.

Was this some sort of pre-coordinated scam between Coell and the pickle-seller? Maybe the jar really was filled with half of some poor man’s remains, and they were leveraging her love of lifting to get rid of the evidence. If so, the pickle-seller’s acting deserved an Oscar.

~I… think I know him.~

If carrots weren’t orange in this world, could anything be trusted? The book might have said that Tristram was a young man with ebony hair and crimson eyes, chiselled like god’s masterpiece, but he might be, in reality, if this was reality, a friendly elderly relative of the yeti with eyes the colour of the earthenware pickle jar. Afterall, there seemed to be no god who creates masterpieces here, only a Fated One to devour all and a Creator who must not be worshipped.

~How did you spot the resemblance?! Most people don’t think they look alike at all. That is indeed Duke Taur’s first cousin once removed. He is, as of today, the next in line for the title of the Duke of Taur, and will be until the current Duke Taur produces a new heir.~

‘Hey, can you help me bring this jar home?’ said the heir of Taur. Was he the type of harmless fool who’d be recruiting strangers for his school when the previous heir’s ashes had barely cooled, just a stone’s throw away from the site of Lady Malory’s demise? The whole thing felt so… so…

‘It’s just… so… slippery,’ Coell was saying, struggling to grasp the jar.

The rosary-pea jewellery seller shuffled over. ‘Can I interest you in these beauties? If you pay me another coin, I can join them together and make you a rope. Then you’d be able to tie it around the neck of the jar and lug the whole thing home.’

~As you can see, it is easy for many of the noble houses to think that House Taur does not have a certain future. The same fate must never befall House Aquilon.~

~That would be my older brother.~

A simmer of something akin to sadness bubbled beneath Claribel’s words, but she left it unsaid.

~Probably not. They are not on good terms, or indeed any terms. We should continue towards the port.~

‘I see you have help already.’ Ari flashed her best smile at Coell. ‘May you enjoy your late night snack!’

‘Wait!’

‘It was lovely to make your acquaintance!’ said Natty. ‘I’ll pop by your school when your hands are free.’

‘Wait…’

The two of them dashed through the square, towards the smell of salt and the chill of the ocean breeze. Around the corner, the streets opened up to a scatter of torches that lit up the signs above taverns and inns, flickering against the washed-out moonlight-silver that outlined the ships in the port and cranes with wooden wheels that towered over the docks.

But all those, and the sparse sprinkle of torches that attempted to light up the cathedral to its daytime pale white, faded to nothing in the distance, in the richer darkness and inescapable rhythm that was the sea. Ari needed to tear her eyes away before it could beguile her to trade the warm blood in her heart for the cold caress of that eternal pulse: hush, ahh, hush… The susurration of the sea softly smothered all the other sounds around her until–

~SHIP!!~

Ari blinked and made a sharp turn away from the water’s edge.

Ship indeed. Ships, in fact.

Among the small, curved wooden ships sat a giant with an oddly wide, flat-shaped bow flanked by six smaller vessels of the same shape. On each, where the figureheads would have been, were golden engravings of a bird with oversized eyes and an overly long body, coiled tightly like springs. The elegance in their wings looked out of place against the bulging eyes that had been painted on either side of the bow, making the ships look like mildly surprised fish.

Men sporting similar undercuts and shaved patterns to their hair as Sir Dagon dangled their feet from one of the smaller boats and raised their tankards at them as they passed. Natty hollered back, earning a whoop and a cheer. Luckily, she hadn’t noticed Ari’s moment of weakness, of captivation; she didn’t want to listen to those conspiracy theories about the water being somehow alive and seeking her right now.

‘That is one fine ship,’ said Natty, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. ‘I love the eyes! It might even be one of my favourite ships of all time, though nothing beats John Locke.’

Ari didn’t know there was a ship named after Locke. Was that the guy who asked if a ship was still the same ship if you were to swap out all the planks, or was that a different guy? Natty would know. Not that it mattered here, in a world where Locke did not exist.

‘Is it a ship from Aquilon?’ The sound of her own voice, though through Claribel’s lips, drowned out the swishing, swaying waves.

~Jumontian. Our ships are similar enough, seeing that we are from the same roots.~

Onwards, Claribel led them past walls etched with wobbly phalluses and love hearts that told the world of the everlasting love between N and M.

A parchment flapped in the wind, half-covering the exclamation that ‘Carmenta woz here’. Beneath the promise of twenty gold crowns for anyone who could find them alive sat a hand-drawn picture of a man with cat-like eyes and neatly-braided hair next to a woman with a button-nose and soft, round cheeks.

Ari hurried past; if they lingered, then Natty would offer to look for those two instead of Miri. What then? They’d be here forever, living their lives, sailing across the seas, exploring new lands without ever thinking about their mission again.

‘I'm serious,’ a voice slurred from the doorway. ‘Forget about all that rubbish.’

She flinched, then saw the other man leaning towards the red-nosed man who spoke first.

‘Forget the tournament!’ The first man carried on. ‘Just let them knights hit each other over the head, slap each other in the rear with whatever they fancy. For us folks, we’ve got to keep our heads screwed on straight. Got to move before they stop us leaving.’

‘How are they gonna do that?’ said his companion.

‘His Majesty, Fated One bless his name, he’s been sendin’ guards to patrol the whole of his land north of Eirene. North is a no-go. You’ve got to go southeast. I hear if you make it to the River Whye, you’re all set. Duke Auster ain't takin’ any of that nonsense. Don’t go to Carnell though. He’d let His Majesty stick both feet up His Graceful arse if he could so much as get the chance to sell one of his daughters to the young Duke Taur.’

‘I heard the Duchess will actually give you land? Is that true? Cos Pete there said it’s not a real piece of land. It’s just a flat piece of shit.’

‘Yeah, well, if you help ‘em fill in enough sea, they give you ten solid gold ravens to build your own house. Ten! Gold!’

‘Don't sound that safe, buildin’ your house next to the sea.’

‘They got magic ‘n’ stuff keepin’ the sea out.’

‘What are you gonna do here? Let the King and Church tax you to the grave? In Aquilon, the Church gets its gold from the Duchess. Have you heard? The Holy Fang sent a letter to Her Grace, asking to make Aquilon like everywhere else by letting the Church take a tithe there too. She sent a letter back sayin’ she’d gladly make Aquilon like everywhere else by letting the Church take a tithe nowhere should he really wish for it.’

~Yes… Mother is rather well-known as the cold Duchess of the North. Her words can seem harsh.~

‘May her bitchface be ever resting,’ added Natty.

~Did you just call my mother a… a… I can’t repeat that word.~

‘In a good way. Like, she’s a good bitch. She’s an inspiration. When I grow up, I want to be just like her, just… not married to your father.’

~What’s wrong with my father?~ Claribel bristled. ~Is it because he was a mere landless knight when he first met my mother?~

‘It’s not like that,’ Ari whispered back. ‘Natty just doesn’t want to marry or even be with anybody.’

~Oh. You don’t want to be… in love?~

‘What’s so good about love anyway?’ said Natty. ‘It’s supposed to be consuming, isn’t it? That doesn’t sound great. I just want a peaceful life. Hang out with my friends. Read books. Eat cakes. What’s not to like?’

~You… have a point. If only Duke Taur thought of love in the same way, House Taur could have stayed on stronger foundations.~

‘Knowing the way this goes,’ said Natty, ‘he’ll just need one interesting lady to propose a contract marriage to him to forget Queen Rosalind. Shame he’s a Duke of the East though. You guys have got the North.’

~Queen Rosalind?~

Before Claribel questioned them further, Ari felt the corners of her gaze brush against the shadow across another ship, a spot that she was not particularly looking at.

~There! We’re here!~ Claribel’s words rang unnecessarily loudly in her head.

Instead of turning towards the tavern, Ari took a proper look at the ship that Claribel had been trying to peek at. Wooden crates lay piled up next to it, guarded by two men in red uniforms, and a red flag flapped from the top of the main mast, where the outline of one man sliced another in half down the middle with a blazing sword.

I see you, Ari thought to no one in particular.