Guards lined the outside of the establishment, wearing neither the green and white of the Royal Guards nor the white and gold of the Holy Guards. Each wore an undyed woollen cloak hemmed with a wide twill ribbon in fuchsia.

Ari counted them. Five, ten, fifteen. An overkill for a tavern, surely?

The tavern’s name, La Petite Mort, made it sound like a different type of establishment. The painted sign that swung above its doors hardly dissuaded visitors of the idea: the upside-down head of a woman in a tangle of auburn hair dangled against the squeaking hinges, eyes closed, mouth open.

~It actually used to be, but it’s become something quite different in the past year or so. Madame Lucretia has remodelled the whole interior.~

And quite an interior it was. Masks lined the wooden walls that kept out the chill of the wind: masks crafted from wood, clay, papier-mâché, leather, and metal; some were painted and feathered, while others looked like they had been excavated from a long-lost tomb. The floor was covered by a darker, lacquered wood, and a wide walkway separated the tavern into two distinct sides, ending at a rectangular bar area that was lined with barrels and backed onto an open kitchen. A large ramp curved around the back of the room, gently spiralling to the upper floor, with a set of what might have been doors to private rooms, draped with beaded curtains.

The guard who’d accompanied them inside steered them to the right side of the tavern, where the chatter was more subdued, and the laughter was not as over-loud. ‘We keep this side for weary travellers like yourselves. The other side’s for regulars only. If you wish to become a regular, talk to Madame Lucretia. If you’re planning to settle in Eirene, you’d find no finer tavern to frequent!’

Under the candlelight inside, Ari couldn’t help but notice that the black glove she’d thought he was wearing was in fact a dark purple hand, smooth and speckled with silver, like animated granite. The end of each finger was set with a silver nail, and the middle three were embossed with the outlines of cats: one stretching, one looking up, and the third curled up.

In return, the guard did a double take on Ari’s face and whistled.

‘You, sir, have quite a taste in women,’ he said, giving Natty a nudge and a wink. ‘Women from Aquilon are quite something! They say they have Siren and Centaur blood. They’re wild, my good sir, and they certainly know how to ride, if you know what I mean.’

‘I am reminded of that every night.’ Natty winked back.

‘Since it’s your first visit, just a couple of things you should know: you’ll order your food and drink through an attendant.’ He pointed at the three women hurrying about in the traveller’s half, all wearing bright fuchsia aprons that matched the ribbon on the hem of his cloak. ‘They’ll also bring it all to your table. Anyone who causes trouble will be dealt with by me, you understand? You guys don’t look like troublemakers at all, am I right?’

‘I’ve never punched a man in my life, my good sir.’

‘No fighting, but no harassing our attendants either, you understand? Not that you will. Your wife will probably smash your face in before I do.’ He chuckled and patted Natty on the back, pushing them towards the nearest attendant. ‘She’s got eyes like a hawk. I love it. There’s your table. You’re on Chrysanthemum.’

Ari stifled a laugh.

An attendant must have wiped the table with great diligence – it didn’t cling to her hands as she eased herself into the seat. A wooden vase with the table’s namesake flower in blushing pink sat next to a notice stuck on a pillar calling out specialist drinks for elemental mages, coming soon.

‘Chrysanthemum! Do you still remember?’ Natty gave a hearty laugh.

‘Of course. How many years has it been? Ten? Twelve?’

An attendant with a glass eye sauntered over. The eye was a captivating swirl of dancing blue petals and glittering gold on an orb as black as night that was entirely at odds with her other flesh-and-blood grey-on-white. Her crimson-painted lips matched the polish on her nails: a perfect colour to disguise blood stains that’d inevitably get under a Red Agent’s nails without a good pair of leather gloves.

‘You’re looking awfully dry tonight,’ she said, bending over to them a full view of her assets, sadly wasted on Natty, though Ari did find it hard to tear her gaze away from the rapier that protruded from the attendant’s apron. ‘You can call me Bleuet.’

‘Hi Bleuet,’ said Ari. Casually. Casually. ‘Must have been quite a day you’ve had here, what with the burning.’

‘Oh, did you miss it? Lady Oriana did something unbelievable again. Got some men killed. She’s really giving golems a bad name.’

‘I heard Duke Taur himself missed it as well.’

‘Hmm.’ Bleuet flashed them a service-smile. ‘The lives of the nobility can be so far removed from our own. Now, may I have the pleasure of taking your order? Since you’re yet to become regulars here, I’d recommend our fresh ale or house cider. What are your thoughts, good mistress?’

‘An ale and two ciders–’

Ari caught herself too late. Perhaps it was the feeling of having Natty with her again, the feeling that they were three. Perhaps it had simply been a long day in a strange land, and she was more tired than she’d realised.

Two. Two?!

She’d slipped up. She pressed the things back into her box. Back. Back. Back where they belong.

Natty’s hand covered hers, stilling the trembling that had crept in.

‘My darling is so thoughtful,’ said Natty, bending her voice in a way that’d always amazed Ari so that she sounded nothing like a woman. ‘I’m a thirsty man tonight.’

When the drinks arrived, Natty rummaged through the pockets of her cloak and drew out a crumpled purple flower and placed it in front of the second tankard of cider.

‘Vine-lilac? Where did you…’

‘Found it when I was looking for nettles,’ said Natty. ‘It’s not bell heather, but still…’

‘Yeah.’ Ari caressed the withering stem of the flower, where it had been cut short. ‘Let’s drink.’

‘I’ll do the honours.’

Natty lifted the cider and downed it in one.

They stayed like that, staring at an empty tankard instead of keeping an eye out for Tristram and the company he kept, like she should have…

~So…~

…to be reminded by Claribel.

~Why are chrysanthemums funny?~

Or not. ‘What… do you mean?’

~You were both laughing about it earlier, weren’t you?~

‘Oh, it’s just this thing that happened when we were trainees, you know,’ said Natty, taking another sip of the tankard that was truly hers. ‘We were practising being captured, weren’t we.’

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

‘Yes, the Chief gave each of us a codeword that we mustn’t reveal under any circumstances. What was yours again?’ Ari asked Natty. ‘Dolphin or something?’

‘Swordfish!’ cried Natty. ‘I still hate those things. Luckily you don’t see them about all that much. Like… Imagine if they’d evolved to walk out of the ocean and you’d just see them all over the place, riding horses and stuff? Ugh.’

~I’m sorry, what has a swordfish got to do with chrysanthemums being funny?~

‘That’s because Ari’s codeword was “lily”!’

‘I hate lilies,’ said Ari.

‘Yeah, basically she’s not supposed to say the word “lily” no matter what, but then they’d do stuff to you, and if you said the word then they’d stop. That was the training exercise. I lasted until they started lowering this spiky metal thing on top of me. And I was tied to this table, right? And that thing just started coming closer and closer, and I was thinking… surely they can’t be serious? They’d spent a lot of energy training me, so why would they want to actually kill me? Because that thing was sharp. I mean, believe me, it would have gone right through me. One of the tips actually ripped open a patch of skin on my thigh. I’ve still got a scar here–’

Natty looked down, saw Fabia’s body instead, and let out a small ‘ah’.

‘Anyway, at that point, I screamed “SWORDFISH” at the top of my lungs, and I flunked it. But model student there…’

~Did… did they also put you in an iron maiden?~

‘Mmm, they didn’t actually lower it down much farther than that, though they also ripped out all the toenails on my left foot, which was… not great. But that was the last physical stage, I think, because they couldn’t really harm us. Otherwise we’d be damaged fighters. It took ages before my feet looked OK in sandals again.’

Ari took the smallest sip of ale that’d make her look convincingly local.

Natty took a hearty swig of the second tankard of cider and carried on, ‘Model student here didn’t even scream. Then Chief went after her mind, because that’s what he does. His modus operandi. He’d watch us all and figure out who was friends with who – that sort of stuff – and he knew about me and… and…’

It was all right. Natty didn’t need to censor his name.

‘Max,’ Ari said it aloud herself. It was a name that deserved to be said, to be remembered.

‘Max,’ said Natty, lingering on the silence after she’d uttered his name. ‘Yes. He’d noticed. So then he unstrapped Ari from the table and said to her, “You know I have Maximilion Martin and Natalie Thomas in the other rooms. If you don’t tell me the codeword, I will have them terminated, because they are already failures.”’

~Oh Fated One… give me strength.~

‘If you need strength, you should do some pullups with your father,’ said Ari.

‘Well, Ari looked him in the eye and said, “Please, not my friends.” She spent ages arguing with him, didn’t you? That’s what he told everyone afterwards.’

‘I tried to understand the situation,’ said Ari.

‘And then she gave up, and said, “I’ll tell you the codeword, but only if you write and sign a piece of paper saying you won’t hurt my friends.”’

‘And he did. He did…’

~Hurt your friends?~

‘So I said to him, “The codeword is chrysanthemum.”’

That was the only time she’d seen the Chief laugh. He laughed so much that tears came out of his eyes. She never wanted to see it again.

What she did want to see was Tristram and, even better, Miri sitting right next to him. Then she’d grab the girl straight away and leap… through… worlds, back to their lives as they had been. Miri, back to her loving family, and Ari, back to her existence: another name, another kill, another day without–

Her breath caught in her throat. There he sat, two tables down from them, face half-blocked by a larger, hooded figure who sat opposite him. His hair had been dyed from an ash-blond to a fiery red, but his face was unmistakeably…

No.

No.

No, it wasn’t Max. It was as if someone who’d never met Max had taken a photo of him and animated him. The way that he rested his hands on the table, the way that he blinked, the way that his brows furrowed at his companion’s words. Wrong. It was all wrong.

Was this what Claribel’s father had seen, seeing his daughter’s body become a stranger’s puppet?

Not-Max was an abomination. He had no right to wear Max’s face. Two steps, diagonal right: a man sat making friends with his mead, but most importantly, armed. A sleight of hand on her way out would make his dagger appear in her sleeve: a dagger sharper than her sorry fruit knife, further blunted by the golem’s neck. Then a gentle, loving push of blade through flesh would put an end to this nightmarish apparition of Max.

~Fated One save me… That’s Hes.~

So Not-Max had a name. Which was… Hesperus? The genius fire mage?

~Please stop calling him that every single time you run into him or think of him. It’s embarrassing. Seriously. No one calls him a genius fire mage, master of the blue flames, or whatever you called him last time. He’s just Hes. But wow… He’s looking… ummm…~

Rough was a polite way of putting it. His hair looked like it had been brushed three days ago before a poltergeist dragged him through the bushes and used his head as a mop, and dark circles were etched under his eyes.

He clutched onto a tome bound in dark red leather that his companion had passed to him, uselessly unlabelled with its title on the cover. Ari tried to catch a glimpse of any illustrations on the sides of the pages, like the ones on the books in Claribel’s library, but they were uninspiringly blank.

Luckily she was here to observe, and her face was not supposed to be Claribel’s, but if she were to slip into the seat next to his companion and reveal to him the face of his childhood bully, would that make him furrow his brows further?

~That is not true. I did not bully him and he has no reason to hate me. But… looks like he is having a terrible time. Rumour has it that he’s burned through all the gold His Majesty had gifted him by buying frivolous things, but then again, rumour seems to have it that I treated him unfairly during our days at the Academy, so he’s probably still one of the richer untitled men in Ventinon.~

‘What’s going on?’ Natty tried to whip her head round subtly. ‘Oh… That’s… Why does he look exactly like… And why do you look exactly like… Ugh. So I’m the only one who looks nothing like anyone here… Or do you think I got thrown into the wrong body…?’

‘I guess we’ll know once we spot someone with Hannah or Miri’s exact face wandering the streets here.’ Unfortunately, hair colour seemed to be on a separate roulette, else they’d have an easier time keeping an eye out for Hannah’s natural honey-blonde hair.

The door to the tavern burst open with a shock of that exact honey-blond. Except the man attached to the hair looked more like the Chief than Hannah Temple. Cold sores troubled his top lip, but they were of no importance compared to the words that graced them.

‘Sabline II is back! It’s just moored in the harbour!’ The man punched the air for emphasis. ‘We are made!’

The buzz grew louder still in the regular’s section.

‘Wait, what?’

‘Really?’

‘I spoke to the Captain,’ he said, gesturing to the door. ‘He’s heading over now. He said – get this – he said he made two thousand crowns off of the eye we gathered, so anyone who put in a moon is getting a sun back!’

‘Holy smokes! That’s… what? Ten times what we put in!’

‘Eighteen times, you pea for brains. One solid gold sun for every silver moon! I’m buyin’ a cow tomorrow.’

Clatter.

A set of beaded curtains on the upper floor swung aside.

‘The Madame!’

The woman who descended…

~Madame Lucretia.~

Madame Lucretia wore a blood-red lipstick that matched her blood-red gown. Onyx carved into the shape of rose petals entwined with silver leaves and thorns on her cane, matching her silver and onyx rose necklace and earrings, but the most beautiful piece of metal she carried had to be the flanged mace that hung from her belt. Its sensual curves promised blunt trauma even through armour, and the swirling pattern on its handle had been worn through common use.

She draped herself over the bar and tossed a piece of paper with a blood-red seal stamped across it, then she stamped her cane, once, twice, thrice.

The already quietened room held its breath.

‘Here’s my share. Three rounds of ale on the house.’

An even bigger whoop went up.

The Madame unhooked her mace from her belt and slammed it gently onto the bar. ‘Let it be known: if you want to get your fair share, come to La Petite Morte. We don’t allow bad business here.’

The guards and attendants drew their weapons and cheered: rapiers, falchions, long seaxes.

The bar top hinged open and an attendant wheeled out with a raised lance, pushed by another brandishing a morning star.

‘Rose! Rose! Rose!’ cried the regulars, unfazed by the celebratory show of force. ‘Drinks! Drinks! Drinks!’

A third attendant heaved two barrels of ale and placed them either side of the chair. The woman with the lance, presumably Rose, grinned and pressed a button on the left armrest.

Vroooom…

Click click click.

Wooden trays folded out from the chair, like an eagle spreading its wings. The woman’s companion set down tankard after tankard, after tankard, and Rose filled them lightning fast, two at a time.

Bleuet set a tankard in front of Hesperus, who flinched and pulled the leather-bound tome into his lap. His companion pushed away his ale, soon claimed by a giggling lady on the table next to theirs, and slunk into the crowd of jubilant regulars, now blocking the walkway. No, not a companion; a business partner at most.

Ari watched the hooded man from the corner of her eye. As a merry couple jostled into him, he patted a spot below his waist surreptitiously, the spot where his fattened purse was surely hidden beneath his cloak, gorged on gold that had once been Hesperus’s. A book that could fetch such a handsome price: what was the fire mage’s poison? Black magic, forbidden formulas, or something obscene beyond most people’s imagination?

They stayed until he left the tavern; though Max and Hesperus must have shared as little as she did with Claribel, the thought of leaving first again felt like thrusting glass into her lungs. The ale at the bottom of her tankard had gone lukewarm, and there was still no sign of Tristram.

If it had been Natty at the stakes, Ari would have gone, even if there’d been an iota of a chance that the spirit inside was still her friend, even if there’d been an iota of a chance to say goodbye. Only death could have stopped her. So… where was Tristram?