Everyone in the room, save Tariq - who was now definitely passed out - grabbed a weapon. Paracelsus was the first to move, walking up the door and putting his ear against it. He didn’t hear any talking, and the shadows in the hallway seemed to indicate it would be one person, anyway.

So, the captain signaled everyone to lower their weapons, even if they maintained their grip on them, then he opened the door. Standing there was a man of a generally unremarkable appearance. He had on something of an exotic suit, a white shirt with a black vest which had a number of yellow and red elements trimmed onto it, which all sat over a pair of black slacks. That was about where his interesting looks ended though, with an average, unassuming face and head of hair - even his build was normal, save for being somewhat lanky.

He wordlessly, with a very slight smile, pulled out an envelope from his coat and handed it to Paracelsus, before saying, with his hand over his mouth, “An official invitation.”

He opened the envelope, holding it far away from his face in case it was some type of attack. His pessimism was unfounded, however, and it really was an invitation of some type. It was, specifically, for the Gala which he’d heard was occurring in some two days.

“There’s no name on this,” Paracelsus pointed out, “Sure you have the right place?”

“Sorry sir,” He covered his mouth again, “This letter was simply addressed to the occupants of this room. No mention of a name.”

“Ominous,” Paracelsus commented, “To whom shall I give my regards?”

“Sorry again, sir, but they wish to retain their anonymity.” He replied, “They do strongly hope you attend, though.”

“Well, I suppose… give your employer my regards.”

“Of course, sir,” He pointed to Serpacinno with his free hand, “And, might I say, that is a nice sword, ma’am.”

“That was odd.” Paracelsus shut the door. The man was clearly a foreigner, but being a foreigner himself he didn’t particularly care.

“Xenepol…” The greeter’s wife, who was kept just a few feet out of sight, started, “I wish you wouldn’t meet with such suspicious characters.”

Said wife was dressed like a mourner, with a black dress and veil on. That was not the most notable thing about her, however, as she stood somewhere between nine and ten feet tall, having to hunch over severely just to fit in the hallway.

“Rian, iubitul meu,” Xenepol put his hands out upside down, which Rian carefully, delicately, joined with her own, “The boss ordered me to.” Rian mumbled something under her breath, quietly like she didn’t want her husband to hear it, “Sorry, I don’t think I caught that one.”

“I said: the boss would be fine if we just killed them instead,” Which was not untrue; their boss was staunchly of the belief of survival of the fittest, “I think I could’ve, too, if I got the jump on them.”

“I’m sure you could’ve,” He kissed her hands with an equal gentleness, like she was a delicate little flower, “But that also means that I had nothing to worry about, right?”

Rian sighed and smiled softly, “You’re right.”

—

“Captain Bonaparte.” Graave saluted, “It’s an honor, sir.”

“Lieutenant,” Bonaparte returned the salute, looking up from his paper, “What brings you this far insea?”

“The Saber’s been authorized for shore leave, as it were; we put it to a vote, and the crew decided here.”

“Curious,” Bonaparte took a pipe he had handy and lit it to give to the Lieutenant, “Surely you’ve heard?”

“I have, sir,” Graave toasted the pipe, “But the standing orders are to not interfere, yes?”

The captain shook his head and chuckled, a grin on his face, “You think you’re the first glory seeker who’s come my way? Denied.”

“I would humbly request you look at me while speaking,” The bearman pulled a long draw, “Sir.”

“My apologies,” Bonaparte put down his things and rested his chin on his hands, which were clasped above the table, “But my standing is unchanged: I cannot ensure the compliance of your crew while maintaining my own post.”

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

“You’re friends with Captain Gemzar, yes?” He offered, and Bonaparte gave a curious look in return, but nodded nonetheless, “If he were to make the request, would you deny him?”

The captain sighed wistfully, looking out the port window, “I’d trust Jack to keep his crew in line. The last time I saw you, you weren’t even commissioned. You graduated from the shoe, what, six months ago?”

“And yet, despite my inexperience,” Graave offered back, “Captain Gemzar named me as the acting captain while he recovers.”

“Hand me that bottle, Lieutenant,” He pointed to a whisky he’d kept for special occasions, “I’ll need a drink if you’re to be allowed this.”

It took all the lieutenant had to not to crack a grin as he did so, pouring two generous shots for each of them. They clinked the glasses and both downed them in one gulp.

“You are to avoid the northern section of the city, no exceptions” Bonaparte warned seriously, “And above all - should you be contacted by a man named Bordeaux, you will show him the utmost respect.”

“Of course sir,” Graave saluted and made for the door, “And one last thing - Captain Gemzar’s recovering mighty well.”

“To his health,” Bonaparte had another drink, “And to your liberty.”

—

Lonceré woke up the next morning with his hands shaking rapidly. The withdrawal was getting quite serious now, and he knew a few more days without something to keep him going would probably be his end. He rolled over, despite the fact that his whole body was protesting the brutal treatment. And when he finally managed to blearily open his eyes, he discovered he was lying next to a pipe, a note, and a book.

“Thank God,” He lit up the pipe, “Or… Charlemagne.” He quickly eyed the note, giving it a once-over. This was the log kept on the previous owner of this opium. He wasn’t particularly interested, though, and didn’t bother to read through it, far more concerned with feeding his own addiction.

Not like the Living Current was a meaningful name to him, anyway.

—

“En Garde!” The announcer shouted. In response, D’Aubigny held her sword aloft just above the waist, quite low for most fencers. Weirder still, her whole posture had her on the backfoot, waiting for her opponent to make the first move. Her opponent, however, clearly knew this, and only hesitantly approached, one slow footstep after another.

“Scared?” She asked, and her opponent flinched as she stomped forward. With one of their feet in the air, D’Aubigny seized the opportunity and ran forward at superhuman speeds, placing the tip of her foil under his chin.

“First point to D’Aubigny!” The ref announced, much to none of the audience’s surprise. The woman was a good fencer - maybe her technical skill was lacking, but her sheer athleticism (and her speed afforded to her by her gift) allowed her to swiftly dominate most bouts.

“I’ve got you figured out now,” He opponent, some fencer she didn’t even bother to learn the name of, said before the typical sword-salute, “Prepare yourself.”

“En Garde!” The announcement came again, and with it a change of strategy. No longer content to wait around, D’Aubigny charged forward, hoping for an easy score. She clicked her tongue when he managed to snake around her flank with a suspicious, calculated precision. A moment later he was fully behind her, without stepping off the piste and tapped his sword against her back.

“Second point to Montagne!” The ref exclaimed.

“You cheat,” She pointed an accusatory finger, “What trick are you playing?”

“No trick,” He raised his hands in defense, “I just ran through the possibilities in my head - I know everything you might do, now. And besides, weren’t you the one who asked the rules to be relaxed?”

D’Aubigny stubbornly refused to respond, instead crossing swords and returning to her line, waiting for the third “En Garde!”. When the bout began again, she tried to repeat her earlier feint, but Montagne didn’t fall for it and waited for her to commit before making a move himself. They each waited for just a moment, the still air providing the perfect atmosphere to show off the competitive tension between the two of them; then it happened.

At the same time, they both approached and both heard the clink their swords made against each other. They backed off for a moment, and Montage took the initiative, swiping first to her torso, then her chest, then her neck, all of which were parried by D’Aubigny. After the trifold attack had concluded, she readied her own tactic, taking a step back to give herself the runway she needed to slide below and between her opponent’s legs, striking his knees as she passed. Her plan was evidently seen-through, however, because the blade failed to connect when Montagne planted his own into the piste to deflect hers.

“As I said,” Montagne now walked her towards the warning-zone, hoping to ring her out for the final point, “I’ve seen through everything you might do.”

“A wager, then?” She asked, still futile attempting to strike his body, “One last blow. If you can react, you win, if you can’t, I do. Sounds fair?”

He laughed with his full belly, as though the notion that he might lose was an impossibility, akin to a dog growing wings, “I’ll take you up on that.”

So Montagne lowered his stance, allowing his sword to rest near his hips as D’Aubigny raised hers far above her head. If she wanted a chance to win, she needed gravity on her side. She breathed in to steady herself, and after one last second of waiting, she swung downard, with all her strength. Spectators would later recall that her sword almost glowed as it deftly skimmed the surface of her opponent’s blade before crashing down into his chest.

“The third point goes to D’Aubigny!” The ref ran over and grabbed her wrist to raise it in the air, “The winner is D’Aubigny!”

She ripped off her mask in record time, throwing it to the side as her hair fell from its confines around her body like a golden waterfall. She hooted with delight as she shook Montagne’s hand in a sporting fashion, even if her gloating was perhaps unsportsmanlike.

“I apologize, Monty,” She said as she shook his hand, “You could’ve won if you didn’t let me provoke you.”

“We both agreed,” He responded, “I lost, fair and square. But the outcome won’t be the same next time.”

“Mademoiselle,” From the nearby door, someone interrupted the post-match celebration to grab Sally’s attention, “Monsieur Lascu is here to see you.”

“Lascu?” She turned to look, and sure enough he was standing there with his massive wife.

“Indeed ‘tis me,” He said, taking the question literally, “There’s been a development. I delivered the letter, but he seemed hesitant. I doubt he’ll show.”

“That’s it?” She asked, rubbing down her sword, “I’ve already rendered my judgement on that matter.”

“Hold on, hold on,” As she tried to walk past him, needing to attend to her duties, he stepped ahead of her with remarkable agility, “Our payments for this service are inexorably linked, remember? You’re absolutely certain he’ll appear?”

“What’s the matter with you?” She brushed past him, “He’ll appear, I assure you. And we’ll both get paid.”

“Sally -” He started.

Within a moment she had turned to face him and put her sword, which was in fact not as blunt as Xenepol believed a dueling sword would be, on his neck, saying “He will show.”

“Should I get an upperclassman?” One of the others in the hallway asked, seeing the unfolding scene.

“No need,” Sally replied without once taking her eyes off of Xenepol, and especially keeping watch on his wife whose hand was most definitely on a weapon she kept in her bust, “I was just seeing them out.”