“We still have a week until we reach Tanendille,” Paracelsus informed the crew from the quarter-deck, as part of their new morning meetings, “Good news is, looking at this newspaper, for some reason the marines are keeping their distance.”

“Any reason for that?” Garland asked.

“Seems the whole country’s in disarray,” He flipped the page, “Seems a shame for one of the founding members of the Union.”

“Well how do you feel about it?” Gareland sipped her coffee, “You said you’re half Cartesian, right?”

“I have no particular attachment to the place,” He waved off her question, “Never even been there, but my friend said it was lovely. Come to think of it, that’s probably why the sea’s so empty. No marine patrols means people probably aren’t risking the voyage.”

“Good for us though?”

“Good for us though,” The captain cleared his throat, “I’m going to go do some reading - as you were.”

—

April twenty-fifth, 1733. Cartesia was now coming into sight over the horizon, and all aboard the Gale were anxious for their arrival. Before they reached the dock, however, they were hailed by flag by the Union ship the Bête.

“May I speak to the captain?” The marine captain, a tall man with octopus tentacles for legs asked. With every word, his long, curly mustache bounced to and fro.

“I am he.” Paracelsus responded.

“I don’t recommend making port here right now.” The captain looked over the whole of the deck.

“Sorry, is it closed?”

“Not closed at all, but Tanendille’s a bit… chaotic right now, you see?” He gestured toward the city, which was useless at the distance they sat.

“I know, but my mother lives here,” Paracelsus pointed to the mast, “And as you can see, we really can’t get around too well.”

“Fair point. Just know the Union can’t guarantee the safety of the place right now.” He warned.

“I will certainly keep that in mind, Captain…?”

“Bonaparte, Jean-Baptiste.”

“Patrick. Thanks for the advice, Captain Bonaparte.”

“Good luck then, Patrick,” Baptiste signaled to lower the hailing flag, “You’ll need it.”

“Shouldn’t they have arrested us?” Tariq asked, dumbfounded.

“The head marine, the big bear who’s after us?” The captain prompted, “He’s a Lieutenant. By all means, he shouldn’t even be captaining his ship, I doubt his superiors even know about his activities.”

“How do you know so much about the structure of the marines?” The helmsman continued.

“My sister’s an admiral,” Paracelsus said as though it were the most casual thing in the world, “Plus I was… briefly involved with the revolutionaries.”

“You failed to mention your sister is an admiral?” Serpacinno balked, “Vice, rear?”

Paracelsus looked around awkwardly, “Fleet, although that was only a temporary, wartime position during the Third Campaign.”

“Fleet Admiral?” Serpacinno shouted, “Third Campaign?”

“I’ll tell you all about it some time,” He promised, “For now, we need to dock. All hands, gather!” Everyone gathered round, “I know we didn’t get to stay overnight in Bataine, so I’ve decided to extend our shore leave here. We’ll be staying for two weeks.” The crew, Serpacinno especially whooped and hollered, “Other than a well-earned rest, we only have two objectives here: sell all the gold and gems we got in Bataine, and get the mast repaired.”

“Parace?” Gareland asked, “Me and the crew were talking, and,” She looked to the others for support, “We need to hire a cook. No offense, but your cooking is nothing to write home about.”

“And yours is better?” Paracelsus asked.

“No, it isn’t,” She admitted, “Which is why we need a cook.”

“Alright, I’ll find a cook.”

The whooping and hollering resumed as they came into port, and the mood was cheery as they tied up the ship and the captain handed the dock-worker the money. Shortly thereafter, they left the dock itself and saw the magnificence of the city. Whereas Baitane’s natural landscape, with a circular harbor that increased in steepness from the center, was its main attraction, here the buildings were the focus. They were tall, constructed of stone and tightly packed together, each house sharing at least two walls with a neighbor, and the businesses were all vibrant and chic.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Unlike the buildings, however, most of the people were dressed in worn, faded clothes made of simple materials, a far cry from the beauty of the architecture. The ones that weren’t, the ones that donned fittingly fashionable, bright pastels were few in number, and the ones that were there looked down on the plebeians.

“Hoy!” A female voice, belonging to one of the aforementioned plebeians apparently, shouted, “Strangers!” The two most notable things about her were her long, honey blonde hair which only parted briefly in the center so her face stuck through, which otherwise fell down to her lower knees, and the grip she had on her sword, which was strangely polished and well-kept, clued the crew in to her intentions.

“Hoy to you as well,” Paracelsus started toward her in a friendly manner, but stopped when she pointed her sword forward at his neck, “Sorry, do I offend?”

“I challenge you to a duel, stranger.” She so helpfully informed him.

He lightly pushed the tip of the sword down with his index finger, “Might I inquire as to why? We just got here.”

“Her hand,” She pointed to Serpacinno, “In marriage.”

“Me?” Serpacinno asked, “We’re not even married! And besides,” She crossed her arms and huffed, “You’ll find his sword skills lacking.”

“Oh? So you will duel for your hand?”

“No!” Serpacinno shouted, offended, “I’m not a prize to be won.”

“Of course not,” The fencer came over and grabbed her hand softly, “You are… a beautiful flower, or a gentle breeze that restores.”

Serpacinno chuckled, even if her face was annoyed and her arms were still crossed, “I’ve already spent enough time around him,” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder to Paracelsus, “To know when someone’s all talk.”

“I take offense to that,” The captain interjected, “I’m not all talk. Half talk, maybe, but certainly at least half action. Anyway, Serpacinno, best of luck with your m-”

“Shhh,” The fencer interrupted him harshly, “The morning announcement is starting.”

After she said that, the mice, mostly black save for the white, skull-like pattern on their heads, all stopped moving simultaneously. Then, they stood on their hind legs as though possessed. Everyone stopped what they were doing, and the high-class were even temporarily nonplussed by the presence of the sackcloth masses. The most notable thing, to the captain, was the voice they all spoke in.

“Bonjour, Tanendille! I hope you’ve slept well. First order of business: the Contre-Force have begun amassing arms at the Pont-de-Monjour, Musée Mondial, and Bâtiment de Jour. I, personally, advise avoiding the northern quarter for now.

On the Bohemians, they’ve been gathering a stockpile of their own, seemingly in preparation for their Gala, which as a reminder, happens this Saturday.

As for the government, I don’t think I even have to say anything, do I? After all, they’re so transparent about what’s happening, aren’t they? Isn’t that why the Union refuses to even touch Cartesia at the moment?”

The announcement continued for some time, but had transitioned to a lighter-tone, and truth be told, most weren’t keenly interested in the inner workings of a fromagerie or that a certain Professor Doyle was going to publish a paper soon.

“Tch,” The fencer clicked her tongue, “I have to go now, here,” She handed the target of her affections a visiting card, “I’m not giving up.”

“Congrats on your engagement,” Paracelsus walked past Serpacinno’s shocked-still form with a clap on her shoulder, “Let’s find lodgings, unless you’d like to stay with your lady friend.”

“Is it just me,” Gareland whispered to Tariq, “Or is he jealous?”

“I have to agree with you, it does seem that way.”

“What are you two lazing about back there for?” Paracelsus asked irritably, “Get a move on.”

The two younger crewmembers exchanged a knowing look and a giggle at that.

—

“Any leads?” The voice asking came from a high-pitched, refined sort of woman. Said woman was sitting at a desk in a room where all the blinds were closed shut, and because of this, the person she was talking to couldn’t see her face.

“Sorry madam,” Her deputy replied, “We think we know the speaker, but we still can’t locate him.”

“Well, who is he?” She asked, and the little bit of light pouring in from the doorway allowed the subordinate to see her cross her hands above her desk.

“We believe it’s Lonceré Dominguém, Mayor Montpellier.”

The woman at the desk sighed heavily, “Of course it is. If there’s nothing else, you’re dismissed.”

Lonceré Domingué was already a known political dissident. His writings were a mixture of his own delusional ramblings superimposed onto the structure of society, and his own unique political rantings, a philosophy he called Cooperative Industrialism. For a long time it was easy enough to ignore him, his open-secret association with the revolutionaries had made him unpalatable to most, but recent civil unrest meant he had gained quite some popularity, and they’d confiscated his manifesto more times then they could count.

The mayor pinched her temples, for she could feel a headache coming on. For whatever reason, Lonceré had maintained a three-way stalemate between the three factions in the city.

“Coffee, Madam Mayor?” A humanoid entity, save for the fact that it was brightly glowing, manifested itself beside the mayor.

“Merci, Copain,” She laid her head down on the desk, “And tell them to douse the candles, it’s too bright.”

“As you wish, Madam Mayor.” With that, Copain departed to fulfill his orders.

—

“Gentlemen, ladies!” A man slammed his fist on his podium, “Why are we allowing our petty differences to divide us?” He waited a moment, using his arms to prompt the audience to respond, which they never did, “We can’t allow them to divide us, because what makes us the same? Hmm?”

“No Wealth, No Health!” The people shouted back in unison. For all the differences between them, be it race, gender, or anything else, they managed to come together under their leader, Bordeaux.

“No Wealth, No Health indeed!” He shouted, regaining their attention, “And what are we going to do about it?”

“March on the Château!” They responded more emboldened than ever.

“Right, but the issue -” He pulled out one of the mimic mice, which was flailing and struggling in his grip, “Is the man controlling these. Domingue may be a great theorist, but preventing us from taking action? Unacceptable!”

“Unacceptable!” The crowd roared back.

The speaker put the mouse down, and stabbed it, “So - here’s our new directive. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to get him on our side, or kill him!” The crowd shouted once again, but more nondescriptly, without care for any specific language, “Very good! Ladies, gentlemen, au revoir, et bonne chance!”

With that, the crowd was dismissed to their duties.

—

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Tariq asked Paracelsus, now that they were split up from the women.

“What do you mean?” He asked back, “I’m fine.”

“You’re bouncing your elbow on your knee,” It was true, the repeated thud sounds definitely were annoying to anyone in earshot, “Is it because of that, er… D’Aubigny?”

“No!” Paracelsus snapped back, “Sorry for shouting. No, it’s not because of D’Aubigny.”

“So you are mad?” The helmsman was not letting up.

“I think I recognize the voice in those announcements,” He finally gave in, “I thought he was dead.”

“You sure that’s it?” Tariq grinned, poking his captain in the side, “You did seem pretty jealous earlier.”

“Now you’re gossiping?” Paracelsus tried to regain control of the conversation by calming his motions and taking a lighter, joking tone, “I’m not jealous. I’ll admit that she was right - Serpacinno is certainly beautiful, but…”

“But…?”

“Cheeky man: but nothing.” The captain turned for a second, but quickly turned back, “And besides, don’t think I don’t see how you look at Gareland.”

“Hoy!” D’Aubigny’s voice, which was becoming annoyingly familiar, sounded. Following her voice was her herself, with her arm wrapped around the shoulders of a woman, “How fortuitous of a meeting.”

“Fortuitous?” He asked, “I’d say the odds of us meeting, given how many bars there are here, is more astronomical than anything.”

“Fated by the stars?” D’Aubigny wasted no time in ordering a drink of her own, “A poet after my own heart.”

The irony was not lost on either of them.