“I’m just saying, it’s a waste of money.” Paracelsus pinched the bridge of his nose, seeing what Gareland had purchased.

“It’s not like hurting for cash. Plus, can’t you create some jewels to sell if we run low?” She defended herself, trying to figure out how to operate the thing.

“Well -” A quick turn of his head brought into view his partner, holding onto what he assumed was the same man who attacked them earlier, “Ah, there you are, Serpacinno! Everything went well?” He saw the wound on her hand, “Most things went well?”

“This is Tariq. Have fun.” She was clearly out of patience as she nodded to Gareland, who sat with her to help dress her wound more satisfactorily.

“Hello, Tariq?” The tone was questioning, which wasn’t terribly surprising given he’d been dumped this man not ten seconds ago.

“I assume you are the captain?” He wiggled his hands, “Please, release me.”

“Well, I assume my friend over here had reason to bind your hands in the first place.” The captain explained, hands on his hips. “I take it you’re the one who shot at us in the graveyard?”

“I was misguided.” He bowed his head slightly, “If you’d let me explain, I’m sure you’d see that we have a common enemy.”

The alchemist led him into the captain’s quarters where they could both sit, and where he could keep an eye on him more easily, “Let’s hear it.” He leaned back and put his feet up, to make himself seem more comfortable.

“I thought you and your partner were the Medines,” Tariq explained, “They are a wealthy merchant family, they’ve bought every politician in Iralo.”

“To my understanding, this bell summons a spectral image of Shah Bahmen.” He quirked an eyebrow, “Why do these Medines want it?”

“Your understanding is correct. Supposedly, he lived during a time when there was a great gifted craftsman,” Tariq got closer, and his tone more frantic, “That bell was able to store his soul, but not his sword. The Medines have it, and they probably want the man himself to teach them how to use it.”

“I certainly see how they’re your enemies,” He started, “But I fail to see how they’re mine.”

“You think they won’t figure this out? Or that they’ll forgive this transgression?” He asked, leaning further forward.

“It sounds like you want to do something which will only inflame their ire, though.” Paracelsus offered back.

“They will not stop chasing you,” He implored, “They will keep sending qatl after you!”

“Cows?” Tariq was insulted by the tone, littered with disbelief, “Regardless, I don’t plan to stick around here very long. You think they’ll send these ‘cattle’ all the way to Ashland?”

“Assassins, pirate.” He was falling into Paracelsus’ trap by getting irritated, “And sure, they might stop - but do you think you can evade them for long enough? You have a crew of three.”

For his part, the captain remained calm, putting up one finger, “Let’s clear up some confusion. I am not, nor will I ever be, a pirate. This is not a pirate ship, nor are Serpacinno or Gareland pirates.” The friendliness of his words was betrayed by the lightning in his tone which threatened to strike down his insolent prisoner, “But, forgiving that transgression, allow me to explain. I will help you fight against these Medines, on my terms.”

“And those terms are what?” Hook, line and sinker.

“I will give you a replica of the bell, and just as we pass around the other side of this country,” He pulled out a chart for emphasis, “I will set you adrift, and the Medines will capture you, but you’ll have a secret weapon: the key to your handcuffs.”

The plan was sloppy and hinged entirely on one man’s ability to overpower an entire ship of hardened sailors. In addition, it was just stupid in general - the potential issues caused by a storm, or the Medines’ ship being more well-prepared than they anticipated were obvious. And that wasn’t even accounting for the fact that once Tariq was on their ship, he was no closer to getting what he wanted.

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“You can’t seriously expect me to agree to something so idiotic!” He tried to put his hands on the desk to appear more threatening, but such a gesture was hard when they were bound.

“Why not?” The captain’s head bounced in a display of faux confusion, “Unless you have a better plan?” This was the real objective, to hear Tariq’s plan in a way that allowed the assassin to believe he was in control; he wasn’t entirely opposed to helping out this man, but only if he could benefit in some way, the potential of recruiting an assassin was intriguing.

“Your friend can keep the bell safe, yes?” He was more keen than Paracelsus had anticipated, “We will all get captured. The Medines will not have a hearing without the patriarch present.”

“So we take him hostage?” He was quickly losing interest in the plan.

“We kill him; slaughter him like a dog.” Was certainly not the direction he expected this conversation to go, “Leave Bahmen on the ship to defend it; you free us, I know you have that capability. Then we part ways.”

“You’ve never killed anyone, I take it.” The sailor leaned in closer, “For all your talk - you can’t have actually done it. Nobody who’s killed, nobody sane at least, is that eager to repeat such an offense.”

“You have?” Paracelsus paused, he had gotten a bit worked up and overshared. He took a breath to recenter himself, debating if he had already plunged too deep and had to divulge the gory secret.

—

“Lieutenant, what brings you here?” The question came from a man dressed in bright, silken robes, who himself was in a fancy room meant to entertain guests.

Graave took the cookies and tea offered gratefully, “We have reason to believe a crew of criminals will be sailing through here within the next week, Mr. Battak.”

“Pirates?” Mr. Battak asked, seeing as pirates hadn’t attacked his land in decades, it was rather surprising.

“Something like that.” He answered, “Don’t worry - we’re not asking you to commit any resources or men to their capture. All we ask is that you tolerate our presence on the coast until we can do so.”

Suddenly, like a streak of thunder, the door opened and a servant rushed in, before he bowed deeply, “Sir, I’m sorry for entering uninvited, but there’s been word from the east coast - someone managed to get past Tariq and steal the Shahanshah’s bell!”

The man in charge kissed his teeth, waving his hand to the servant to tell him to leave, “You’re dismissed.” He turned back to the marine, “I take it I don’t need to explain the price for our cooperation?”

“Of course sir.” Graave was nothing if not humble; even though this old man clearly didn’t understand the importance of his assignment (which he ultimately fabricated), that didn’t mean that he could just mouth off to the man - a lesson his protogé had yet to learn, “One day, Peeares, you will understand the importance of crow.”

“Crow, sir?” The angel cocked an eyebrow, his superior noting his odd habit of only doing so with the left side of his face.

“Eating crow,” He rolled his large, carnivorous eyes, “Bowing your head to ignorant politicians is an example.”

Peeares, in response, rolled his eyes, “But what I don’t get is why? Why should we bow our heads?”

“There are a number of unanswerable questions, miboy.” He stopped in his tracks to turn and face his ward, “That is one of them. All I know, as a soldier - as a man, is to obey such rules.”

“Tch, whatever.” Peeares would’ve kicked a rock, were there any in the great hall in which they now found themselves. Instead, he contented himself with crossing his arms broodily; he’d already made trouble earlier when meeting Battak and didn’t want to cause any further.

“Cheer up, lad.” Graave wrapped an arm ‘round his shoulder and pulled him close to ruffle his hair, “We’ll wrap up this revolutionary business and be in a bar by May.”

A smile, toothy and low, came to the lad’s face, although his disgruntled posture remained unchanged, “And I suppose we’ll show off our new medals, and make love with the girls?”

“See, that’s the spirit!” The bearman threw his head back and laughed heartily at the choice of words. “Make love” was an odd way to say “fuck”, but his charge was still a boy.

Back to his duties, though, he had to admit he found the situation odd. The privateers couldn’t have arrived - if he was correct about the size and count of their sails - in this land and longer than a few hours ago. Even he had just made port not two rings of the bell before, and yet someone had already managed to cross the country and deliver this news, conveniently timed with his meeting, to the merchant. And that was the other odd thing, Medine bin Battak was a merchant, far as Graave knew, and yet he was the contact here, not the mayor, or governor, or any official - but a merchant.

“Still, what a load of shit.” Peeares was always like this in private. In front of the men he could pretend to be a proper sailor, but around Graave, who was not much like a father, but still like a somewhat more distant relative like an old uncle, he let slip the mask.

The truth was that the boy was crass, which was to be expected, as the sailors who reared him, especially Graave, were known to be so when drunk, and as sailors (who at that time were more involved in warfare), they were drunk - frequently, which led the young lad to picking up their habits. And if Graave was more the doting type, he’d remark that the boy’s mannerisms, similar to that of an old man who’d been put through too much, but with none of the actual worldliness to back it up, were cute.

He was assuredly not the doting type, however, and instead found his antics pointless and irritating, which was much to the bemusement of his peers, who laughed at his plight. That is precisely why, as he dismissed Peeares and lit up his own cigar, he worried about him. The merchant he’d spoken with was pale when he saw the angel; that, in and of itself, wasn’t entirely uncommon. They were a rather rare people, and their physical similarities to Paacist descriptions of ascended souls combined so that most people believed they truly were said ascended souls.

No - what worried him was the hush tones in which he spoke. He knew Peeares thought so too, that’s why he was kicked out before they could speak of the actual important matters. He was constantly whispering, praying presumably. Graave wondered if Medine knew something he didn’t.

“Ms. Taylor…” He grumbled to himself. This was the name of a woman in his command who was born in Iralo, and someone who he supposed would be the best resource to figure out if this was a cultural issue.

So, in service of returning to his ship, he swung open the doors to the outside of Medine’s beautiful, yet unabashedly opulent, manor. He put a hand over his eyes to guard them; the sunlight was so intense in this part of the country that the people’s irises got bleached from exposure, giving them all a nice purple tone.

But neither the sun nor the eyes was the weirdest part of the town to him; no, that honor had to go to the streets, labyrinthian and narrow - even the major roads. It was a headache, that the food - packed with enough spice to clear his sinuses for a year - didn’t help to alleviate.

All in all, he wasn’t sure if it was the heat or something else, but this trip was not a good omen.