“You’re horrid.” Gareland’s face was one of sheer disgust. Her hands were bound behind her back, in such a way she couldn’t form the hand signs required to escape. Worse still, her arms were interlocked with Junior’s.

“Quiet, woman.” He whispered, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the marine who was assigned to watch over them. He slid his hands around, trying to undo the thick leather gloves that prevented him from cutting the ropes.

“Mutt.”

“Wench.”

An awkward silence hung in the air. Not quite silence, the ensign just didn’t hear the scraping of leather. The fox grunted in pain as his claw got caught in the material. He waited a few moments to see if the game had lost its feet, but no such evidence presented itself.

“I feel your claw,” Gareland swallowed her pride, “A little lower… the rope’s a little lower.”

“I’m not freeing you.” She felt his appendage flit away from her skin, clearly aiming toward himself.

“You know it’s a better idea!” She desperately cried in a combination of a shout and a whisper. Lorenzo didn’t deign to respond, instead focusing his attention on the rope he was sawing and the ensign who was doing a poor job of watching them, “I’ll shout! I swear on my brother I’ll shout!”

That gave him pause. The sawing stopped, his silence a clear indicator of his deliberation. In that small interim, Graave stepped through the doorway, covered nearly head to toe in gauze.

“Get going, son.” He informed the guard, “Now that it’s just us three - I believe we need to have a talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Gareland turned her nose and shut her eyes.

“You?” Graave turned his attention to the other predator, who, for his part, made the same show as Gareland, without the words, “I respect it. No, really, I do. You have your orders, as do I.”

A small squeaking caught the Lieutenant’s attention. It was one of the mice he’d seen flooding the city. He paid it no mind, he knew the city was positively filthy and couldn’t be happier to be nearing the end of his time here.

“Paracelsus!” The fairy’s shouting caught his attention as she leaned her whole body into the noise, “I know you found him! I’m-” He cut her off by shoving a rag in her mouth.

—

The night-time announcements were missed that night, duly noted among all the citizens who had grown accustomed, if not welcoming, to the interruption of the monotony of everyday life. The reason for this had a sputtering, coughing fit, as he sat up from the wall he was seemingly purposely propped up against.

He shook his head, trying to clear the blood from the fight, the grime from his stay underground, and his own head trauma. He undid the last point when he whipped his neck about, “Paracelsus?” He shouted, but no reply came. Then, the memories came back. They’d been ambushed, nearly caught, and saved by someone who seemed to know his captain. But just who was she?

“I’ve got to find him,” He stretched, at least trying to force his limbs to be limber, “And I’ve got to talk to Charlemagne.”

—

“With all due respect, Madam -” Copain started, finger raised to enunciate the point that he didn’t get to say.

“If there’s no body, there’s no positive proof.” The mayor rubbed her temples, her headaches only increasing in both frequency and magnitude as of recent, “If he dies without a body, this matter will never close.”

“I don’t disagree,” He replied, “I simply think you’re not looking at this objectively.”

“Objectively?” She rose from her chair with a glare on her countenance, “How am I to see this objectively, Copain? This radical is traipsing about my city, and apparently, we’re powerless to explain either his presence or sudden absence.”

“I understand your frustration,” Was assuredly the wrong choice of words. He simply lacked the emotional capacity to understand any frustration, even that of his life-long friend, “I only suggest that your lack of transparency and reclusion during this time does not bode well with the citizens. You must consider your chances of re-election.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I won’t live to see next election. Her anger swelled briefly before breaking like a wave against the shore, “You’re right as always. Perhaps… we can put the man-hunt on hold, for now.”

“For now.” Copain reaffirmed, albeit disingenuously. He resolved, then and there, to find Lonceré on his own, to let the mayor find rest. With their farewells said, he set about doing just that. He’d already succeeded twice in finding Paracelsus, how hard could a third try be?

—

Serpacinno looked at the calendar in the corner, its date displaying the twenty-ninth. She just woke up, in her room that she previously shared with Gareland. Similarly, Tariq found himself missing the company of his captain, and the two solo travellers met up in the lobby of the hotel to discuss it.

“The announcements have stopped.” Tariq said, sipping his coffee. They were the two on the crew who were the least familiar with each other, and it showed in the air and the formal small talk they engaged in.

“I suppose that’s good?” Serpacinno asked, although they both knew he wasn’t going to offer a genuine answer, “It must mean he found him.”

“This is stupid,” Tariq slammed down his cup, “Why can’t we talk to each other?”

“The truth is that I find you too carefree.” She said following and preceding a sigh.

“What of Gareland?” He asked.

.”What of Gareland?” She repeated in a tone that told Tariq he should be cautious.

“Is she not equally as carefree as I am?” He leaned back with a defensive posture. Despite his towering over her, he couldn’t deny Serpacinno’s attitude had him cowed from day one.

“She’s a kid.” She responded.

His rebuttal was swift and sharp, “A kid? She’s older than me.”

“Only two years.” Her tone was smug, as though it was a great argument.

“She’s still older than me!” Tariq shouted, “And what’s more - she skips on cleaning and maintaining the boat more than me.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Her tone fell to an uncharacteristic softness as she recalled what little she knew of the fairy’s past, “I can’t help but feel for her.”

Another silence fell on the two. Tariq wanted to rebuff, but he felt that it was better to let the issue rest. He knew Gareland was there before him, and there was nothing that could be done to fully bridge the gap between them. It also didn’t hurt that he found her cute.

“I’m sorry,” Serpacinno was the one to break the silence, “I don't dislike you, exactly. I’m sure with time we’ll grow closer.”

“It’s alright.” Tariq was also crestfallen, feeling a sort of responsibility for dragging down the mood.

“Let’s take a walk, clear our heads.” She didn’t bother waiting for confirmation.

“You’re worried?” Now outside, he let the sounds of the street make him sound quieter in comparison, “I’m worried.”

“Of course I’m worried,” Serpacinno shrugged her shoulders, “But I guess I’m always worried.”

“Last time he left a note,” He kicked a loose stone on the ground, “But nothing this time.”

“I guess there is a way to make you worried, eh?” The question was made in good humor. It was not, however, received in the same way.

His pout formed quickly, but it was clearly meant to be hidden, as he turned his nose. “I left home without so much as a goodbye.”

She pondered his words for a minute, her own thoughts failing to adequately address his hang-ups. She was able to vaguely realize that he was probably now racked with guilt, but she was far from a counsellor, or anything of the sort. So, instead of words, she silently brought her hand to his back, giving him an awkward rub as a show of solidarity. He shot her a thankful look, and his expression lifted ever so slightly. Shortly thereafter, his hand met hers, and she took that as the signal to let him be.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lose myself.” The words that broke the silence rung hollow, “And - I’ll try to be more disciplined.”

She shook her head and sighed, her hands falling like leaves to her hips, “It’s alright.”

—

“Is something the matter, friend?” Charlemagne asked, before seeing Lonceré pack his bags, “Oh, you’re leaving?”

His short-lived companion slumped his shoulders and stopped, momentarily, “Sorry, Charles, I’m shipping out soon.” He turned around suddenly with a flourish, “But, may I make a selfish request?”

“Of course.” It was hard to read his emotions, being a massive anthropomorphic mouse, but he seemed sorrowful as he confirmed, “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I shall miss your presence.”

Deciding to shelve that last part for now, he let the walls echo his request, “My captain, I believe, is under duress right now. Please, I need to find him- and his crew.”

“Paracelsus, correct?” Lonceré nodded, “I’m sure you can make a list of everyone who’s spoken about him.”

His friend sighed and rolled his eyes, “Alright - What’s the matter? You’re positively dejected.”

“Sorry, you’ve just been a real friend to me.” Charlemagne rubbed his scepter, “It’s very hard to imagine your leaving.”

“If you’re lonely, why not venture up?” He asked, leaning against a wall and pointing in the appropriate direction, “Tanendille’s got no shortage of people.”

Charlemagne shook his head, “They’d never accept me.”

“It’s not 1715, there’s plenty of inhumans now,” He countered, “Mostly hybrids, yes, but there’s angels - and even the occasional demon.”

“And giant mice?”

“No one minds the little ones. Some even can learn to cook.”

“The little ones aren’t dressed like kings.”

Lonceré rolled his eyes again, “Are you just making excuses? Tell you what - I’ll come with you before I leave, I’ll show you the people aren’t as bad as you think.”

“Alright,” Charlemagne nodded, finding his own resolve, “Let’s find your captain.”

—

Paracelsus awoke with a mighty headache. His skull felt all too small for his brain, which was rattling about against its confines. His hair was slicked with a combination of blood and sweat, and his whole body felt filthy. He was lying in a bed, not where he expected to be, but it was nonetheless comfortable enough.

“Fuck,” He hissed, taking a towel from the run-down nightstand to wipe his forehead clean, “Where am I?”

He went to open the door, but the handle slid against the metal without giving. He tried a few more times before realizing it was locked from the outside and moved to a window to try his luck there. The cause for them was more obvious, in that there were no windows. With nothing else to work with, he tried the door again, intending to use his gift to open a path, but it failed him.

“What the hell did you inject me with, Silver?” He rhetorically asked, trying to bash his shoulder against the door. All it accomplished was hurting his shoulder.

He patted himself down. Silver had done him the kindness of relieving his weapons. Then, after climbing up on the bed in the corner, he groped around the ceiling, feeling for an imperfection or crack. He found a suitable one, and with a great crack, he pulled out a crude length of wood, which he stuffed under the mattress.

He panicked as he heard footsteps approaching. It was the telltale squeak of boots on rubber. So, to disguise himself, he climbed back under the covers and threw his arm over his eyes to pretend he was still asleep.

The shrill call of “Paracelsus?” Confirmed his worst fears. The door clicked, really clicked this time, and unlocked to reveal Silver coming in.

“Yes?” He groaned, tossing over to face the wall. A second later he shot up and whipped his head around to feign surprise, “Where am I?”

“You’re home, dear.”