“Alright, it’s done…” Serpacinno came up the stairs, rubbing her hands together to cleanse the dried fake-blood off of them, “What happened?”

“Turns out Gareland here is a crack shot.” He pointed his thumb behind him, “Hit the mainstay of that ship from a hundred yards.”

Gareland, in response, struck a pose with her hands on her hips and her nose turned up like she was king of the world. She basked in the moment, unaware that the woman she thought she’d impressed stood there with a less-than amused look on her face.

“Anyway,” Paracelsus interrupted her daydreaming, “I’ll be reading in my quarters. Come get me if we need anything.”

And so he did just that; he sat himself in his chair and put his feet up, reading a book about the culture of Granitown, which was where they would be making port. This was the type of thing he liked to do, researching his next steps, which in this case meant learning to blend in with the locals.

He tried on a few different styles, referencing pictures he saw in the book. They were for the most part short-sleeved, and he found them rather tacky, but then again, he was no fashionista. Then he pondered the question of business Gareland had put forth earlier. If she wasn’t able to run them, and Boulliard was similarly unfit, who did that leave?

He couldn’t do it, he was entirely unfit for it, and he had business outside of Ashland to attend to. Similarly, Serpacinno probably lacked the acumen required, and had other responsibilities. Local talent maybe? That had promise, but he wouldn’t be able to stick around to interview them. He realized that only left three options, and so he went to ask Gareland her opinion.

“Gareland?” He called out, keeping his eyes glued to his books as he stepped onto the deck.

“Hmm?” She replied, herself cleaning the deck with nothing else to do.

“Two things:” He held up two fingers, “First, can you keep watch from the crow’s nest?” She nodded, “Second, the way I see it, there are only a few options for our business problem. Either you can hire someone local, sell it, or you can let your boss keep it.”

If anything, she looked oddly disappointed. Either she didn’t like his suggestions, which was probably the answer, or she wanted to join his crew? That was an interesting thought, having a lookout without her level of aim could certainly be useful. Plus he had to admit she was cute in a little-sister type way, and she’d already grown on him a bit.

His thoughts were interrupted by an ache in his hand, a reminder of the worst drawback of his gift. Whenever he was off with the weight, even by an ounce or two, it was taken from his body; usually his bones, sometimes his muscles, but regardless it would sting like a bitch for at least a week, probably two.

“I’ll… have to think on it.” She teleported up to the crow’s nest.

With that matter… not settled, he decided to continue his research, and was fortunately not interrupted until mealtime.

—

And so, the next two and a half weeks passed by without any more issue. There was a brief pirate scare, but it turned out to be an actual Union ship, thankfully ignorant of Graave’s and Peeare’s mission. As a nice surprise, just Granitown was coming into sight, Paracelsus heard a pecking at the window of his quarters.

“What the devil?” He asked, stepping onto the railing to see a small black bird, although with a reptilian look to it. “Micro-raptors”, as they were called, were commonly used to send mail, due to their speed and strong tracking ability. This one was no different, as it carried with it a small, plain parchment.

Little brother, you’re living in Ashland, right? I’ll be there around September, on work. Let’s have lunch, yeah?

The letter was unsigned, but it didn’t need a signature; he only had one older sibling, to whom he had lied that he had an apartment in Ashland. He managed to dodge the question of the address, and he surmised his sister must’ve used his smelling-patch.

Whatever, an issue for another time. September was still five months away, which was coincidentally, or perhaps by a stroke of fate, the same amount of time it would take him to get there, roughly. Only the first channel was manned, which meant he would only have to stop for a day at most to gather supplies between individual rings.

“When we make landing,” Serpacinno interrupted his musings, “I’d like to go somewhere. We’re landing in Granitown, yeah?”

“Yes,” He started with a twinge of confusion in his voice, “And I’d be happy to accompany you, but I do have to load our ship this time. The second interior sea is much more treacherous.”

“It’s fine,” She rubbed her wiry arm as though it were not fine, “It’s just… You want to help me too, right?”

Stolen story; please report.

He sighed, “It’s only fair, I admit.” He saw her grimace, “But not out of obligation, out of friendship. I suppose Gareland can handle the shopping. Where are we going?”

“A graveyard. We need to,” She gulped apprehensively, “Rob one of ‘em.”

Il capitano crossed his arms in thought, “Not that I’m opposed, but why?”

“To retrieve something.” She dodged the question, her tone indicating she didn’t want to speak further.

“Alright then.” He nodded, not wanting to damage his relationship with her by prying. Although - there was a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that the reason she was keeping such a critical piece of information from him was so that she could betray him.

The ringing of the bell meant that their lookout had spotted land. He summoned a spyglass to confirm that she was right. The port was like any other, quaint and unremarkable, as this was a less common landing place due to its relatively long distance to the nearest channel.

Within the hour, they dropped anchor and tied the mooring line to keep the Gale from drifting. Soon after, the requisite docking fee, an outrageous five-hundred international dollars for one night, was paid and Paracelsus had designated their tasks. The most interesting part, the captain noted, was the vast difference in culture between Granitown (which he learned was actually a translation from its name of Shhr-Guranat) and Yuriol, despite their proximity. Even the traditional clothes, a kaftan which he now donned, was foreign to him.

“Excuse me sir,” Paracelsus greeted one of the workers at the dock, “Can you point me to the Qhrman-Peadshah graveyard?”

He indeed pointed, north as it turned out, and the two set about on their journey. They solicited a camel rider, who took them to the graveyard, which was quite unlike the port. Whereas the port was rather plain, and could easily be swapped to another city, and the people would be none the wiser, the graveyard had a distinct cultural look to it. He knew based off the name it was of some significance, but the mausoleums, large and strangely undecorated, juxtaposed against the port.

In short, Paracelsus was bothered by this. He didn’t know why exactly, but the oxymoronical nature of this town struck him as odd. It was as though the port had to be rebuilt, and was done so without the consultation of architects who were knowledgeable in the style. He brushed off the thought as best he could, when he heard the driver asking him something.

“So,” His voice was accented, but not heavily so, which was odd with the cultural whiplash, “What brings foreigners here?”

“Well,” Paracelsus quickly regained himself, bringing tears to his eyes, “My wife’s sister was a servant of Shah Tarim.” Which was the name of the last king of Iralo, the country Granitown was situated in. He was “the last king” in both the sense of him being previous, and also the final one - as shortly after his death, the country became a democracy, and joined the Union. “We wanted to pay our respects to her.”

He handed the rider a few dollars and asked him to wait for their return, but did not himself wait for an answer. He knew it was considered a great honor to be buried near a monarch, and almost cringed at the fact that said king died twenty years ago. A servant of his would have to be at least thirty - he should’ve just said they were tourists.

Ah well, off to… “What tomb are we looking for?”

“Shah Bahmen.” She replied, wiping away dust that had grown heavy and thick under accumulation.

“Shah Bahmen…” He threw his head back in recognition, “His sword? Is that why we’re here?”

She clicked her tongue, perhaps in respect, “In a way. Didn’t think you’d have heard of him.”

“I bought some books on this place. He and his sword were mentioned at some point.” He squinted, trying to read the plaque, but finding the alphabet foreign. They lost their port, but kept their tombs, it seemed.

Serpacinno decided to trust her gut; and in lieu of being able to read whose tomb was whose, she walked over to the one that felt the most “swordsman-y”. She then produced a small hammer from her pouch and broke the side window, deducing the door would be too cumbersome.

“My god!” Paracelsus whisper-shouted, ducking even though the glass was a dozen yards away, “You realize I could’ve opened it discreetly, yes?”

“As I was swinging.” She replaced the hammer into her pouch, getting into position for Paracelsus to step on her hands and be lifted up.

“You’re kidding.” He said, hands on his hips, “Look at your wiry little arms; during the storm you could scant hold the wheel.”

“So I’ll pull you up?” Her tone was incredulous, clearly having realized something he hadn’t.

He touched the wall, then there was a hatch there instead - and he even took the time to repair the window. The door was gone as soon as the two of them were inside, and Serpacinno breathed fire onto a torch to provide them light as they slowly crept down the stairs.

Paracelsus would never describe himself as “superstitious”. Nor would he say he believed in spirits, or ghosts, or any such things. Despite his rationality, he couldn’t help but feel unnerved by the darkness. Little creaks and groans from the ancient supports sent shivers across his body. Serpacinno, used to such dank crevasses, rolled her eyes in admonishment, knowing that the real monsters slept comfortably under candle-light.

“I think this is it.” She said, a small crack in the tomb providing a ray of light that cascaded onto the grave itself. More dubious was the fact that the light seemed to be focusing on a small, ornate hand-bell sat atop the grave. It was a combination of light blue and deep purple, with intricate patterns running along it. Curiously, it wasn’t metal at all, but rather a ceramic bell with a wooden striker.

“This is what we came here for?” Paracelsus asked, mostly in disbelief that they’d stumbled upon the correct grave at random. Again, he wasn’t superstitious, but if ever there were a time fate seemed to intervene…

“I put faith in your mermaid idea.” That wasn’t exactly true, he noted, but he was splitting hairs, “Put faith in this one.”

He threw his hands up and grew a look of friendly exasperation on his face, which was met with the barest of smiles. Still, the barest of smiles on her face was quite the accomplishment. What was not an accomplishment, however, was the fact that the oil on the torch had been completely spent and the rags underneath reduced to inflammable cinders.

“I think I should tell you of my recent discovery,” Paracelsus leaned in close, scared that in the dark there might lie some scoundrel listening in, “I’m terribly afraid of being trapped in a tomb like this, in the dark.”

The irony was not lost on either of them.