“So what’s our story?” Serpacinno asked, Yuriol just now coming into view over the horizon.

“I’ve refitted the name of the ship to The Living Current. We’re a pair of friends from sailing college who decided to become privateers. The reason our ship isn’t registered is because we were frightened by the piratical attack on The Unbroken Gale back in Cleré. I’ve erased the previous log, wrote my own entries, and I took the liberty of constructing a fake manifest.”

She nodded. It sounded reasonable enough, except, “I get the lack of supplies - but what of the sails?”

“A good point.” He put his hand to his chin, “We cut them during the storm, worried the mizzenmast would fall. Any final regrets? About choosing a criminal as a partner, I mean.”

“Not at the moment,” Her face soured somewhat, “Just questions. Specifically, I wanted to know what information you have on Kósmeidí.”

He then pulled out a small, leatherbound journal from an interior pocket of his coat, and opened it to a diagram of a sword, vivisected into six pieces, “At the center of each ring, I believe there lies a piece of this sword. I heard about it from my sister. She’s not exactly a scholar on such things, but she can be privy to things sometimes.”

“And what’s the plan after we dock?”

“The ship will take about a week or so to be manned across the channel to the next interior sea, during which time I’m going to see a friend from school. A real school friend. He owns a gambling house - a casino, I’m told it’s called.”

“All right then. What will we do at this ‘casino’?”

“I figure it shouldn’t be too eventful. We’ll buy supplies for our voyage and be on our way in a week.”

Luckily, upon registering their ship, the clerk was new to the job, and he was a young bleeding-heart; he ate up the story fed to him without any protest and wished the young duo good luck on their voyage.

After that, it was a simple matter of walking to the casino. It looked surprisingly empty. There was no line, and the only people the two saw inside were workers, tinkering away at machines that looked quite fancy.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” A jovial voice shouted out, before its owner wrapped his arms around Paracelsus and Serpacinno, “Is that ol’ Parac*?”

Paracelsus removed his arm and shook his hand, bringing the other arm to embrace his friend, who returned the favor, “Boulliard, you crazy bastard! How’ve you been?”

“To tell you the truth, not good. One by one, them machines you made for me a few months ago started breaking. Since then, the cash flow’s dried up.”

“And let me guess,” Paracelsus’ face was a painting of annoyance, “You aren’t able to follow the explicit instructions I wrote?” Boulliard nodding drove his spirits to depths Paracelsus didn’t know existed, “Alright. I’ll demonstrate to your workers. Serpacinno, can I ask you to shop?” He pleaded, producing a pencil and paper before writing up a list.

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t protest, for she already had their coffers in her belt pouch, “Alright, then. I suppose this means we’ll be staying here, in fact?”

After Paracelsus gave a thumbs up, and Serpacinno departed on her mission with the assistance of one of the laborers, the proprietor spoke up, “Hired help? Friend?” He developed a treacherous grin and worked his eyebrow, “Something more?” He nudged his friend with his elbow.

Paracelsus waved his arm away, “Partners is the term we’ve arrived at.” A giggle threatened to burst from behind his friends’ lips, “Not of that sort. We happen to share a common goal.”

“And what sort of goal is that?” Paracelsus didn’t respond, he had already gotten to work on disassembling a slots-machine the poor fool had no chance of maintaining, “You always mentioned these lofty ambitions in grade school.”

“Those” he pointed upwards, as though such action would emphasize his words, “Were the words of a fool who wished to entertain his friends. My goal, at present, is much more tangible.”

“So tangible you can’t tell an old friend?”

“I’ve concocted a new method for growing tobacco, as a matter of fact.” Paracelsus stopped and sighed, for it was no small pain to reveal such precarious secrets, “Her father owns a tobacco farm in northern Jurl.” No such location existed, “We’re passing through here so I can sell the patents and wash my hands of this business with liquid gold.”

As his friend started busting his gut with laughter at the ridiculous thought of Paracelsus becoming a cigarette salesman, the man in question knew he’d had nothing to worry about. Therein lieth another such blessing this man had - not in getting people to believe him, but in distracting their minds with humor enough so that they’d all at once ceased caring about the truth, for the amusement was far more valuable.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Can we get this shipment,” Serpacinno was at the market, eyeing what had to be roughly two tons of steel, needed for god knows what, “Delivered to The Living Current? It’ll be at port Mariner in about seven days.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” The clerk replied, making a note of it in a journal.

After leaving the shop, she saw a beggar; a wrinkly old man, wrapped in a cloak, with a can by his knees, seemed on the brink of death already. After resolving to give him something, she walked over before she was abruptly halted by what appeared to be a lawman coming over and shouting something she couldn’t hear. When the beggar refused to leave, the officer drew their club above their head.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The officer asked over his shoulder, as Serpacinno had grabbed the club and held it in place.

The laborer grabbed her shoulder, “Ma’am, you should know that’s one of Gareland’s men.” As if she should quake with fear at the name.

“And who is that?” She asked, catching a punch the officer had thrown with his other hand.

“The owner of the casino; Mr. Boulliard’s just the manager. Worse yet, if her men are this active, that must mean she’s gonna be visiting soon.”

If the casino’s not drawing in profits, she’s like to be angry already. I know it’s not wise, but I can’t help when I see bastards like this. She spun the man she was holding around and kneed him in the stomach, bringing their scuffle to a quick conclusion. Best to finish shopping as soon as I can.

Paracelsus was irritated with the noise this “Gareland” woman was making, barking at his friend for falling behind his quota. If he had to guess, this place was the most successful property of hers, and if he had to guess further, he’d say she never praised the manager when things were going well. It was interesting though, to see a fairy for the first time in person. It was rare to see one outside of their homeland, though recent innovations in travel had certainly made it more common.

“As I said, that’s my friend Paracelsus from grade school,” Boulliard nervously swallowed, “Ma’am.”

“I was more so wondering exactly what he’s doing in my building?” Paracelsus thought that with the tool in his hand, adjusting the timing rod on a roulette wheel, it should have been obvious.

“Well he’s got a uniquely suited brain f-”

“Is he mute?” The horrible one (as Paracelsus had called her in his mind) turned to him.

“No ma’am, just focused on fixing this machine.”

“Funny.” She stood, or floated, between him and his machinations, “You know what happens when my boss loses out on the money he usually receives from this establishment?” Paracelsus detected a weakness in her voice when she said the words “my boss”, although he didn’t let it show.

“I’m sorry I don’t.” Paracelsus said as sincerely as he could, for he was keenly aware, “That being said, I think it would be best if I could get back to repairs, so that your boss does not inflict whatever implied injury upon us all.”

With her rage abated, Garland said “I’ll be back here every day to check your progress.” She then hovered away.

Boulliard plopped himself down next to his comrade after his boss was sufficiently out of earshot, “Sorry ‘bout that. You managed a right rotten time to pay ol’ me a visit.”

“I suppose I should have come earlier; I would like to apologize - for not being reachable.”

“Nah don’t worry. You done enough for me, Parac.”

Paracelsus felt a pang in his chest. For all his grand ambitions, he was so woefully unable to help one of his few living friends and was now being consoled by that friend he’d failed. He redoubled his efforts, set on resolving his error.

Let us close the curtain on those two for a moment, and refocus our attention back with the port they left not long ago. A monstrously large man with bear ears and nose sat, barely fitting in his quarters. He was currently engaged in a most important conversation, sitting across a table from the captain of The Unbroken Gale. He’d heard the whole tale, with some embellishments to explain why he wasn’t on his own ship.

“Junior Lieutenant Peeares, start preparations to go underway.” The bearman said.

“Of course, Lieutenant Graave.” The subordinate offered a salute, before turning and shouting through the door, “Make preparations to sail!”

“So this means you’re chasing them?” The captain, named Jowon, asked, rubbing his hands.

“We’ll look into it.” Graave was leading him out of the door, “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.” In truth, Graava had simply meant to report back to his commander, paying this news no mind.

“If I may, sir?” Peeares piped up, closing the door so it was just those two, “Why would pirates order the crew to abandon ship instead of keeping them hostage?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They lied about their destination. I don’t know where they’re going, but it isn’t Port Laroi.”

“If they are pirates, wouldn’t they go to a port with money, perhaps Yuriol?”

Graave leaned back, reading a chart, “If they wanted to do that,” He beckoned his first-mate over, pointing at the current Paracelsus took, “They’d have to go through here, at the same time as that storm was projected to. They’re dead if they went that way - and they took The Unbroken Gale with them.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Peeares continued, head bowed to show respect, “I’ve a formal sailing education. It’s not impossible the two of them managed to survive; especially if one of them had the forethought to prepare for a storm.”

“So you’re suggesting I mobilize my entire squadron to chase after two pirates whom we aren’t even certain are alive?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“You’ll need to convince me that these fools are worth our time.”

“If you’ll accept my conjecture, roundabout a year and a half ago, a mole that we had planted in the revolutionaries told us that a captain Paracelsus had defected. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of another man by that name.”

Graave stroked his chin in thought, wrestling with the idea; if he failed, it meant humiliation and almost certainly a demotion if the criminals weren’t there - on the other hand, capturing a former revolutionary captain meant certain promotion, “We’ll take their same route, if we find signs of a shipwreck, we’ll investigate it before moving on.” His tone allowed for no debate on this matter.

“Certainly, sir.” Peeares bowed his head and was about to exit.

“One last thing, Peeares.” The man in question spun on his heels, an attentive look on his face, “Why do you care so much about this case?”

“My parents were killed by those rats, sir.” Graave nodded, “Revolutionaries, I mean. I would go to hell to see vengeance extracted upon them.”

“Very well then. As you were.”