“Parace!” Gareland, uncharacteristically, threw her arms around the captain, much to his chagrin, “I really thought we lost you for a while.”

“Me too, Paracelsus,” Tariq added, a smile adorning his visage, “It is good to see you awake.”

“Thank you, thank you,” He put his hand up weakly, “But before we celebrate, we need to pull up the mast. I can barely use my gift on account of the hole, but if we pull it back into position, I think I can enact some basic repairs. We’ll start with the main.”

The whole crew got to work, each grabbing as much halyard as they could, save the injured captain, who oversaw the work. He started singing a shanty, and the others looked confused for a moment. Then they heard the rhythm, realizing that pulling with it was a good way to ensure their coordination. Due to their efforts, before the second verse had concluded, they’d made the mast stand again, and Paracelsus made good on his promise, though he’d doubled over, winded.

“I don’t think we’ll be doing the mizzen as well,” He panted and wheezed, “That took just about everything I had in me.”

“Just about?” Serpacinno asked, and if Paracelsus didn’t know her for her austerity, he’d almost say she was joking around, “Sounds like we might as well get the mizzen up.”

Gareland gave the captain a look that made him worry. She clearly wanted to resume their earlier conversation, but didn’t want to call him out in front of the others.

“Just about, because I have a better idea,” He used part of an empty barrel to make four equally sized green bottles: the type with glass so thick, you couldn’t see through it, “Let’s play a game. We each take a bottle, smash it, and look at the powder. If your powder’s gray, you sit out; if your powder’s white, you ask a question, and if your powder’s black, you answer. Sound fair?”

“Any question?” Gareland, not so subtly, asked.

“Any question.” He confirmed.

“And we have to tell the truth?” Serpacinno adopted a familiar look of suspicion, overtaking her previous joviality.

“Well, nobody will ever know, if that’s what you’re asking,” Paracelsus answered, “But that’s the spirit.”

“Fuck it,” She replied back, “I’m in.”

“In.” Tariq said.

“In.” Gareland confirmed.

“Alright then,” He offered the bottles, “In the interest of fairness, I’ll take whatever bottle’s left.”

Everyone having hesitantly taken theirs, the captain introduced a small dish to the deck to catch the powder. They all nervously looked around at each other, worried about who would get what, before all smashing them down simultaneously, spilling the contents into four piles which mingled at the center.

“I guess I’m first then,” Paracelsus of the White Powder started, “Tariq: What’s the situation with your parents?”

“Excuse me?” He replied, hand on his chest, he stammered for a few moments, but realizing he already agreed to the game, he gained his courage back, “There’s not much to say. My father claimed I grew obsessed with our ancestry, and my mother agreed. I left when I was fifteen.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Gru’lya, with her chin resting on her arms, which themselves rested on the gunwale, spoke up, “I can tell.”

“Hello there, Gru’lya, Tariq and Gareland. Gareland and Tariq, Gru’lya,” Paracelsus recreated the bottles, with an additional one, “Would you like to play?”

“No thanks captain,” She pushed the bottle away, “But if you have me doing labor, the least you can do is keep me entertained.”

“Fair enough,” He concluded, “Again, then?”

They all smashed the bottle, and this time Paracelsus held the opposite color. Gareland would be his interrogator.

“You already know what my question is, I assume?” She asked.

“Yes, yes, but you should know that technically, according to the rules, that was your question.” He put his hands up preemptively, “But I digress. For context, what little memories I have of my father place him solidly in the “pirate” category. On board his ship, Pryus Tyburn was the priest. I never much liked him, and seeing as I wasn’t religious, I never made an effort to know him. He likes booze and women, unless he’s had a religious awakening.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“And what did he mean when he mentioned the name of this ship had a significant meaning to your father?” She continued.

Paracelsus simply swept up the sand, again reforming it, “That’s another question.”

“This has to be rigged.” Tariq, again with the black powder, remarked.

“Eh,” Serpacinno shrugged, “I think it’s pretty fair.” She put her hand to her chin in thought. There was very little she cared to know, to be completely honest, but she still had to think of something, “I’ve got it. Why’d you stay with the crew?”

“I thought it was obvious,” He sighed in relief at the easy question, “I find the work fulfilling.”

“He lies!” The mermaid pointed at him with wide-open eyes, clearly getting her entertainment.

“Alright, alright!” He shouted back, coughing into his hand, “Truth be told,” He tried to stall, “Truth be told… The captain is a very intriguing man.”

Gru’lya gave a thumbs up, which was apparently more universal than the handshake, “Damn right, Tariq!” Paracelsus ruffled his hair, even if the gesture looked odd with Tariq sitting about three inches taller than him.

“Twice in a row,” Serpacinno examined the contents of her new bottle, “Lucky me. Now I’m interested, answer Gareland’s earlier question.”

“I believe I’ve mentioned my sister?” He asked, “Truth is - she’s my half-sister. Her mother’s name was Gale Craye, and if you remember, the ship was originally registered as the Gale. My mother’s name was Tanendille Current, and truth be told - the name was an intentional homage.”

“Never would’ve taken you for an overnursed child.” Serpacinno leaned back on her hands, disappointed in the banality of the answer.

“I assure you it wasn’t a case of overnursing,” He sighed, “I was either going to name it after her or my sister, and I’d rather not call it the Living Maiden. It sounds weird.”

“You’ve always been tight-lipped about this maiden of yours,” Gareland was more satisfied with the answer, “Care to elaborate?”

“Again, another question.” Paracelsus was fortunate to be left alone this round.

“I have a question,” Serpacinno cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention, “I thought you said we were going to Tanendille, as though it was a place?”

“Since it’s of importance to the crew, I’ll answer,” Paracelsus said, distributing the bottles again, “My mother was named after the city. Where she was from, I suppose.”

“Gareland,” Tariq began with quite the joyful grin, “Why are you with the crew?”

“I suppose I can’t blame you for not knowing, you weren’t here,” She sighed, “They’ve agreed to help me get my brother back.”

Another banal answer was met with another lame reaction from the crew. Still, the highs had so far outweighed the lows, and they continued.

“Serpacinno,” It was clear Paracelsus had been waiting to ask her a question. In his mind, she was a tremendously unclear element. She was rough and tough, but not without a certain softness that lay under her hard exterior. She seemed to have caught onto his untruthfulness, but still seemed to trust him more than most who’d similarly known him, “Where’d you learn the sword? No sailor I know holds a saber like you do.”

“Well, you know I’m not a sailor.” She answered plainly, although it clearly wasn’t enough. “I was eight, and at the time I lived in Gorale. The mayor was a famous swordfighter, a knight from some war that happened in his youth. After his retirement, he took me on as an apprentice. As for why, I have no idea.”

The crew continued on like this for some time, having found a way to pass the time on the otherwise suspiciously empty sea.

—

“Lonceré!” A voice could be heard shouting. The only thing louder than the shout was the sound of feet on cobblestone, as the man the voice belonged to chased said Lonceré through what was clearly a crowded city.

The chased had the distinct advantage of youth, being at least ten years younger than the one doing the chasing, and athleticism, jumping over carts, barrels and even small dogs to get away. He turned a corner into a small alley and jumped as high as he could, reaching a crack in the bricks that let him pull himself upward, grabbing higher still to climb onto the roof of a small boulangerie. Using his gift, he slowly willed one of the croissants sitting on display to float upwards toward him, so starved he was by the chase.

“Bad karma to steal.” He muttered to himself and threw a bill down to pay. Luckily, stranded though he be, he at least gave his pursuer the slip. He honestly didn’t see the logic in Tanendille’s minister of finance chasing him across the city. Did he sleep with the minister’s wife? Yes. Did he show any remorse? Not particularly. But he didn’t tell anyone, and of course the wife wouldn’t, so there was no scandal to be had.

Still, it was easier to extricate the tooth of a lion than try to explain the actions of humiliated men. So, Lonceré sat, munching his snack, pondering his next move. He may have actually gotten in over his head this time, and with the general chaos in the city, he feared the possibility of being found. In response, he did what he did best, and a second version of him appeared next to him, snatching a piece of the croissant.

“Any ideas?” The first asked.

“The Bohemians?” The second offered.

“They might trade me for something,” The first pondered, “Maybe the Contre-Force?”

“You’re worried about being traded as a hostage?” The second laughed, “If anyone will do it, it’s them.”

“You’re right, deux,” He snapped, and the double disappeared, “Guess I’ll have to find a hiding place.”

Then he remembered. As a child, he often played near the coast, and one time in particular, he remembered seeing a sewer access. Now, he wasn’t normally one to live in filth, preferring the high society of rich old women, but it would make a good hiding place. Food would be an issue, as with clean water, but the sewers were sealed off a long time ago, written off as a failure of engineering. No one would be looking down in the refuse, after all.

When he managed to sneak his way over, however, he clearly had misremembered. This wasn’t a sewer at all, and when he slipped past the grate, he realized that this must’ve been some ancient catacombs. Why was there a system of catacombs under the city? He was no historian, but the plaque was dated to 1322, and if he recalled correctly, that year saw a great plague ravage the city.

Then there was the second weird piece of the puzzle. The mimic mice, so called for their ability to mock human speech, were plentiful here, practically overflowing the damn place. He could scarcely step without catching one underfoot.

“I don’t suppose you actually understand me?” He asked rhetorically, not expecting an answer.

“Most don’t,” A second voice, though not his second voice, rang out, “I, however, do.”

Before him stood what was clearly the king rat. Lonceré raised an eyebrow, mouth agape in shock. There was a bipedal, six-foot rat with a crown, cloak and scepter all. Tied by the tail were several other rats in a similar level of dress, all walking together coordinated in one direction.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance?” He asked more than said, “Am I already hallucinating?”

“I don’t think so,” The rat king said, before he patted himself several times, “I surely hope not.”

“Do you have a name?” The human asked.

“Charlemagne, friend,” The rat offered a handshake, “You?”

“Lonceré,” He took it, “Friend. How long have you lived down here?”

“Oh, twenty or so years. It actually gets quite lonely, only talking to yourself.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.”