“Oh, try this,” D’Aubigny had ordered for Paracelsus, a green type of alcohol referred to as “absinthe”, “It’s stronger than any whisky.”

“I’m more one for rum,” Paracelsus swirled the liquid around, “Although truth be told I’m not one for liquor, per se,” He took an exploratory sniff, “Still, down she goes.” He toasted, throwing back the drink, “Tariq?”

Tariq maintained a sour, unpleasant face. He’d never drank anything so strong before, and his body desperately wanted to purge the disgusting substance poured into it. Still, he persisted, and after some time, managed to sigh without gagging.

“I’m alive,” Tariq confirmed with a thumbs up, “Although - that may be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“The worse it tastes,” D’Aubigny said, “The better it works.”

“She’s right, Tariq,” Paracelsus had another, “Invariably, the stronger an alcohol is, the more noxious.” He turned to address the fencer, “To our new friend… I suppose.”

“Mirabel,” D’Aubigny took her arm off her companion for long enough to give her hand out, “I’m sure you saw, but I’m Sally D’Aubigny. You seem like a decent man, and we both love the same woman.”

“My only love is the Current,” Paracelsus retorted, but still shook her hand, “She’s the most beautiful lady there is.”

“Not so beautiful with her mast down,” She laughed, but the look on the captain’s face suggested he wasn’t taking it so humorously, “But I get it. There’s no accounting for taste.”

“I don’t know if I’ll take that from a woman who has to swim through mice to get about her city.”

D’Aubigny put a finger up like she meant to retort, but shrunk back, shrugged, and downed her own glass, “Sorry, sorry, I realize our sense of humor is not quite the same, hm? I meant no offense.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Paracelsus had his arm looped around Tariq, who was barely holding it together, “I should be escorting this young man back, now,” He stood, “Up we go, Tariq.”

“Not so fast, Captain,” D’Aubigny leaned backward on the bar, arms akimbo, “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The captain groaned at the annoyance. He disliked the woman as a matter of course, although he would have great difficulty articulating why, and he already felt he knew the nature of her question, “Do tell.”

“Mirabel,” Sally made a pouty face, addressing her companion, “Please, a moment alone, Dear?”

Mirabel kissed her teeth and sighed, but nonetheless complied; immediately thereafter, Paracelsus said, “If I may: Why do you chase Serpacinno? You seem to have a woman already.”

“Mirabel?” Sally asked like it was a nonsensical question, “She’s a… Geneviève, you know?” He clearly did not, “Fun, but not per se, a woman of the family.”

“I’ll ask later,” He digressed, “Regardless - what did you want to ask me?”

“Is there room aboard your ship?” She asked.

“You’re serious?” He inquired, “You a cook?” She shook her head, “A writer?” She shook again, “A musician or navigator? Maybe a quartermaster?” She repeated the action again, and were it not for his bias, the captain might have found the way her hair swung around amusing, “Well, is there any particular talent you possess?”

“I’ve never once slept,” She claimed, “Never once, ever since I was born. I don’t think I can sleep if I try.”

“Alright, well, I’ll think about it,” He absolutely would not, “That’s a sailor’s swear, off we go Tariq.”

—

Lonceré leaned against the wall of the crypt, spinning a skull around in his hands. He kept doing so for a few minutes, until he decided the bread he’d left to fry on the skillet was sufficiently browned and crisped. Then, he applied a generous serving of blueberry jam Charlemagne had secured for him to the toast. Finally, to top it off, he placed a few slices of bacon to complete the sandwich.

“Just occurred to me,” He handed the sandwich to the mouse he’d learned to recognize as a friend, “I have no idea what’s safe for mice to eat.”

“Not to worry, friend,” Charlemagne took the sandwich and licked his lips, “Us mice are of a strong constitution.” He took a bite, and took only a small break to process the flavor. Once he had truly grasped its depth, he gobbled up the rest of the meal with gusto.

“I’m glad you like it,” Lonceré replied, more slowly eating his own, “Although there’s nothing very special about it.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“Maybe not to you,” The king replied, “But I’ve only ever had half-eaten, discarded and cold food down here.”

“I guess that’s true.” The chef was shaking as he ate his food, “Say, next time, please get opium. I’m going through withdrawal here.”

“My fellow, you haven’t heard? The mayor’s outlawed smoking. She knows you’re the one behind the speeches, probably trying to flush you out.”

“And how many ships have docked here recently?” He asked, “One?”

“One, indeed,” The king replied, “Today, as a matter of fact. I’ll have the mice search it, then?”

“Please do, dear God.” The cook threw his arm over his head, which was now some weird combination of burning up and freezing cold.

—

“Halt -” A commanding voice cried out, stunning Serpacinno and Gareland, who were presently engaged in a casual jaunt, “By order of Paladin Roland!”

The women reacted to the sound of wings beating and wind whipping first, as he descended from above on his large, golden wings. The first thing they visually reacted to was his sheer size, he must’ve been at least six-foot-seven, and potentially as tall as six-foot-nine. To add to that, he was fittingly wide, and the extra width added by his armor (made of a beautiful combination of white and gold steel, all wrapped in a blue cloak) made him appear to take up the whole, narrow street.

Almost instinctively, Serpacinno reached for her sword. She found herself unable to, and her blood ran cold when she realized that she was completely immobilized. The paladin walked around them twice, inspecting them and disarming them before he released his hold on them.

“Give me my sword.” Serpacinno immediately demanded.

“I should think not,” Roland replied, “It was plainly written on your face what you intended to do with it.”

Gareland put her hand on her companion’s shoulder, to tell her that the fairy should take the lead, “Sorry, Paladin, but think of it from our perspective: We had no idea who you were.”

“Wait,” They could almost feel Roland squint behind his mask, “Miss Ustdottir?” He paralyzed them again, “Consider yourself under arrest.”

“Gareland?” Serpacinno used all her strength to turn her head to the side, “What have you gotten us into?”

“You may have fooled the Union’s lawmen, fairy,” He approached with two sets of iron cuffs, “But we Cartesians know better than to trust a Morrelonian.”

Luckily for Gareland and Serpacinno, they were provided relief shortly. Said relief came in the form of three people, all dressed in makeshift black clothing who jumped out of windows from the surrounding houses. They all descended upon the paladin, swords pointed downwards for the kill. One shouted for his death as they dropped, but his prediction would be turned upon him as he was met with the paladin’s sword, now upturned, skewering the assassin by entirely natural means.

“Shit!” The other two cried, having missed entirely. Then, they tried to turn tail and run but were stopped in their tracks by the paladin. With his attention turned, however, Serpacinno and Gareland made a run for it, racing as fast as they could from him.

“What the fuck was that about?” Serpacinno, enraged, grabbed Gareland by the collar and snarled at her.

“Don’t act surprised,” The fairy shot back, “You knew who I was when you let me on the ship.”

Serpacinno ran her tongue along her cheek; it was true, and angry as she was she couldn’t refute it. She felt a nagging feeling in the back of her head: the same one she’d had when they separated in Bataine, in fact. She felt like the only choice was to flee. Every muscle in her body told her it was going to be impossible to float under view of someone like Roland, and the ease with which he dispatched of the people after his life was unsettling, to say the least.

“Serpacinno!” Gareland slapped her across the face to bring her back in control of herself, “We need to leave!”

“We’re not done.” The gorgon glared at her short friend, before running away in a huff.

—

“Alright, down you go, lad.” Paracelsus placed Tariq upon his bed, before he went to go over to his. As he was unlacing his boots, he heard a knock at the door, “It’s unlocked.”

In came the rest of his crew, huffing puffing like they’d sprinted the whole way there. He let them catch their breath for a few minutes, doubled over and clutching the wall for support.

“What’s got you two in such a hurry?” The alchemist asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Apparently, the little fairy is more shady than I thought,” The first mate maintained her angry glare, “Some knight or something tried to arrest us. Nicked a favorite sword of mine, too.”

“You really didn't put it together?” Paracelsus raised his eyebrow, “You seriously need to inform yourself. Her boss is Lorenzo Dakrine,” Serpacinno didn’t react, “He runs a crime organization in Morrelone, called the Families.”

“That’s not in the papers,” Serpacinno blushed, not having read any such newspapers, “At least none I read.” Her brief embarrassment morphed to a duller rage as she turned to Gareland, “And just so you don’t get any ideas: I’m not forgiving you so soon.”

Gareland bit her tongue; in her mind, she hadn’t explicitly done anything wrong, and the swordswoman’s ignorance was of her own making. Still, in an effort to keep the peace, she said, “I understand. Maybe we should get back to the more pressing matter, though?”

“We’re fine,” Paracelsus replied, “The ‘announcements’, remember? ‘Avoid the northern quarter’. Lucky us, having lodged here.”

“It wasn’t us,” Tariq, half-asleep and barely lucid, “We didn’t choose this hotel.”

“Thank you, Tariq.” He replied with an awkward tone about him, hoping no one would ask any further questions.

“Who did, then?” Gareland, happy to have any other topic to talk about, asked.

He groaned like a child whose parents were scolding him, “The fencer, D’Aubigny or something.”

“How’d you come to meet her again?” Serpacinno, now suddenly interested in the conversation, asked.

“We met her randomly,” He waved his hand dismissively, “While we were drinking. We have some similar tastes and she recommended this place.”

“So that’s the plan, then?” Serpacinno asked, “We just wait a week in this part of the city and hope nothing else endangers us?”

“You’re a fast learner,” Paracelsus made his way to his bed and lied down, with his hands behind his head, “I am open to suggestions, though.”

Serpacinno groaned; that was assuredly a lie. She’d been around him long enough to recognize the different tones of voice she used, and that one meant he was definitely not open to suggestions.

“Well,” Garland broke the somewhat awkward silence, “Is your gift returned to you, Parace?”

“Assuredly not,” He blew a raspberry, “The wound’s also not healing right. I think - I hope it corrects itself with time, I guess we’ll see.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gareland fiddled awkwardly with her hands, the pride at having patched him back up having disappeared and been replaced with a disappointment that she didn’t do it right, “I thought it looked good.” She was now two-for-zero in terms of brightening their spirits.

“Don’t worry about it,” He replied, all too casual for someone whose chest had a hole in it, “I’m not sick, thankfully, and you’re no surgeon.”

“You’re taking it well.” Serpacinno observed.

“As far as I can tell, which admittedly isn’t much, the arrow, or projectile, I suppose, missed my organs and bones.”

Before the conversation could continue, they were interrupted by a knock on the door.