image [https://i.imgur.com/9JnFmXw.jpg]

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Fig, Rick, and Dorian checked into The Lost Love Lodge shortly after sunrise on the day before the Lovers’ Festival.

They joined the crowd in the lobby, and when they arrived at the front desk Fig was pleased to find that Mirabelle's people had prepared the way for them. A room booking had been pre arranged under her name, and a bellhop was ready to help carry their luggage up to a royal suite on the fifteenth floor, the very top of the extravagant hotel and casino.

The suite was huge, very modern, and opulent beyond belief. It spread across two levels; the lower had a large furnished common area complete with entertainment facilities alongside a bar and fireplace, and there was a twisting internal staircase that ascended to a set of adjoining bedrooms on the floor above.

Fig tipped the bellhop and parked the Floating Chest by one wall as the party explored their new lodgings.

Following a brief discussion, it had been decided that Mirabelle and her retinue would stay inside the Chest for the first part of their stay in Loverlock, taking advantage of its unique properties to avoid magical detection. As far as any outside observer might be concerned, Fig, Rick, and Dorian were just a party of three, splashing out on an extravagant room for their festival visit.

Fig opened the suite’s external glass doors and stepped out onto a wood-decked balcony with lounging chairs and a collapsible sunshade, enjoying the fresh lakeside wind as it ruffled through her short dark hair. Their suite was on the side of the building facing Lake Allura, and from the top floor the balcony offered a view that stretched for miles across the pristine water. No wonder artists flocked to Loverlock. With its rows of apple orchards, the snowcapped peaks of the Twirling Ridge Mountains rising to the west, and the distant rolling plains of the Luddish Grasslands stretching south to the far horizon, the landscape here was worthy of a skilled painter's brush.

A floating platform for the festival was taking shape out on the water a short way from the docks, and far down below she could see people milling through the town as more and more visitors arrived from Trent via the mountainous Ardwin's Pass. It looked like their party had only just beaten the rush by a couple of hours.

‘I could certainly get used to this,’ Dorian said, flopping down into an armchair, ‘The usual travel budget for my adventures barely covers a hostel bed and a hot meal. I’ve rarely lodged in quite such style!’

‘There’s a hot shower!’ Rick called out from the bathroom upstairs.

‘I’ll definitely be taking advantage of that later,’ Fig said to him, returning from the balcony, ‘ Make the most of it while it lasts. We’re only booked into this suite for the duration of the Lovers’ Festival. When Mirabelle heads back to The Rogue Wave in a few days we’ll have to find somewhere new to stay, that is if we want to stick around in Loverlock for a bit longer.’

‘I’d love to spend some more time in town if we can afford it,’ Rick called over the upstairs railing. He shut the bathroom door and Fig heard the shower turn on shortly after.

Fig lay down on a chaise-longue in the common area to relax. Her eyes were heavy even though it was still morning. She hadn’t been sleeping well on the barge the past few days. All she wanted was some good rest in a real bed.

‘So, lady blademaster. Do you have any onward plans for after the Lovers’ Festival?’ Dorian asked from the armchair nearby.

She groaned. Dorian could never leave a silence unfilled by the sound of his own voice.

‘Why do you ask, Dorian?’ Fig had a foreboding feeling in her gut, or perhaps it was just the ache from missing breakfast. She remembered there being a lovely little bakery nearby, perhaps she could visit it later.

‘Well…’ Dorian said, ‘You and Rickard seem to have a knack for finding yourself in the midst of exciting events.’

‘I could say the same to you,’ Fig said, ‘You get yourself into enough trouble without our help.’

‘That's quite true,’ Dorian laughed, ‘I’ve weathered my fair share of scrapes. But still, as a writer I’m always looking for more thrilling inspiration for my articles... Fig, you’re a famous figure in your own right, and Rickard is… to put it mildly, a rather fascinating young mage who seems to be set on a path to great things. I think I might try my luck travelling with the two of you for a little while longer, just to see if any particularly juicy new adventures reveal themselves along the way. Plus, a feature in my articles could push your celebrity to new heights if that thought entices you.’

‘No,’ Fig said

‘No?’

Fig shook her head firmly, ‘No, to the whole thing.’

‘What?’ Dorian asked, ‘Why not?’

‘You honestly can’t think of the reason?’ Fig turned over to look at Dorian’s furrowed brow.

‘A reason why you wouldn’t want to enjoy my company on your journeys? Certainly not. It seems only natural that we would continue to travel together as long as our goals align. I seek adventure. You provide it. What better match could there be?’ Dorian asked.

‘Dorian, I don’t know how you haven’t picked up on this so far, but I really hate you,’ Fig said.

Here we go.

‘You hate me?’ Dorian blinked.

‘Oh yes, absolutely,’ Fig said.

‘But… why?’

'You really want to get into it?' Fig asked.

'I think I deserve an explanation,' Dorian said.

‘Fine. Dorian, I hate you because you’re a complete idiot who is going to get himself killed sooner or later, and I don’t want to get caught up in your mayhem. It’s frankly a miracle that you’re still alive after every fucked up situation you’ve been through, especially because other people seem to get hurt and die everywhere you go. You almost never follow instructions or advice in deadly situations. You treat danger like it’s an exciting novelty as opposed to the genuine threat it is, and you never know when to stop talking.’

Harsh Fig.

‘I don’t…’ Dorian opened and closed his mouth a few times, but seemed lost for words.

‘This can’t possibly be new information to you. I’ve been going on at you about this almost every day since we met.’

‘I thought you were just being grouchy,’ Dorian said, ‘Rick and I joke about what a bad mood you’re always in.’

‘You’re the reason I’m in a bad mood.’

‘Oh…’ Dorian deflated.

‘Look, I don’t think you’re a bad person,’ Fig said, ‘You helped save my life in Vishrac-Uramis. I haven’t forgotten that, but on a personal level I just can’t stand you. Being around you is like nails on a chalkboard, combined with the worst headache I’ve ever felt. Your whole Gentleman Adventurer shtick makes me want to stab you, and your writing is so ridiculously self indulgent that I feel sorry for anyone who reads it. I don’t want to travel with you any longer than I have to. When we’re done here in Loverlock, I sincerely hope we never cross paths again.’

Dorian was silent for a few seconds before he responded.

‘I had no idea you held such a poor view of me,’ he said.

‘Then I can only assume that you’re being wilfully obtuse because I’ve hated you from the moment we met, and I don’t think I’ve been especially subtle about it,’ Fig said, ‘And... I know I’m coming across as pretty harsh, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up about travelling with us, because it’s not going to happen.’

Ugh, this is tough to watch. It’s like you’re kicking a puppy.

‘Ok,’ Dorian said.

There was a moment where his face darkened, and it looked like he was about to say something back, but instead he just stood and excused himself, ‘I think I’m going to go for a walk and… I don’t know, take in the town.’

‘Fair enough,’ Fig said.

‘Later then,’ Dorian said, and crossed to the suite door.

‘Just don’t lose your room key,’ Fig called after him, ‘and keep quiet about Mirabelle being here. You’ll bring the Dynasty down on our heads if you start running your mouth to everyone you meet.’

He was gone.

In hindsight, she might have been a bit too enthusiastic with her criticisms. It was cathartic to vent at him, but this time Dorian seemed to take her words to heart more than usual.

Everything she’d said was true, so why did she feel bad?

Gee, I wonder if it’s because you’re a terrible person.

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‘Is snarky your only setting?’ she growled.

There was no response.

She took out the control ring for the Floating Chest.

Mirabelle’s small pirate retinue had rearranged the Chest’s cosy living space into a more practical and efficient setup, with bunks for ten people lined around the walls, and divider curtains hung to create the effect of private rooms in the corners. It was much the same layout they used below decks on The Rogue Wave.

The workshop below, accessible through its hatch, was packed with stored rations. They had enough food and water to last for many months, if needed. The only downside to the Chest was its single control ring. If that got lost, they’d starve inside regardless of how many rations they had, because nothing except the control ring could open the Chest and let them out.

Frankly, Fig wouldn't have been happy to take that chance, but Mirabelle seemed confident to leave the control ring, and responsibility for safeguarding the Chest, with Fig.

‘How much do we have to worry about Dynasty agents tracking you down?’ Fig asked Mirabelle, when she descended into the Chest to report their final arrival in Loverlock to the Pirate Queen.

They’d been slightly frosty with each-other since their argument after the sea battle, but it wasn’t the first time they’d fallen out and they both seemed keen to carry on as if nothing had happened.

‘Anyone magically tracking me won’t be able to break through the Chest’s non-detection enchantment,’ Mirabelle replied without looking up, moving charts around the rosewood writing desk she’d claimed as her own while Casrian, the flowery Alfir mage, brought her a steaming cup of herbal tea, ‘We’re going to be meeting with a lot of important people. There’s always a chance that they’re being observed, so stay on your guard. Have you spoken to Luvellia yet?’

‘No, she wasn't around when we checked in,’ Fig said.

‘She’s arranging my meetings. Go and find her, personally. Give her this,’ Mirabelle said, putting a sealed letter into Fig’s hand.

‘Yes ma’am,’ Fig gave a mock salute and went off to find the proprietor of the Lost Love Lodge, letting herself out of their royal suite with a quick word to Rick through the bathroom door to let him know she’d be back soon.

The hotel was a marvel of engineering and architecture, sporting the latest range of ether-crystal powered appliances, from water boilers, to lighting, to a powered elevator that eliminated the need to trek up fifteen floors of stairs to reach the royal suites at the top of the Lodge.

It was the tallest building in town by far, rivalling the towers of Vostrel. Fig supposed some kind of reinforcement magic had probably been used to strengthen the structure so it didn’t collapse under its own weight, she’d have to ask Rick about it later.

She needed to find Luvellia Presimis, and the best place to start was probably the front desk, so she took the elevator down.

On the way, she noted a stage built into the back wall of the elevator compartment that supported four tiny musicians in smart suits.

They were Brudes, a miniscule caste of people who stood no higher than Fig’s knee. She remembered hearing that they were most populous in Garrel to the north, and in the caverns of Brod in the Unbound Mountains. Brudes rarely set foot outside their insular mountain communities, having historically been mistreated by the large folk of wider Sedalia, but the Lost Love Lodge clearly saw an opportunity in their short stature and had hired them to play lively music on a minuscule stage inside the elevator, to entertain the Lodge’s guests. What a quaint idea.

Fig tapped her foot along to the band’s upbeat tune as the elevator descended until the doors dinged open to the ground floor.

‘How long do they make you guys stay on stage?’ Fig asked, flicking a silver sun into the band’s tip box.

‘We’re on till six, then the Gary Gumption Band takes over for the late show,’ the little Brude lute player said, tipping his cap to her in thanks for the donation as Fig exited the elevator.

‘Gary Gumption,’ she mouthed to herself, that was a stage name if ever she’d heard one.

The ground floor of the Lost Love Lodge was divided into three sections.

First and centrally was the Lodge’s grand entrance foyer where guests could check in, meet friends, sit and talk, or ask the concierge for advice and directions around town. At present it was hopelessly crowded with new arrivals.

In the east wing lay the Lodge’s acclaimed Ardor bar and restaurant, which was temporarily hosting Rafiel Pritina, a renowned Rossak chef from Vostrel, to design their menu for the festival weekend.

Finally, in the west wing was the great Lovers’ Ballroom, which would be holding dances, concerts, and raunchy parties for the nobility. Those were the site of many scandals and had produced all kinds of rumours back when Fig was a teen in the Heartland nobility. Who danced with whom and who was shunned by different social cliques could sow the seeds of lifelong rivalries. She was suddenly glad she’d stopped being able to attend before she got to an age where any of that would have mattered to her.

The Lodge’s famed casino was up above on the first floor, but Fig didn’t plan to make use of that during her stay. She’d like to keep her money safe and sound, thank you very much. Games of chance never appealed to her. She preferred cold predictable steel, and a well laid plan, however rarely she actually got to properly prepare for anything these days. The twists and turns had been coming one after another.

Fig walked up to the check in desk where a line of incoming guests stretched almost to the door, and flagged down a busy looking hotel receptionist.

‘You’ll have to get in line, I’m afraid,’ the man said.

‘This is a different sort of matter. I have a letter for Luvellia Presimis, from one of the Lodge’s silent partners,’ Fig held up the sealed note Mirabelle had given her, ‘I need to deliver it personally.’

The attendant took a longer look at her, and nodded to some chairs against the far wall, ‘Take a seat.’

Fig waited for fifteen minutes, watching the flow of weary Heartland guests checking in from their long travels. People came from as far as Vostrel for the Lovers’ Festival, and while the festival itself only lasted over the weekend, most of the Heartland nobility spent at least three weeks out here in Loverlock, essentially making this getaway their annual summer holiday. Otherwise the week or more of travel to get out here would hardly be worth the effort.

Of course, some of these families were so wealthy they could afford to have the Magisterium teleport them wherever they needed to go, despite the fact that teleportation services were only offered at three thousand gold suns a head.

That was silly money, even for the nobility, and most just took a boat followed by a carriage.

Fig’s family used to attend, until the year after her twelfth birthday when their ranches were destroyed and the Sable family warhorse contracts with the Dynasty military fell through. After that, they no longer had the funds to keep up appearances with the other nobles.

Fig still remembered the way her mother cried the first time her father announced that they couldn’t spare the money to travel all the way across the Wine Sea for the festival. The embarrassment at missing out, and of all of her peers in the noble ladies salons knowing about her husband’s financial troubles, drove her into her room where she didn’t rise from bed for a whole week.

Now Fig looked at the Heartland nobles and wealthy merchants with their noses in the air, bustling and fretting to get to their rooms so they could wash away the minor strain of their carriage rides. Their clothes were pristinely pressed. Their skin was perfumed. Their hands were soft, unused to hard labour or the rigours of training.

Had she really once been a part of that crowd?

It was only five years ago, in some ways not that long, and in some ways a lifetime.

Now she lounged in a chair at the edge of the room in her tatty old riding coat, barely held together by mending magic, looking like a vagabond who’d no place alongside such refined company. She had her boots propped up on a low table and she stank of river water, sweat, and smoke from the journey.

Some of the nobles recognised her. She saw knowing glances and couples exchanging whispers. A few kids were running around knocking over luggage as they played out a duel, one of them ripped open another one’s jacket.

Fig closed her eyes and leant her head back against the wall.

‘Fig, get your feet off my table,’ a voice said in a quiet but firm tone.

Fig looked up and saw a tall Half-Alfir woman with raven hair woven into a long braid, and smooth dark skin that shone with the same lustre as gold; Luvellia Presimis, the proprietor of The Lost Love Lodge. She arched a disapproving brow and looked pointedly at Fig’s boots.

Fig swung them to the floor and stood. She usually had an inch or two over Luvellia, but the woman’s heels today meant they were perfectly eye to eye.

‘Come on, you’re scaring the patrons,’ Luvellia beckoned Fig and led her off to a back room. On the way, she sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose.

‘You know we have washbasins in all of our rooms,’ she remarked, not breaking stride.

‘I just arrived,’ Fig said.

They walked to a small office tucked away in the web of corridors behind the main desk.

Fig handed Luvellia the note from Mirabelle.

The hotel owner read it quickly, then tossed it into a fireplace in the corner where a small blaze consumed the paper.

‘Excellent. Here’s what will happen. Your guests will come to your suite, one per-hour, on the hour, starting at noon,’ Luvellia said, ‘Each will be escorted to your door by me personally, and will stay no longer than fifty minutes. We have excuses prepared to draw them away from their companions, and here is the order in which they should be expected.’

She held out a list with seven names on it. Fig scanned it and tucked the list away. The names were nobles and civic leaders from settlements across the Dynasty and the Outerlands, all people who would not care to be seen secretly meeting with Mirabelle the Black. The Lovers’ Festival was the only time all of them would be gathered together in one place. No wonder Mirabelle was meeting them in person here, despite the danger.

‘You have an hour before the meetings commence. I suggest you freshen up and get some food. It’s going to be a long day,’ Luvellia said.

Indeed it was.

Fig stood guard in the suite for seven hours while the procession of important guests was brought up to the door by Luvellia and checked for malignant enchantments by Casrian, before being whisked away into the Floating Chest for their clandestine meetings with Mirabelle.

A few recognised Fig, and one or two baulked at the sight of her standing guard beside the Floating Chest with her hand on the pommel of an enchanted sword, but most moved swiftly and stoically past her, keen to get to whatever warmongering business Mirabelle was cooking up inside her magical bunker.

Luvellia only stuck around each time for long enough to drop off the guests. She had a hotel to manage on its busiest weekend of the summer season after all

In the late afternoon Rick excused himself to go and explore the town, leaving Fig with no-one to talk to and little to do but twiddle her thumbs and wait anxiously for the possibility of a hostile raid breaking down the door to try and capture Mirabelle on behalf of the Dynasty.

No such raid came.

It appeared Luvellia had handled everything with sufficient caution and secrecy. As the last of the guests, Garrel’s chief ambassador to the Radiant Dynasty, left the suite to return to his holiday party, Fig breathed a sigh of relief.

She entered the Chest and checked in with Mirabelle, who had bags under her eyes from the long day of meetings, and was nursing a glass of whiskey.

‘Did everything go according to plan?’ Fig asked.

‘Mostly,’ Mirabelle said, ‘There are a few holdouts, but I still have the support I need. The Dynasty won’t know what’s hit them.’

‘Well that’s ominous,’ Fig said, ‘The less I know the better. Do you need me for anything else tonight? I want to get some dinner.’

‘Order us some room service first, we’re all getting a bit sick of sea rations. Might as well enjoy ourselves while we’re in Loverlock,’ Mirabelle said, to a chorus of approval from her retinue who were spread about the interior of the Chest, organising maps and documents.

Fig sighed and ordered a few big sharing platters up to the suite, which she then ferried down to the pirates one by one.

[End of Chapter 21 - Part 1]