There were now only two days until the crew of the Current left the ports of Cartesia. It was also officially the penultimate day that the Mayor had to resolve the crisis in her city. As usual, she was one of the first in the city to stir, bright and early, at five in the morning. She sighed as she observed the piles of stationery on her desk, her headaches had only been increasing, and the news she was delivered about the potential of a judicial hearing had only further inflamed her nerves.

  “After everything I’ve done.” She picked up one of the letters, sent from some minister who had nothing better to do, before tossing it away. What did it matter if she was going to be scapegoated, anyway. Then, she thought back to when Copain had almost found Domingue, and decided a final gambit, “Copain!” She shouted, prompting him to enter the room shortly thereafter, “Get my drafting stationery, I’ve one last card to play.”

  “Card, ma’am?” He asked, faithfully executing his instructions.

  “A human expression.” She explained, paying no more mind to her friend.

  —

  “Absolutely not.” Serpacinno crossed her arms over her chest and stood wide in front of Paracelsus, “You remember what happened last time.”

  “I’ve got these three with me,” Gareland, Tariq and Lonceré stood behind him, lacing their boots and buttoning their jackets, “You can come too, if you like.”

  She was tempted to take him up on the offer, but she got a better idea at the last second. She grumbled as she mulled it over, but finally relented, “Something came up last minute. Be careful.”

  “Have fun.” Paracelsus said, throwing his jacket over his shoulder in an attempt to appear stylish. It didn’t work, but no one wanted to comment on it.

  “As I was saying -” Lonceré rushed a bit to get ahead and face the captain, “He’s an eccentric character -”

  “A giant rat?” Tariq asked, incredulous.

  “Weirder things are out on the sea, I assure you.” The cook was as quick as a horse with his retort, “One time at sea, the Captain and I encountered a green ship that-”

  “Not the Lute!” Paracelsus threw his head back and groaned in frustration, “That damned ship.” His tone was clearly meant to be non argumentative, but Lonceré knew better, this was a topic not to be brought up.

  “Well, supposedly, there’s an admiral out there who rides on a dragon.” Lonceré said, quite proud of himself for his swift change of topic.

  “I see why you get along with him,” Gareland looked between captain and cook, “You both talk a lot.”

  “I speak the truth!” Paracelsus put a hand on his chest like he was putting pressure on a deadly wound, “I may phrase it so that it helps me, but I assure you it’s different from the tall tales he spins.”

  The group, sans Lonceré all laughed at that, uproarious at the notion of a fully truthful Paracelsus. Unbeknownst to them, their actions were monitored by a group of marines, following behind them at a safe distance.

  —

  Bordeaux, meanwhile, put his feet up as he thought contentedly about the situation he was presented with. It was all too easy - exactly as the powers that be ordained, he was soon to be in an advantageous position with almost no effort on his part. All he had to do at this point was wait, and everything would fall into place.

  So then why was he so uneasy? There were, of course, minor fluctuations in the plan, but they all seemed to be working themselves out. The revolutionary, for instance, had gone silent, the Gendarmerie had, predictably, arrived too late, and the Union’s continued apathy all but ensured there could be no loss for him. But the small, seemingly unimportant details were starting to compound on top of eachother, and he wondered if the scales of fate were starting to tip the other way.

  “Sir?” One of his assistants roused him from his thoughts, “Sir? Someone’s here to see you.”

  He put his hand up in acknowledgment, and his assistant left him with the Marseille twins. They stood at attention, ever dutiful, as Bordeaux knew them to be. “What can I do for you?” He asked.

  “Our pay?” Anne-Marie asked. Bordeaux rolled his eyes, but pulled out a small clip of money to give the two, “We’re certain that Paracelsus is leading us to wherever Domingue is hiding. I think he thinks we’ve forgotten about him.”

  “And you’re here… why, exactly?” He had a way of speaking that made everyone uncomfortable. Not from fear of retribution exactly, but the way he carried himself was almost paternal, and his disappointment felt like a father’s.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Still, the “older” twin was still headstrong enough to not cow entirely, and for her part, managed to keep her gaze level, “We’ll get right on it,” She sighed, and brought forth the courage to speak her mind, “Besides, it’s not like he’s working with anyone fast enough to keep up with us.”

  —

  “And you seriously lived down here?” Paracelsus asked, holding his shirt over his mouth. However long ago this complex was condemned, the stench had only been accumulating, “Remember when we infiltrated that plague ship? It was less noxious than this.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Lonceré rolled his eyes, “There were corpses on that ship. It was leagues worse.”

  “I think your nose is broken, chum.” The captain turned around, “Tariq? On a scale of one to ten, how bad is this odor?”

  Tariq answered, after some time and with great difficulty, gagging all the while, “Eight - no, nine. It reeks.”

  “Wait - that’s why you smelled so bad at the party?” The captain asked as they came upon a fork, at which they turned left, the cook having spotted his own markings that he’d made the first time he entered.

  Shortly after, though the time was stretched and scraped like cold butter on bread due to the cook’s steadfast commitment to silence (mostly to avoid the awkward conversation of what he was doing at the Gala), they came upon a divot in the walkway, with a small archway above it. They all took their shirts off and left them where they were, as they now had to wade through waste-high water - filled with whatever contaminants had been stewing - to pass through to another landing, where they found a stash of candles Lonceré had previously left.

  “Stop.” Paracelsus told them, holding up his hand, “I heard something else walking with us.”

  He crouched down, lighting a candle to better illuminate the passageway they’d just exited. Then, seeing nothing, he got down even further, using one hand to go prone and take a closer peek. Still nothing; he waited a few seconds more, before deciding it must’ve been some debris, or perhaps a mouse falling into the water that caused the splashing noise.

  Still, to be on the safe side, he held up the rear as they continued on, chatting and reminiscing on the part of the two former comrades, and with no share of jealousy that he wasn’t partaking in their closeness on the part of the helmsman. Even throwing a glance over his shoulder every few minutes, in the next half hour that elapsed, he saw neither end nor head of whatever pursuer he imagined there to be.

  And then, at last, they stumbled upon the main chamber, a bedroll hastily established in the corner, with a small fire for cooking. Off on the far end sat what appeared to be a ramshackle throne, some type of cardboard and stone menagerie built in the image of a royal seat.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Paracelsus said, taking the whole scene in, “There really is a giant rat.”

  —

  “Your footwork,” Serpacinno huffed, wiping sweat from her brow, “Gives you away.” She parried another blow from the Shah, and feeling quite confident in the turn, she went on the offensive, very quickly being struck on the back by the flat of his blade and falling to her hands.

  She slammed her fist on the ground before jumping back to her feet and taking up a stance some five yards from the apparition. She took a deep breath and tuned out the chatter of the street, the bustle of the feet and hooves, and stepped forward, clashing blades before falling back to catch her breath. Another round of blows was exchanged, but this time, she found herself on the offensive, pushing the ghost back.

  In a flash, she had managed to reverse her blade, getting behind the Shah’s guard and wresting his weapon away from him, taking great satisfaction in, for the first time, holding the tip of her blade at his neck, even if the gesture was ultimately meaningless.

  “Very impressive.” Sally said, lying on a small raised surface, only half paying attention, as she was thoroughly absorbed in a picture book she was reading. Then, under her breath, she muttered “You warriors and your swords.” The irony that she was reading a book about a chivalrous knight saving a fair princess was most certainly lost on her.

  Just as it seemed the duel was about to begin again, it was interrupted by a masculine clearing of the throat from behind. Gareland, Serpacinno, and Sally all came to attention, ready to leap into action, but the luminous man had his hands held up in peace.

  “I’m bidden here to act as friend, loathe though I may find it.” He explained, talking a few slow steps forward, “Is the captain here? I suppose the appropriate phrasing would be that I extend an olive branch.”

  The three looked between them, Sally’s attempts being thwarted by her rather voluminous head of hair which made her eyes nearly invisible.

  Serpacinno was the first to answer, the other two naturally looking to her for such a response, “Er,” She scratched her chin in a manner befitting of a dignified, goateed, professor, “Why am I even thinking about this? No!”

  “That’s awkward,” He replied awkwardly, “You can’t really stop me.” Serpacinno, at that rebuff, pointed her sword towards him, “If it makes you feel better, you can attack me. It will only tire you out.”

  Still feeling compelled to try, the swordswoman swung and struck with a fervor becoming of a great warrior, to no avail. She tried every manner of attack she knew - from simple oberhaws and mezzanos to the more esoteric stoccatas and zornorts - but all that each attack accomplished was sapping her strength.

  “Alright,” She huffed, wiping the sweat from her brow, “Maybe I can’t hurt you.”

  “As I said, it would be a fruitless endeavor.” He crossed his arms in what might’ve passed for annoyance, “I’ll be waiting here.”

  “Do you at least have a watch?” She asked in return.

  “I do,” He pulled out a gold, expensive looking, pocket watch, “It’s dix a demi.”

  “Shit!” She exclaimed, “I have to go do something very important.”

  “Me as well,” Sally said, at last putting down her book and standing, “I have to pack if we’re leaving soon.”

  “What?” Gareland finally piped up, “You can’t leave me here alone, with the enemy, again.”

  “As I’ve said, I’m no -”

  “She’s right,” Serpacinno cut him off, “Sally, you stay.”

  “But -”

  “No arguments. You’re part of the crew - that means taking orders.” She crossed her arms over her chest in what was real annoyance, “First order - stay here and watch Mr...”

  “Copain.”

  “Copain!”

  “Ugh, fine.” She rolled her eyes, although it meant nothing, and went back to reading, “Don’t move, I’m much faster than you are.”

  As Sally sat there, humming in contentment at her book, she was unaware that for once in his “life”, Copain had felt a strong sense of fear - whatever their ghostly apparition was made of, the luminous man had realized that it was nothing conducive to his health. But one feeling still reigned supreme even over the most primal of emotions - desire. A deep, burning desire, to do right by his closest friend. Even if she had bid him cooperate with these pirates, he was going to remain one step ahead of them.

  And wait for his opportunity.