“Ah!” Tariq put his hands above his head and stretched his arms out as they finally docked in their next destination, the city of Castego in the country of Scaular “Feels good to stretch my legs after a month.”

  “Really?” Paracelsus said, “I was quite enjoying the sea breeze.”

  “You didn’t sleep right above the hold.” Gareland said, shivering.

  “The hold?” Lonceré put his hand on his chest indignantly, “I had to sleep not ten yards from you two!”

  “Eh…” Tariq and Gareland both blanched at that, a thoroughly cowed look on their faces.

  “No children, please.” The Captain joked, with an earnestness that almost seemed genuine, “I’m not ready for any little ones running around the boat. Now that I think about it, is that even possible?” He looked at Gareland.

  “Not that it’s any of your business -” She said, “But fairies can change their gender at will. We’re much more advanced than you humans.”

  “I’m just excited to be landing somewhere without danger.” Serpacinno said, adding “Hopefully.”

  “Well, it’s been a real pleasure sailing, Captain.” Xenepol fake-saluted, before trying to walk off.

  “Xenny…” His wife glared, “Give the good man his money.”

  “Ugh, fine,” Xenepol relented, “Damn miser!”

  “Here.” LJ said, much more easily forking over the cash, “Your cook is… very creative.”

  “Hey!” The aforementioned, currently ignored, cook shouted, only for no one to pay attention, “I have pride, you know.”

  “I just hope there are beautiful ladies.” Sally said, putting her hands behind her head.

  “There are beautiful ladies everywhere, if you look.” Lonceré argued.

  Paracelsus threw his head back and groaned as they started arguing again. The two womanizers had consistently argued about who was the most pig-headed between the two of them for some time now, and more to the point, they had already developed some weird sort of rivalry about anything that could be held in contention.

  “Anyway,” Serpacinno said loudly, “Is it just me or is this whole town partying?”

  “I agree.” Paracelsus remarked, gently grabbing a woman’s attention by the shoulder, “Amiga. Fiesta? Por qué?” Let it never be said that language was one of his talents. Suffice to say, the response, to him, was less than intelligible. Still, he nodded and gasped to pretend as though it were more than less than intelligible, “I believe she mentioned a wedding?”

  “I could’ve told you that.” Lonceré said, grabbing everyone’s attention, “What? I know quite a few languages. Parace, you knew that.”

  “Sorry, I just thought the opium had addled your mind.” He clapped his friend across the shoulder, walking with the crowd, where he assumed the wedding was happening, “I, for one, intend to at least check it out.”

  As the crew left, their mermaid companion sat with her arms on the dock, pouting and idling her finger on the wood out of boredom. Even though it would be easier to pluck the scales off her tail than get her to admit it, she had developed a certain fondness for their dynamic, and it did get dreadfully lonely while they were gone.

  —

  The venue for this wedding was a massive, sprawling church. It separated into two sections, the first being a large prayer-hall that had been emptied out and converted to what could only be described as an opulent ballroom, with high, vaulted ceilings and even a small stage hastily put up towards the large stained-glass windows. This, amongst the dancing, tuxedo-clad waiters, and hor d’oeuvres is where Tariq and Gareland had stolen off to.

  “You’ve really come out of your shell.” Gareland said, the two sharing a clumsy approximation of a bolero, “I remember just a few weeks ago you were practically hiding behind Parace’s leg.”

  “I got swept away in everything, you know? He’s a good speaker.” He argued, “But after what happened down there, I realized he’s just a person.”

  “What? You thought he was some type of god?” She asked, giggling and taking a cup of something off a tray to feed to him.

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  “No, it’s just, you know - he has a certain way with words that makes you trust him.” He stopped chewing abruptly and made a sour face before begrudgingly finishing the snack, not wanting to spit on the floor, “That was absolutely horrible. What did you just feed me?”

  Gareland scoffed at the boy’s immaturity, “Surely it can’t be that bad.” She then tried a piece and put a hand over her mouth, possessing the same survival instincts as anyone else when they first tried satuéd eel, “Okay, that was - less than pleasant.”

  Across the room, the cook and the lookout were arguing with each other.

  “As I said,” Sally argued, “I guarantee I can get more women to dance with me than you.”

  In response, Lonceré just scoffed and walked over to the first unaccompanied woman he saw. She was a rather pretty, tall woman in a nice yellow dress, and just the type of both of the womanizers.

  “Se?orita,” He gave a very well-rehearsed bow and spinning of the wrist, “?Me permites este baile?”

  “Si.” The lady he was addressing laughed behind her hand, and he managed to lead her, rather impressively, in a slow, delicate dance.

  Sally stood, fuming, and the cook occasionally threw a smug glance over his shoulder. The contempt they had for each other was almost impressive with how thick and tangible it was. Her seething only grew as he managed to, at one point, steal a kiss from the woman.

  “Jealous?” He asked triumphantly. His nose was turned up and away, and his smile was more of a devilish smirk as he chuckled.

  “You’re despicable,” Sally said, sniffing and rubbing her eyes, “You’re being so rude - and I’m only sixteen, too, you villain.” This was absolutely untrue, she was nineteen, but the point was made. She continued rubbing and rubbing her eyes until the pain caused tears to fall where there were initially none.

  “Aww, you poor thing.” Another woman similarly unaccompanied embraced Sally and started stroking her hair comfortingly, all the while glaring daggers at Lonceré. The cook stood there aghast, mouth wide and eyes similarly full. Despite her hair covering her eyes, he could feel Sally’s smug stare. He wrung his hands, trying to devise a plan to show her what-for.

  —

  The second part of the church, a bit smaller, was a modest reception hall. While the access to the public was a bit more restricted, Paracelsus had managed to get himself and Serpacinno in a decently far corner. Neither were at all interested in dancing, and the Captain was only mildly interested in the drinking, far more enthralled by hearing anything he could of the goings-on in this foreign land.

  Whatever the case was, they seemed to arrive at just the right moment. The bride, in an elaborate, decadent dress of black and red, was being walked down the aisle, presumably by her father. Her veil precluded any viewing of her face, but assuredly she was beautiful, if her figure was any indication. Once she was in place, the groom appeared.

  He was a man of average height, maybe five-eight or so, with a slicked back head of black, straight hair. He was on the tanner side, although remarkably his skin didn’t appear damaged by the sun, but merely enhanced by its constant presence. On his right eye, he bore a black eyepatch that obscured any sight of whatever blemish necessitated its existence. The weirdest thing about him was his suit, not that the style was anything garish or transgressive, but rather that the fit was especially loose on him, only pinching about the wrists, ankles, and slightly at the hips, but otherwise being immensely baggy and loose, as though hiding his silhouette.

  “Who are they?” Serpacinno asked, leaning over.

  “Not entirely sure,” Paracelsus pointed to the groom, “But I think his father is a man of great importance. Some shipping magnate, perhaps?”

  “And her?” She continued.

  “I have no idea who she is,” He replied, “Seems like she’s just some woman he fell in love with.”

  “What are you looking at?” The swordswoman tried to follow his gaze, but he was just taller than her to the point where she was unable.

  “There is something very strange about the way he’s dressed.” The Captain stated, “Don’t tell me you can’t recognize how strange his tuxedo is?”

  “I don’t know anything about tuxedos, as a matter of fact,” She chuffed, “Nor do I know anything about Scaularese wedding traditions.”

  Before their discussion could continue, the bride and groom were exchanging vows. The energy in the air was a distinctly happy one, and the couple was nothing if not sincere in their love for each other. Exhaustingly in love, seeing as their vows were agonizingly long, more flowery than a garden and with all the speed of a slothful turtle.

  Eventually, after what felt like an hour, and what very well might have been such a time, the priest asked, “Federico de Almarés, do you take Valentina Seville to be your lawfully wedded wife?” To which the groom, unsurprisingly, agreed, and then, “Valentina Seville, do you take Federice de Almarés to be your lawfully wedded husband?” And after she too confirmed their courtship, they were declared lawfully married, and the drinks were poured and the cake cut and served.

  “Well?” Serpacinno asked between bites of the rather rich cake, “Anything good?”

  “It’s a shame, really,” Paracelsus shrugged, “Even at a wedding, these people can only think of business. All I heard was projections and forecasts and other such things businessmen discuss.”

  “You know, when we first met, I thought you were a businessman trying to sell me something.” She remarked.

  “Well you’re not entirely off,” He laughed, “I sold you on my ideals, didn’t I?”

  “I supposed you could consider the deal closed,” She joked, punching him in the arm, “But for what’s it worth - you do seem to have some integrity.”

  “Glad to hear it!” The alchemist exclaimed, “Anyway - this is getting boring, I need a cigarette, care to join me?”

  “I think I’ll stay for a little while longer.” The snakewoman replied.

  “Hoping to catch the bouquet?” He joked, elbowing her in the ribs before walking off.

  Outside, but not very far, he leaned on a railing, puffing his cigarette slowly and deliberately. For some reason he couldn’t place, joking about his partner getting married felt like he dropped a weight into his stomach. He chided himself for the discomfort, it wasn’t as though he owned Serpacinno, and she was of course free to pursue romantic interests as she pleased.

  But then, why did he find himself so disheartened at the prospect of her meeting someone to marry?

  He tried not to think about it as he waved the cigarette and pressed it against the rail to extinguish its end. As he did so, a loud bang sounded from the reception hall. He panicked immediately, worrying that Serpacinno had either been shot or shot someone, before deciding the latter was less likely due to her melee proclivities.

  Serpacinno, meanwhile still inside, witnessed what had happened. A smaller man, about the height of her partner, dashed from the door she was adjacent to, up to the ropes that separated the crowd from the reasons the wedding was being held, jumping over the makeshift barrier. Then, without missing a beat, he shot the bride through the heart, her blood soaking through her dress and causing her husband to fall to his knees to try and remedy the situation somewhat. A second later and he was already leaving.

  Back with Paracelsus, he saw the assailant exit the door, and start charging at him. Believing that he was next in line to be shot, he quickly readied himself to fight, but instead of attacking him, the man simply shoved the gun into his chest and the alchemist instinctively grabbed it.

  “You there!” He heard a guard shout from the door, and as he whipped his head back round, he saw the man from earlier had fled, “Drop your weapon!”

  “Fuck…” Paracelsus groaned, doing as instructed before putting his hand on his head and dropping to his knees, waiting to be arrested.