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Eddie nudges Oli’s shoulder. Oli jumps. He’s been staring at the place where Sausage and Joel disappeared with their son a few moments ago, trying to process the fact that he just had to introduce himself to his best friend. Who is now tall.
‘What, what, what?’
‘I asked if you’re feeling tired.’ Eddie points at his injured leg.
The limb in question is not bandaged any more. The jagged, reddish-brown lesions marring his skin have turned into a spiral of scar tissue. It’s mostly numb, unless Oli overstrains it, which is becoming less and less likely by the day. He shakes his head. ‘I’m good.’
‘Great.’ Eddie picks up his shopping basket, as well as the sack of carrots with the beetroot label on them. ‘Come with me? There are a few things I need to prepare for the dinner.’
He waits for Oli’s nod of acquiescence before leading him off the market and down a quiet alleyway. Two-storey houses made of red and yellow terracotta rise to their left and right. Wooden balconies protrude over the road, overflowing with glow berry vines. Clotheslines span the distance between windows and fabrics of all kinds of colours flutter in the breeze. The latter carries a faint hint of salt. It becomes more and more pronounced the further they continue on.
Oli chews on the inside of his cheek. He had to introduce himself to Gem when he met her, too, didn’t he? At the time, he’d assumed it was part of the role she played, like the princess dress. Maybe he should have inquired about that instead of immediately going along with it.
Eddie sets a brisk pace. He doesn’t turn around as he walks, but he keeps one ear tilted backwards. Tickled by curiosity, Oli veers off to the side. It follows him like a radar dish.
They round a corner, finding themselves next to a building looming large enough to block out the last rays of the evening sun. Its sandstone top seems to gleam, dotted with adornments in quartz, blackstone, and aged copper.
Eddie stops, presses a kiss to his palm and then lays it against the facade. ‘La Catedral,’ he explains, when Oli catches up to him. ‘I like to greet the mother of sunflowers when I pass by. You don’t have to, of course.’
Oli says nothing. Religion is a conversation they haven’t had yet and in light of the whole ‘forcibly evicted from heaven’s doorstep’ debacle, he’s not sure he wants to. Besides, he has other things to worry about right now.
First Sausage and Joel and now – his stomach sinks – Gem, too. Twice could be a coincidence, but three times… Icy cold brushes his spine. He shivers.
The further they get down into the harbour district, the more dilapidated the buildings start to look. Ivy grows from cracks in the stone, where, over the years, the rainwater has carved its path. Unidentifiable gunk clings to window panes and awnings. All around, the curtains are closed.
Oli tries to recall everything he did before coming to Sanctuary. Whom else did he encounter?
None of the people he talked to stand out, except perhaps for the pink-haired, sentient cat, but she’d also stick out like a sore thumb in a line-up of normal cats. Maybe if he’d been able to make out her face in the dark of the caves, through the haze of dehydration…
Then there was the Sheriff, who took his sweet time showing up. Oli thought he felt a little something upon their first meeting, but when he got close, it was gone; swallowed whole, chewed up and spit out by the man’s absolutely atrocious accent.
Surely none of his friends would willingly become a goblin. Right?
A gaggle of hooded figures passes by, bumping Oli’s side and nearly knocking him over. His hand jerks to his pockets before he remembers he’s not carrying any money.
‘Stay with me,’ says Eddie.
Oli squeezes in half a step behind the harengon. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
He ducks between two houses leaning towards each other like lovers in an aeons-slow kiss. Oli follows, cane clicking on the cobbled stone.
The corridor is not long. At its end, the light shimmering through splinters into a kaleidoscope of colours.
Market stalls surround them, covered in heavy, sparkling fabrics, separated from one another by hand-woven carpets. Diamond swords and axes glitter in the shine of dancing soul flames, next to vials of dragon’s breath and shards of ancient debris. Cauldrons bubble with magma cream, wither skeleton skulls bob in jars of goop. Hidden away in caches beneath the tables, on beds of purple velvet: Netherite ingots and shulker shells, and, sealed into a glass casing to prevent theft and damage equally: a delicate, feathered elytra.
A music disk draws Oli’s eye. Its glazed red surface feels slimy to look at. Otherworldly. Like it doesn’t belong in the sunlight. Maybe because it doesn’t.
‘This way,’ says Eddie, almost inaudible over the buzz of hushed conversations. They pass veiled strangers haggling with vendors. Unlike earlier, all of the people milling about seem to be locals. Perhaps the tourists have already headed to the taverns and show houses, now that night has fallen.
Scents suffuse the air: vanilla and ginger, coriander and curry and chili. Beneath them, a hint of saffron, like honey on leather.
They reach what must be the centre of the bazaar: a statuette of a woman carved of jungle wood. Garlands of fresh sunflowers hang around her neck and drape elegantly over her hair.
‘Welcome to the Midnight Market,’ Eddie says, then pauses. ‘Don’t come here alone.’
Oli blinks. ‘Is that an order?’
‘No. Just a warning.’
The growl in his voice stops Oli short. Now that he’s paying attention, he notices the harengon’s shoulders are drawn up and his fists are clenched. Tension runs down his spine. There has been nary a smile since they left Sausage and Joel.
He’s already moving again. Oli trails after him, trying to suss out what happened. Eddie had been so happy to see his, uh, son and grand-kid.
The displays change the farther they go. Deadly blades are replaced by man-sized, glistening salmon and cod so fresh Oli expects them to flip themselves off the table at any moment. Cuts of meat drip red onto perfectly polished porcelain.
Eddie approaches the largest of the stalls. A vendor with six fingers on each hand and teeth as sharp as a lion’s bows to him.
‘Sir Weapon-smith, what a pleasure.’
‘All mine, butcher,’ says Eddie. ‘Rare as it is.’
The man’s lips quirk. ‘What brings a harengon to peruse my wares tonight, I wonder?’
‘Dinner.’
‘Oh!’ The man’s eyes sparkle. ‘I heard about a joyous reunion. The goddess works in mysterious ways, does she not?’
‘She does indeed.’
‘Come over here, good sir.’ The vendor urges him closer. ‘For you, I have something very special.’
He reaches under his table and returns with a sealed metal shoebox. Gold engravings decorate its lid; letters in a language, or at least a script system, Oli vaguely remembers having seen before. He can’t read it, though.
The man offers up the box. ‘It was delivered this morning, directly from Stratos. If you desire to sway your guests’ mind–’
Eddie’s ears flatten. ‘Just the meat and the fish, that’ll be enough.’
‘But–’
‘He chose to come to Sanctuary. He may deal with the repercussions himself.’
Oli frowns.
The vendor doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes, of course.’
He puts the box away and produces a sheet of paper with a flourish. Eddie looks at it for a solid thirty seconds, then points to two of the items listed on it. He pulls a couple of diamonds from his pocket and places them on the table.
‘Make sure to be on time, butcher.’
The man picks up a small iron hammer and brings it down hard on the diamonds. They make a high, ringing sound, but don’t scratch. His lips curl.
‘It was a pleasure doing business with you, Weapon-smith.’
Eddie nods.
Oli catches up to him when the vendor has disappeared, probably to carry out Eddie’s orders, and pokes him in the bicep.
‘You don’t like Joel much, do you?’
Eddie twitches. ‘I don’t really know him, to be honest. He seems like a fine lad, though.’
His mouth presses tightly shut. He’s stomping again.
Oli hums. ‘Is that why you’re radiating anger like a beacon in the night right now?’
‘I’m not angry.’
‘You can tell me if you are. We’re–,’ he swallows. ‘We’re friends, yeah? Friends talk to each other.’
More twitching.
Oli purses his lips. ‘Are you upset the guy’s bigger than you? Because I, for one, think he might be compensating for something there. You don’t get that big and strong without some kind of foul play and most of those options come with a severe reduction in, um. Other qualities.’
Eddie stops dead in the middle of the street. His shoulders slump. ‘Okay.’
He takes Oli by the hand and pulls him along in a different direction. They don’t go far. Just to a glass pavilion nestled between a red brick house and a jeweller. Low tables are set out front, surrounded by several thick cushions. A purple shading sail, edged and embroidered with gold and silver string, hangs low over the entrance. Spicy blue smoke wafts from the open door.
Upon Eddie’s approach, a woman appears out of the dark. Her violet robe covers half of her hair, held in place with an intricate array of clasps and needles. Her bare shins and naked feet show off a mandala-pattern of tattoos.
‘Weapon-smith,’ she greets. ‘Have you come to sit with us?’
‘Yes, thank you. But we’ll just have tea for tonight,’ says Eddie. ‘We are engaged for dinner later.’
The woman gives a nod and disappears.
Eddie tugs gently on Oli’s wrist, leading him to one of the tables. He sits down and motions for Oli to do the same. It’s very soft under his ass. He wriggles, trying to find a comfortable position. When he looks up, Eddie’s storm-grey eyes bore directly into his own.
‘Have you ever heard of the Wanderers?’
‘Who?’
‘The immortals. “The only living gods”?’ Eddie exhales. ‘They have many names. Some peoples call them Players, because to them, our reality is nothing but a game.’
Uh-oh. Ice churns in Oli’s guts. ‘I think I’ve heard of them,’ he says slowly, mouth dry, keeping his tone as even as possible. ‘But aren’t they just a myth?’
‘Perhaps,’ says Eddie. ‘I used to think so for the longest time. There’s certainly enough strangeness in this universe to provide inspiration for all sorts of fairy tales.’
His expression changes into something Oli can’t interpret, but then he merely shrugs.
‘Or maybe they were the gods of some ancient culture that has been forgotten since and their legends were falsely translated by the archaeologists and historians that succeeded them. Living forever, travelling from one world to the next and crossing the endless void between the stars using technology so advanced our mortal eyes would not even be able to recognize it as such in the first place… it sounds fantastical enough.’
‘It sure does.’
Eddie hesitates. His ears perk up.
The woman from before appears in the pavilion’s door, carrying a tray with a long-necked teapot and a couple of glass mugs. She puts it down on the table.
‘Do you require anything else, Weapon-smith?’
Eddie shakes his head. ‘That’ll be all.’
‘You, bard?’
Oli jolts. ‘Uh, no thanks.’
Her mouth twitches. She has a curl of black ink on her cupid’s bow. On feet as silent as a cat’s, she disappears again.
Eddie pours. The tea is a deep, amber colour and slightly opaque, like a cloud of red clay in a riverbed. Steam billows from the cups, carrying the scent of warm spices. Ginger, definitely. Cloves. Jasmine, too, if Oli had to guess.
The mug is too hot to touch, so Oli lets his fingers hover.
‘I used to believe the Wanderers were nothing but a story,’ Eddie says. ‘But then Sausage introduced me to Joel and now I’m not so sure any more.’
His thumb drums against the edge of the table. ‘I can’t even tell you what it is, to be honest. There’s something about him that’s just… not right.’
There are many things about Joel that are “not right.” First of all the fact that he’s forgotten about Oli.
Oli tries not to let the whirl of his thoughts show on his face. ‘Okay, that’s, um.’
‘The Wanderers are ancient,’ Eddie continues. ‘They have lived long before you and I and, most likely before this world, as a whole, existed. They’ll go on after it crumples to dust, too. They’ll move to a different place. It’ll seem, to them, as if all of this happened in the mere blink of an eye.’
To Oli, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling certainly seemed like many things, but “the blink of an eye” wasn’t among them. He squirms.
‘If they fall in love with a mortal – provided they’re even capable of such a feat – that mortal is going to be gone in an instant. They’re going to be nothing but a distant memory in another instant, like the snap of a finger.’
Eddie gazes into the swirl of his tea.
Oli uses the moment of silence to take a cautious sip. Ginger dances across his tongue, cut with a sudden note of cinnamon. A curious sweetness lurks underneath, tickling his taste buds, but it’s too faint to identify.
‘I…,’ Eddie hesitates. When he looks up at Oli, there’s something lost in his eyes. ‘I don’t want that to happen to Sausage,’ he admits quietly. ‘He deserves to be loved by someone fully and wholly. Someone who will love him, just him, for the rest of their very own forever.’
That is, Oli thinks, the one thing Joel, pig-headed though he may be, won’t be able to deliver. Not if he finds Lizzie. On the other hand: eternal faithfulness is probably not very high on Sausage’s personal bucket list, either.
Eddie’s fists clench. ‘No soul deserves to be loved and forgotten in the same breath.’
Goosebumps trail down Oli’s spine. He squints into his cup. What’s in this tea?
The harengon lets out a long gust of air. ‘Maybe it’s just because I watched him grow up.’
Oli’s brain screeches to a halt.
Eddie cracks a lop-sided smile. ‘The bottom line is: I don’t want to see my precious little boy hurt by someone else’s carelessness. I guess most parents wouldn’t. Um, Oli?’
He jumps. ‘Yes?’
‘Are you alright? You look a bit pale around the nose.’ Eddie leans closer, whiskers vibrating. ‘Is it the tea? Are you feeling ill?’
Perhaps a smidge. But that’s definitely not the tea. ‘I– I think I’m just hungry.’
Eddie quirks a brow. ‘Right. Let’s leave, then.’
‘Wait.’
‘Huh?’
‘You watched Sausage grow up? He was a, a child? An actual child?’
That would explain the lack of recognition. Reincarnation messes with recollection, everybody knows that.
‘He was,’ Eddie says, blinking. He tilts his head. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yep.’ Oli jumps to his feet. ‘I’m fit as a fiddle and ready to eat a horse.’
Sausage reincarnated. Joel probably did, too. Neither of them know him because they haven’t encountered enough triggers yet to unlock their dormant memories. Oli, on the other hand, remembers everything.
Eddie throws down a couple of emeralds, stands and brushes off his trousers. ‘Oli.’
He stops bouncing. ‘Yeah?’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. For what?’
‘For listening,’ says Eddie. He puts his big palm over Oli’s on top of his cane, making his skin prickle. ‘You know, if there’s something you need to talk about, you can come to me, too.’
Warmth seeps from his calloused hand into Oli’s fingers. Oli’s cheeks heat.
‘Um, no,’ he stammers. ‘There’s nothing I want to talk about right now.’
*
Despite it being the middle of the night, Oli barely feels tired when the two of them make their way back through the city. He blames the tea. He knew it tasted too funky to not contain any sort of stimulants.
In retrospect, it makes him wish he’d explained to Eddie what coffee is. Maybe the harengon would have introduced him to this wondrous beverage earlier.
Ah, well. No use in crying over spilt milk. He’s going to have his best friends back by sunrise. It is only a matter of pushing the right buttons. Luckily, pushing buttons is something Oli excels at.
They leave the bazaar behind and cross several streets that look rather like the one the smithy is located in. The buildings hold businesses downstairs and residential spaces on the upper floors, to provide living quarters for the people that run the businesses. Taverns and inns alternate with cafés, clothing stores and communal garden plots. There’s even a library.
Further along, commerce starts to disappear. The facades become more intricate, containing patterns of carved stone, sandstone and glazed terracotta. Front yards surrounded by iron fences begin to ring the houses. Greenery sprouts not only from windowsills but fills verdant islands in the middle of the road.
Eddie leads Oli up a shallow incline, to what can only be described as a mansion. Maybe a small palace. It’s massive. Three storeys, a steep roof; all of the window frames and shutters are finely carved woodworking masterpieces… and it has wings.
Oli’s mind flashes unbidden to a tiny dirt hut on a shell-white, crescent beach. His stomach curls.
To his surprise, two people are waiting for them in front of the door.
‘Hey there,’ shouts Lark, loud enough to echo off the walls. Robin waves.
‘Hang on,’ says Oli. ‘How did you get here?’
‘On foot,’ says Lark.
‘No, I mean–’
‘How we heard about this gathering taking place, that you didn’t invite us to?’ She glowers at Eddie. ‘Because we have ears and eyes everywhere, bard-boy. You better believe it: We know everything.’
‘Sausage’s return to Sanctuary rarely escapes notice,’ Eddie says, dodging Lark’s attempts to punch him in the shoulder. ‘Even if he tries to hide among the tourists.’
Oli knew, of course, that Sanctuary was Sausage’s. But the implications of that only hit him then. The son who founded this city, who built the church with his own two hands – and probably most of the rest of it – is also Sausage. There he goes again, putting everyone’s building skills to shame while being a bloody philanthropist at the same time.
Robin knocks on the door. It swings open immediately.
‘Were you standing right behind that?’ Lark asks.
‘What do you think?’ Sausage spreads his arms. ‘Obviously I was. But I didn’t want to interrupt you before you were ready. Come to me, sister.’
Lark throws herself at him with a squeak. Her arms lock around his torso, muscles bulging. Sausage wheezes. Having recently been on the receiving end of her grip strength, Oli winces in sympathy.
Robin crowds in, wrapping her body around the two of them.
‘Oh,’ Sausage yowls. ‘It’s so good to see you again!’
Robin mumbles something that sounds like agreement and steps aside, pulling Lark with her. Sausage gives Eddie a quick hug, then turns to Oli with a big grin and – waves.
Still no sign of recognition. That is fine. Oli will get his chance. For now, he forces a smile. ‘Hi.’
‘Come on in,’ says Sausage.
The inside of the mansion is bright as day. Soul flame lanterns and normal ones hang from hooks on the walls and ceilings, bowls of candles flicker in niches, alcoves and shelves. The light plays off of brown terracotta and baked mud bricks, pale woods and airy sandstone. Aged copper and quartz give the interior an elegant touch, complemented, here and there, by a sprinkle of gold, mostly in the form of tiny mechanical birds fluttering around the bushes that fill their fat-bellied pots to overflowing. There are no doors. Somewhere in another room, a wind-chime tinkles.
‘This way,’ says Sausage. He leads them through a square courtyard bathed in moonlight silver and into a wide dining room, where an allay is setting the table.
Hermes jumps after it, landing precariously on the armrest of a chair.
‘Your deliveries just got here,’ Sausage tells Eddie as they enter.
Hermes’ head jerks up. ‘Abuelo!’
The allay forgotten, the kid launches himself at Eddie. The harengon goes down to one knee to catch him. He twirls the boy around once and throws him into the air. Hermes giggles and kind of stops two inches below the ceiling, hovering.
‘Hey,’ says Eddie.
Hermes drops into his arms and the harengon puts him on the floor, tapping his nose.
‘You’re getting more dangerous by the day.’
The kid wraps his tiny fists around Eddie’s legs. ‘I love you, abuelo.’
‘What about me, short stack?’ calls Lark. ‘What am I, chopped liver?’
‘Birdie!’
Hermes squeaks and then he’s off, laughing maniacally with both of Eddie’s apprentices chasing after him.
Oli clears his throat. ‘Um, how many people did you invite?’
Because the dining table is positively bending under the weight of the porcelain and cutlery on top of it.
‘Just you,’ Sausage chirps. ‘But it’s customary in Sanctuary to set everything at first. One never knows who might show up.’
‘Our party is complete,’ says Eddie.
Sausage nods. ‘Bruno?’
The allay gurgles at him and starts to collect a bunch of forks in a cup.
‘Word got out that it’s supposed to be an intimate dinner,’ says Lark, panting. Behind her, Robin is carrying Hermes on her back, who’s cartwheeling his limbs and hollering about flying.
‘Ah, great. That means we can begin.’ Sausage pulls out a chair. ‘You guys sit down; I’ll get Joel. Oh, and daddy? I hope you realize there’s no way you’re going to win this.’
Eddie crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘You lost the moment you challenged me, mijo. A young’un like you should really know better.’
‘Uh, that stings,’ Lark hisses, shaking out her hand.
‘Whomever ordered the cinnamon’s got my heart already,’ says Robin, earning herself a snort from Lark.
‘You’re too easily impressed by cinnamon. Everybody knows that.’
‘There’s no way papa is gonna lose,’ Hermes announces. ‘I will personally make sure of it!’
‘What, you, short stack?’ Lark rotates her ears. ‘You’d need to sit down first.’
Hermes rushes to the table. Sausage leans into the hallway, yelling for Joel. Lark grabs Robin and, to his surprise, Oli. Eddie trudges after them. He pulls out a chair for Oli, then takes a seat next to him.
‘Stop shouting, I’m right here,’ are the first words out of Joel’s mouth. He swaggers in with both palms pressed over his ears. He’s wearing a different toga this time; a lapis-coloured border adorns the edges of the fabric. He yawns. ‘You Sanctuarians and your weird late-night rituals.’
‘Do you not want to eat? You can sleep, if you like that better,’ says Sausage.
‘No, I’ll eat.’
He falls onto the chair at the end of the table, opposite of Eddie, and Sausage claps once.
‘Alright, now for the rules: We’re going to have three courses. Everyone gets one vote per course. Changing your opinion after the course is done is allowed, but changing your vote is not.’
Lark nods, a fierce expression on her face. Robin’s ears tremble and Eddie’s eyebrow is quirked in quiet superiority.
Oli raises a hand. ‘Votes?’
Six pairs of eyes zero in on him.
‘Wait,’ says Sausage. ‘Daddy, you didn’t tell him?’
‘It hasn’t come up,’ says Eddie.
‘Well.’ Sausage’s lips curl in a shit-eating grin. ‘Then this will be your first time participating in the all-Sanctuary tradition of competitive dining.’
That makes things about as clear as mud. ‘Um… what?’
‘Back in the early days, the families of Sanctuary used to gather all throughout the storm season in different constellations for these kinds of dinners,’ Robin explains. ‘At the end, there’d be a New Year’s celebration to crown the best host in the city.’
‘It can’t happen to this extent any more, these days,’ says Eddie. ‘There are now too many families living here.’
‘But it’s still a tradition,’ says Sausage. ‘It’s about honour and very important. The second-most important tradition we have.’
‘Wait,’ says Oli. ‘What’s the first one?’
‘Kissing everybody at least twice.’
‘W-what?’
But Sausage is already whirling around. ‘Bruno, are you ready?’
The allay twirls in mid-air, nearly dropping the massive pot it’s holding. Only some quick footwork on Eddie’s part prevents the entree from ending up on top of the guests.
‘It looks like the contestants for this round are my seafood chowder versus Sausage’s,’ he pauses. An iron golem squeezes through the door, carrying a silver platter. ‘Vegetable empanadas.’
Once the dishes are served – it turns out as per tradition, every person at the table has to try each creation – and the dinner has officially commenced, a chorus of appreciative murmuring fills the room. Lark leans over to whisper something to Robin that Hermes immediately wants in on. Sausage nudges Joel with his elbow before addressing Eddie. This is Oli’s chance.
He puts down his utensils. ‘So, uh, Sausage. How long have you been in Sanctuary? Like, when did you start settling in these parts? I assume you didn’t build all of this in three weeks.’
Sausage lets his spoon slide through his plush pink lips, then licks the tip. ‘No, of course not. I’ve been here for a long, long time. Years and years. A decade, maybe? Two?’
‘Wow,’ says Oli. ‘That’s still not a very long time at all. You put together an entire city! You must be some kind of superhuman.’
‘Nah.’ Sausage laughs. ‘I had help. Besides, it’s not hard to complete big projects if you go about it the right way. I bet you could do it, too! One block at a time.’
‘That’s a beautiful parable, king.’
‘Oh, I’m not a king. We don’t have those. They’re bad, bad news.’
‘Huh?’
‘If you want to see something really impressive,’ Joel drops in, leaning his chin onto his palm. ‘– you should come to Stratos. Sorry, Sausage, but it’s just more.’
‘Only because it floats.’
‘Oh, it floats?’ Oli makes his eyes to go wide. ‘That sounds magical. Does it have a lot of colours, like Mezalea did?’
Joel blinks. ‘What’s a Mezalea?’
Oli searches his best friend’s face. Looks directly into his eyes. But there is no twinkle in their corners, nothing to suggest they’re playing him, that this is all one giant bit.
Joel tilts his head. Then he gets bored of waiting, drops his spoon into the soup and pushes the bowl away.
Oli slumps. ‘Never mind.’
‘Chromia has colours,’ says Hermes.
‘That’s right.’ Sausage smiles proudly at his son. ‘Chromia’s next door to Stratos,’ he explains, in Oli’s direction. ‘Their main export are dyes. Joel, remind me to write to Scott. I’d like to go over the terms and conditions of our contract once the renewal rolls around.’
Oli’s hand trembles on the edge of his chowder. Scott’s here.
‘Stratos,’ Joel says haughtily, ‘is nothing like Chromia. It’s elegant. It’s made of quartz and gold. You know, materials of actual value.’
Sausage snickers. ‘Unless Joey keeps stealing it.’
Joel bristles, puffing up like a bird that just got dunked into a bath. ‘He can try and see where it gets him! I’ll–’
‘Alright, everybody.’ Lark jumps to her feet. ‘Voting time.’
‘Papa wins,’ Hermes shouts.
‘Absolutely,’ says Lark. ‘But we need to follow the protocol.’
Robin grimaces. ‘Sorry, Eddie.’
Eddie’s lips curl. He gives her a complacent shrug and lifts his paw.
Oli, hesitantly, raises his fingers. He tasted too little of either dish to really make a decision.
‘I think Eddie’s was better,’ Sausage declares magnanimously. ‘But only because it’s polite. Obviously I win.’
‘Two more rounds to go,’ Eddie reminds him.
‘Got a surprise for me, daddy?’
The harengon smirks. ‘A big one.’
Hermes climbs on top of his chair, shaking both of his tiny fists in triumph. ‘Papa wins.’
Sausage pats his back. ‘Not yet, mijito. Sit down.’
As if conjured by an invisible hand, Bruno the allay floats in. It’s carrying the main course. Oli catches a whiff of the first dish – the meat Eddie bought earlier; pork – and slaps a palm over his mouth and nose. Darkness flashes in front of his eyes, swirling with the stench of damp, sculk-infested goblin cave. Oh, void.
The second dish contains a casserole that smells of–
‘Peanuts?’ Eddie gapes. ‘Sausage, you shouldn’t have!’
‘None of that now. I know how much you like it,’ says Sausage. He picks up the serving spoon and heaps a veritable mountain of casserole onto the harengon’s plate. ‘Oli, you should try this, too. It’s one of Eddie’s favourites. He can’t get enough of it.’
He puts some onto Oli’s, then reaches for the other dish. Oli scrambles, all but ripping his dinner out of Sausage’s hands. ‘Not that one, thanks. I’m vegetarian. Going vegetarian, starting now.’
‘I’ll have some,’ says Joel.
But Sausage’s gaze is still locked onto Oli. Something flickers in the man’s eyes – blue, like the sky in the morning – and Oli grabs it like a drowning sailor reaching for a life raft. ‘Do you ever feel like you forgot something important?’ he blurts. ‘Something that seemed to make up almost everything you are?’
‘Not really,’ Joel interjects.
‘Yeah,’ says Sausage. ‘Not really.’
Lark rotates her ears. ‘That’s a weird question, bard-boy.’
Oli doesn’t correct her. Head down, he reaches for his fork.
Cutlery clatters against fine china.
Sausage moans. ‘Oh, Madre. This is good.’
Beneath the table, something warm brushes Oli’s ankle. He stiffens. Eddie’s looking right at him, concern etched onto his features.
Oli lets out a breath. He pushes his toes to the arch of Eddie’s foot, rubbing them back and forth a couple of times. I’m okay.
The harengon’s whiskers jerk.
To prove he is serious, Oli takes a bite of his casserole. He doesn’t taste anything, but it’s not pork, so that’s a win. See, he thinks, as loud as he can. I’m eating, that means I’m peachy.
Eddie narrows his eyes.
‘If I forgot something,’ says Hermes with his mouth full, ‘I’d just remember it with magic.’
‘What if your magic was the thing you forgot?’ says Lark.
‘Then I’d go to aunt Shelby and ask her to remind me!’
Oli perks up.
‘But how would that even work? I thought your aunt Shelby is magic and if you forgot about it in the first place–’
‘Birdie,’ says Hermes, ‘Don’t be stupid. Papa and daddy would tell me. You would, right? Both of you?’
‘So you can go to Great Witch Shelby and have your memory restored?’ Joel ruffles the kid’s hair. ‘Of course. You’re way more fun when you can fly.’ He pauses. ‘You could also go to princess Katherine. She has a deep, dark secret. That could help.’
Oli’s heart thumps. Katherine!
‘Not that kind of secret,’ Sausage says.
Joel bristles. ‘How would I know? You don’t tell me!’
‘I can’t tell you. It’s a secret,’ Sausage cries. ‘Highly confidential.’
Joel rolls his eyes. ‘Sure.’
‘Listen,’ says Sausage, leaning over to Hermes. ‘If your thunder daddy and I don’t remember your powers, either, you can always go to Pix. He never forgets things.’
So Pix is here, too. Oli feels dizzy. Even more so than from the words that just left Sausage’s mouth. “Thunder daddy,” what the void?!
‘Uncle Pix never forgets things,’ Hermes parrots, nodding.
Joel huffs. ‘Not much to forget when all you do is watch copper age.’
‘Joel,’ Sausage elbows him. ‘Be nice.’
He grumbles, but stabs his fork into his pork in silence. There’s a flash of teeth as he opens his lips; sharp, pointed incisors and canines. A shark’s maw.
Oli’s gaze catches Eddie’s across the table. The harengon’s still focused on him, even though he’s munching on his dinner. Oli does his best to do the same. His thoughts whir, carousel-fast.
The others are here. Were they also reborn? Could Katherine’s deep, dark secret mean she’s the only one to remember her past? All of their shared pasts?
Oli pushes a chunk of casserole to the edge of his plate. He won’t know until he meets them, will he? He’ll need to talk to them, ascertain for himself how this world has messed with them.
‘Guys,’ a voice says, blurry as if through rushing river water. ‘Are we ready to vote again?’
Oli blinks, tuning the present back into focus.
Sausage shoves the last bite of his meal into his cheek, grumbling. ‘I don’t think we need to vote.’
‘We’re definitely voting,’ says Lark. ‘I’m team Eddie.’
‘Papa,’ cries Hermes.
‘The one with the meat in it,’ says Joel.
‘Sausage,’ says Robin.
Oli considers his half-eaten casserole. He tasted exactly nothing of it.
Eddie’s ears are cocked forward. His eyes are fixed on Oli. Their stormy blue seems especially swirly tonight; they’re shining twice as brightly. It might be the company; the good humor. Oli can’t look at them for too long or he’ll end up getting sucked into their depths.
‘Oh.’ Lark smirks. ‘You were right, Sauce. We didn’t need to vote.’
A dip forms between Hermes’ brows. He counts on his fingers, then lets out a whine. ‘No. Papa has to win.’
‘There’s still the dessert course,’ Robin soothes. ‘It’s only one-one.’
‘Yeah, that’s correct,’ says Sausage, patting his son’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to crush it, just you wait.’
He turns to the table at large. ‘Does anyone need a rest, or are we good to go?’
Mumbles of assent echo through the dining room. Lark rubs her nose. Robin and Eddie start gathering the used plates and cutlery.
Bruno floats in, making happy noises. The reason is readily apparent upon its approach: it’s carrying a platter of round chocolate chip cookies. Each one is as big as Oli’s face and about as thick, too.
The allay puts its bounty in front of Sausage. It picks a cookie for itself, twirls around once and flies off towards the ceiling.
For a moment, nothing happens.
‘Eddie,’ says Lark. ‘You need to bring your dessert.’
The harengon’s mouth curls. ‘I do, do I?’
‘Well, yeah. Or you’re going to lose.’
Eddie’s smirk widens. He gets to his feet, crosses the room and saunters out the door. Sausage jumps up.
‘Wait, that’s my kitchen!’
‘Patience,’ Eddie calls. He reappears in the doorway, carrying a large, round dish in his now gloved paws. ‘But not that much patience.’
A whiff of cinnamon and caramelized sugar hits Oli’s nose. He cranes his neck, sniffing. Eddie didn’t order anything else to be brought here earlier but somehow, that’s, oh, that’s – ‘Pumpkin pie!’
Sausage goggles. ‘It’s fresh. How did you do this?’
Eddie places the pie on the table. Through the cracks of its golden-brown surface shimmers bright, sweet-smelling orange. ‘I left it in your ice box a few days ago. Bruno was kind enough to put it in the oven for me when we arrived.’
‘I didn’t even see that!’
The harengon shoots his son a smirk. ‘I was counting on that.’
Sausage puffs up his chest. ‘Alright. You’re bringing your best? I’m bringing mine. It’s on. Cookies for everyone!’
A piece of pie appears in front of Oli. It looks even more perfect than the last time he encountered one of its kind; the baked crust all crisp and buttery and ready to crumple at the slightest touch.
‘No,’ Hermes says. ‘I don’t want any.’
Lark starts. ‘But you like Eddie’s pie.’
‘It’s okay, mijito,’ says Sausage. ‘Have some of your favourite pie.’
With a moue like lemon zest – the boy has the cutest little pout; it reminds Oli of himself when he was younger – Hermes holds out his hands.
Joel is twirling his fork between his fingers, seemingly smitten by the way the light fractures off its polished surface. He’s the only one at the table with silverware made of gold. It’s probably real, too, if Oli had to guess. He steels himself.
This is his last-ditch effort. The single remaining thing he can think of that might possibly spark a different reaction than empty glances and puzzled frowns. He didn’t want to go this far, considering the whole Hermes situation. He’s not a home-wrecker. A blind person could see how happy Sausage is and Oli doesn’t want to threaten that. But the issue is… he needs Sausage, too. His Sausage; the old Sausage. He needs Joel and all of his other friends. He needs them to remember him. He’s nothing without them.
Oli leans onto the edge of the table.
‘So,’ he says, to Joel. ‘How did Lizzie take you being married to somebody else this time around?’
Joel… doesn’t react. Not visibly; not in a way perceivable by anyone who doesn’t know him. But Oli’s known him for almost all of his life. He knows the shift in his best friend’s expression; the tension that ripples through his body. He knows he’s finally hit a nerve.
‘L-Lizzie?’
Sausage looks over, a dip forming between his eyebrows. He nudges Joel with his elbow. ‘Hey, are you okay?’
Joel jolts like a galvanised frog. The moment his frantic gaze finds Sausage’s, his shaking stops. ‘Yeah,’ he says, grabbing the other’s hand to intertwine their fingers. ‘I’m good.’
When he turns to Oli, the brown in his eyes has ceased churning. It’s still again, cold and calm like twenty-four carat gold.
‘I don’t know anyone named Lizzie.’
Deep in his heart, Oli knows that’s true.
His stomach lurches. The ice that has been lingering inside of him for weeks now blooms in his chest. Frost-work covers his lungs, freezing his vocal chords with every exhale. The ground shifts, catching him off-guard; a frozen lake cracking under a skater’s blades.
None of his friends remember him.
Which means they’re not really his friends any more. Everything they are to each other is built on laughter and tears, bloodied swords and shared cups, bared throats and helping hands. If he takes away the long years of interactions, memories and conversations, there’s nothing left. It’s all gone.
Oli’s alone.
He’s completely alone in this world – and there’s nothing he can do about it.
The worst thing is, a part of him knew it all along. He felt it in the air. The creeping frost; that twist of icy wind around his ankles whenever he paid enough attention to notice, those were all signs.
Something pointy connects with his knee under the table. Oli sluggishly lifts his head and finds himself eye to eye with Hermes.
‘Are you okay?’
Oli’s eyes burn.
‘Maybe you should sing a song. You look more happy when you sing.’
Like creeping electricity, lightning in slow-motion, the idea sears through him. A burst of energy fills Oli’s body.
Maybe, just maybe, he has one last chance to make them remember.
He pats his pockets, but they’re empty. He didn’t bring his instruments. He didn’t even bother picking up the whistle he dropped while performing on the windowsill the previous day, too concerned with catching up to the kid who stole his horn.
Oli’s eyes fixate on Hermes. ‘I need my horn back.’
The boy gasps. ‘No!’
‘Give it back right now.’
‘No!’
The two of them stare each other down. There’s something strange about Hermes’ eyes. They have a slitted, cat-like quality to them.
A moan cuts through the murmur of conversation. Lark throws her head back, whiskers twitching madly. ‘Wow. That was delicious.’
Sausage echoes her noise, but manages to make it sound a hundred times more pornographic. ‘Oh, yeah. I missed this pie.’
Eddie preens.
‘I think now we really don’t need to vote.’
‘Nope,’ says Lark. ‘Eddie all the way.’
Robin nods.
‘I liked the cookies better.’
Hermes’ head snaps up, blond curls bouncing. ‘Me too, daddy! Papa wins!’
‘Wait,’ says Lark, folding in on herself and leaning onto the table. ‘Is Oli the tie-breaker? Again?’
‘Seems like it.’ Sausage steeples his fingers. ‘Which dessert did you prefer, Oli?’
The pumpkin pie lies innocently on the plate in front of him, accompanied by two cookies someone must have snuck him while he was busy having his crisis. Everyone’s looking at him. Oli squirms.
Hermes’ foot hits his knee once more. ‘Papa,’ he mouths. ‘Vote papa.’
Oli tilts his head. ‘Horn?’
Hermes glowers.
Oli waits.
Looking mutinous, the kid reaches into the folds of his tunic and pulls out the instrument. He flings it across the table and Oli snatches it out of the air.
Gem’s horn is warm in his palm; each groove and notch along its body familiar in his hand. The symbols of Dawn around the opening tickle at the base of his thumb.
Oli’s lips quirk. ‘I liked Eddie’s better.’
Hermes yelps. His round cheeks redden.
‘But,’ Oli says quickly, holding up a finger to preempt the undoubtedly coming explosion of outrage. ‘I also liked the cookies, so I’m voting for both of you. And because I’m in a splendid mood, you’re going to get a prize from me.’
He jumps to his feet and spreads his arms. ‘A prize lords, princes and various sweet boys have perished for: an after-dinner performance from me, personally!’
‘I thought you weren’t a bard,’ Lark mutters.
‘Shh.’ Oli climbs on top of his chair and, from there, onto the table. ‘You’ll forgive me for not bringing my best instruments with me, my dear audience. But there is one song I can always sing: a legendary tune from another land. A ditty that has moved kings and gods to tears and even sent an angel to the heavens once.’
He taps his toes to the wood, sounding out the beat. He covers the mouth of the horn with his palm, then blows into it, creating a muted, floating note, which he hums along to.
‘I heard there was a secret chord…’
He raises his voice.
‘It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth. The minor fall and the major lift.’
Oli can’t really focus on anything else while he’s making music. As long as the melody flows, that’s where his attention is. Thus, he doesn’t know if Sausage is shaking like Joel did earlier. If his singing is having any effect at all.
‘She tied you to her kitchen chair; she broke your throne and she cut your hair… and from your lips, she drew the hallelujah.’
The last chorus pours from him without effort. He draws it out, allowing the sound to linger as he takes in the faces around him. Lark and Robin are staring with matching slack-jawed expressions. Hermes has stars in his eyes. So does Eddie. There’s something more there, too, soft and dazed. His cheeks are pink.
Sausage jumps to his feet. ‘Oli!’
Oli’s belly fills with fluttering sparks.
‘That was wonderful!’ He applauds. ‘I have never heard that before. You’ll have to play it when I dance someday. Or, better yet, teach it to me. It’s so good!’
A noise like shattering glass hits Oli’s ears.
Hope, it seems, forever remains the cruellest emotion of all.