Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 In a drawer in a desk sits a vivarium. 

     The soil in its base is partitioned into neat rings by a set of wooden discs. Above, strange bugs crawl through a miniature eden. The glass is thickly misted. Motes of spirit float through the damp jungle air, keeping otherworldly specimens anchored to their habitat. Someone has tended it well.

     Outside the drawer, which is open, lies the rest of the desk. Its surface is scrupulously clean, save for a few academic texts, a selection of quills, and a small stack of letters. Two have been set aside and arranged in parallel with the attached swivel chair. Next to them, a letter opener. Their recipient is intensely focused on not using it. Instead, her eyes rove over the return addresses, in case they’ve missed a death threat or excommunication.

     Marcille took a deep breath, reached for the letter opener, and spun around in her chair before she could do anything. The attenuating centrifugal force left her facing Laios, who was sitting on a stool opposite her work desk. He propped himself up on his knees and leaned forward.

     “Well? What did they say?”

     Marcille groaned. “Nothing. I still haven’t opened it yet.”

     “It’s only words,” said Laios, astutely. “What’s the worst they could do, denounce your reputation as a magical scholar and leave you intellectually bankrupt?”

     “Exactly that, actually. That’s precisely the outcome I’m dreading.”

     “We don’t even know what’s in it! I’m sure if your former college board wanted to revoke your degree they would’ve done so right after the whole dungeon thing. Over a year’s passed, now. It’s probably nothing. Probably.”

     “You don’t know how long it can take a bunch of mages to deliberate over spelling.”

     “Point taken.”

Laios wound his ankles around the legs of his comically undersized stool, knocking out a rhythm with his heels. He hummed, trying to sound appropriately contemplative.

“Either way, we can’t be sure until it’s opened. So,” he said, kicking the stool forward, “are you gonna?”

     “I am! Just… give me a minute.”

     Marcille swiveled back into place. She steadied her hands in the fabric of her skirt. Then she unclenched them and reached for the letter opener. Like the vivarium, it had been a gift from Falin, supposedly commissioned from a Western artisan she’d met on her travels. Most of Falin’s presents came in the mail these days.

     Instead of the conventional, singular blade, the opener bifurcated into sharp points at several different nodes in its waviform body. At the head, two expertly carved indents gave it the appearance of a skyfish. Marcille selected a barb near the tail and inserted it into the envelope with all the gravity of a coroner performing an autopsy.

     A sheaf of paper slid out, succumbing to friction before it could slip off the desk. Marcille picked the letter up. She extended it several feet from her face, for protection. She turned it right-side up. Then she read it.

     Immediately, she relaxed.

     “Oh, it’s just an invitation to the annual mage’s conference. I must’ve missed the one for last year’s because of… because of everything. And I missed the one before since I was adventuring with you guys…” 

     Marcille paused. Normally, she found conferences heinously boring. The fact that hardly any other scholars were in her field only supplemented the boredom. But the notion of losing her spot among the intelligentsia caught her attention and put it into thumbscrews.

     She was surprised she was still on their mailing list. She shouldn’t be surprised that she was still on their mailing list. Marcille held a lofty position in the world of court magicians, but going a year without contributing any research was a death knell for her reputation. Going three years without even showing up in the footnotes of an academic conference was intellectual suicide. 

     Marcille whipped around and clutched the letter in Laios’ face.

     “Do you think I should go? It’d be good to let people know I’m still alive. I ought to be there. You think I should go, right?”

     “I don’t know, should you?”

     “That’s what I’m asking you!”

     “I do kind of appreciate when you’re here, doing your job and whatnot.” Laios rubbed his chin. “When’s the last time you took personal time off?” He’d asked Chilchuck for advice on being his own human resources department.

     “Took what?”

     “Too long ago, then. All right, you can go,” said Laios. He stood up. 

      Laios standing up was something to behold. His torso unfolded, head cresting toward its zenith like the summer sun. Less like the sun, it bobbed down a bit to avoid smashing into one of Marcille’s hanging succulents. The rest of him remained impressive, however. Muscles bulged as he stretched his shoulders.

     Marcille, upon whom the masculine form was wasted, continued talking.

     “I’ll have to start packing then, and planning how to get there, who to see, and…” Marcille squinted at the paper, “...what to say? Oh dear. It looks like they’ve invited me to be a guest speaker.”

     “Really? That’s fantastic!”

     “No it isn’t! What if I have nothing interesting to say? I haven’t done much aside from regular, oh, you know, court magician business. I’ll get an audience of politicians. Court magic majors. You know the type.”

     “I thought your parents were court magicians?”

     “It’s not like I have anything against them,” Marcille said quickly. “They’re just a bit abrasive as students. Lecturing as a specialist typically draws a decent crowd, but I haven’t done any specialized research lately.”

     “You could always talk about your experience as a dungeon master,” Laios suggested helpfully.

     If looks could kill, Laios would have been halfway down the mesopelagic in a Chicago overcoat. He backed up and tried again.

     “Or you could brush up on your old medical work. They might like that.”

     “I guess so.”

     “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

     “No, I’m thinking. Like I said, I have a lot of things to plan. Speaking of which, do you have any idea who would be a good fit?”

     “For what?”

     “For who’s going to replace me while I’m gone.”

      Kabru sensed, somewhere in the vicinity of his head, the vaguely unpleasant texture of soiled paper. He lifted his chin and felt it stick. Perfunctorily, he pried the latest draft of the agricultural budget commission from his face and woke up.

      Like every night for the past month, last night had bled into morning before he noticed the rising sun. Kabru’s body knew more about what was good for him than Kabru did. Despite his best efforts, it must have put him to sleep.

      The ink ran where his drool had spilled onto the paper. He sighed and turned the manuscript over.    

     Fatigue, for the first few days, feels like an adequately heavy burden to shoulder in exchange for a job well done. But the days turn into weeks, which slog into months, and eventually memories of any bodily state aside from dry, brittle, and on the brink of going haywire disappear. Fatigue becomes a way of life. 

     Kabru had things to do. His own fatigue wasn’t worth contemplating, since any distractions would get in the way of diplomacy and estate management and maybe even his actual job.

     There was a knock at his office door. Spite and exhaustion congealed and sank beneath the surface of Kabru’s psyche, allowing a mask of earnest good-naturedness to rise to the top. 

     It happened exactly like that because he had visualized the process a thousand times. Little mental rituals kept him going. They prevented him from snapping at anyone when it wouldn’t be useful, at any rate. 

     With the barrier between thought and action stabilized, he rose to meet the day.

     Laios lingered, occupying the majority of the doorframe. Suddenly conscious of his surroundings in the way one often is when they realize that someone else can actually see how their room looks, Kabru herded him into the hallway.

     “Good morning,” he said briskly. “Is something the matter?”

     “The matter? No, I don’t think so. Why?”

     Kabru remembered who he was talking to and woke up a little more. “I meant, is there a reason you came to visit me?”

     “Oh! Yes, there is. It can wait, though. Would you like some breakfast?”

     As a rule of latitude, springtime in Merini wasn’t terribly different from summer in Merini, or even winter in Merini. Still, a few new crops grew with the change in weather. Kabru’s legs dangled through a gap in the battlements, exposing them to southerly breezes. Laios had the cook prepare parfaits from fresh seasonal fruits, which they’d brought outside to appreciate properly. Poppies clustered at the foot of the barbican. Across golden stretches of farmland, nature was waking up again.

     And Kabru, whose parfait was slowly warming into mush, couldn’t summon the energy to enjoy it.

     Laios wedged himself into the opening beside him. The tailoring of his pants strained as he bunched up his legs, making a table for his breakfast with the tops of his knees.

     Kabru, who had a healthy admiration for the masculine form, barely remembered to avert his gaze before the amount of time he spent staring overshot normal.

     He set down his spoon and made purposeful eye contact with Laios.

     “So, what did you want to say?”

     After taking a moment to chew and swallow, Laios wiped off his mouth and replied:

     “Nothing too big, or important. Just that Marcille’s going to be taking a month or so off to attend a conference.”

     “A conference?”

     “Yep. Some big magic one. Apparently her old school is hosting this year.”

     “Well, I guess that’s good. I’m glad she’s getting out. She works too hard.” Kabru paused, scratching his chin. “Won’t someone need to take over while she’s gone though?”

     Laios swallowed again and looked away sheepishly. “Actually, that’s what I was trying to lead into. I know you’re already doing a lot for the kingdom, but you’re just so competent and I bet if you worked together with Rin as magical advisors…”

     He kept talking, but Kabru wasn’t listening. His mind floated away from the scene as something dull and heavy settled over his blood. He knew the feeling was resignation. After negotiating the re-opening of international trade in Merini for four months straight, one more duty seemed insignificant. Of course he’d do Marcille’s job for her. Everyone needs a rock, a pillar of stability. Someone to rely on. Someone who’s conveniently available whenever you need them. Someone who can take anything life throws at them and never complain. 

     Kabru was content to be Laios’ rock until his body gave out. Which, given his current self-care regimen, would probably be in a few weeks.

     Somewhere distant, Laios’ voice tottered toward the end of a nervous peroration. Kabru drifted back to the land of the living so he could formulate a response.

     “....so, I was hoping you might agree?”

     “I’d be happy to.”

     Immediately, the tension seeped out of Laios’ shoulders. It had been the right thing to say. Kabru silently awarded himself a couple of mental points.

     “It can’t be too hard, anyway. Like what you said, I’m sure Rin could give me pointers.”

     “Thank you so much. You’re always so helpful, Kabru. Remember what you did last week, with the Gnommish cultural attaché?”

     Kabru did remember the Gnommish cultural attaché. He’d been trying to forget, but some memories can’t be repressed. Inwardly, he grimaced. Outwardly, his expression remained carefully neutral.

     “Yes, I do.”

     Laios smiled. “After something like that, I’m glad you’re here to be my Eminence Grease.”

     Kabru paused and turned the phrase over in his mind for a minute.

     “Laios, would you please spell those last two words out for me?”

     “Huh? Well, all right, sure. E-M-I-N-E-N-C-E with an accent in there then space G-R-E-A-S-E.”

     Kabru relaxed. “About what I expected. Still, I’m surprised you even know what that means.”

     From his nook in the battlements, Laios furrowed his brow.

     “I don’t think it’s that surprising.”

     “Mm?”

     “We had a primary school where I grew up. I told you about it. Plus a priest’s college down the mountain.”

     “Ok, maybe it’s not that-”

     “And I got around a lot when I was in the military. You learn things when you’re abroad. You get a bigger vocabulary, too.”

     “I only meant—”

     “So over all, I think it’s unfair of you to assume, based on an insufficient assessment of my various developmental factors, that I wouldn’t know the meaning of an only barely erudite phrase, while implying that I don’t know how to spell it. At least I think that’s what you were implying. You’re usually more transparent about implying things,” said Laios. Then he stopped and thought about what he was saying. 

      “I’m sorry. I haven’t been paying very good attention to your needs, have I?”

      Kabru blinked. If Laios had caught on to a piece of social subtext before he had, then something was deeply wrong. He pulled himself together and managed a reply.

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

     Laios shook his head. “If you were doing well you wouldn’t have said anything in the first place. You would’ve realized I’d latch onto your comment and take it too seriously. I’m not very good at understanding how your mind works, but this isn’t normal. All the negotiating is what’s tired you out, right?” he piped up suddenly.

     Taking Kabru’s silence as an answer, he cursed under his breath.

     “I should’ve been paying more attention,” he repeated. “It’s hard for you to rest when I need you as an advisor. I should’ve made sure you had some time off…”

     And then it hit him.

     “You won’t be taking over for Marcille,” said Laios, slowly building up steam. “No, I’m sure I can find someone to fill her position.”

     He set his bowl on a merlon and leaned over the brickwork and into Kabru’s personal space.

     “You’ll go with her instead. I’m sure Marcille would appreciate a traveling companion.”

     “But who’ll be your advisor when I’m gone?”

     Laios waved a hand dismissively. “I can rule my own kingdom for four weeks. It’ll be a good exercise in leadership. And you’ll get some rest and once you get back we can figure out how to cut down on your workload together! This is going to be great!” he said, and with a sweeping gesture knocked his parfait off its perch and onto the ground 40 feet below. It landed with a soggy shattering sound.

     “Damn.”

     “That doesn’t bode well,” muttered Kabru. 

     “You probably shouldn’t send me off. It’d be better if I…”

     His ellipses trailed off into nowhere like a set of ball bearings on a frictionless plane. The fumes Kabru had been running on failed to buoy him any further. 

     Gravity tugged on his skull, and he felt himself plunging forward…

     A hand materialized to steady him. He looked up, into Laios’ worried eyes.

     “I’ll be all right. I’m more concerned about you. How about you finish your meal, take a nap, and we can finish discussing this later?”

     Too tired to protest, Kabru gave in. It wasn’t worth it, anyway. Laios had already made up his mind.

     He was going on vacation.

Chapter Text

Lingering in the hallway, Kabru carefully cupped himself around Marcille’s door and waited for a sign that it was safe to come in.

He would never admit he lingered, if only because people tended to look down on eavesdroppers for some indiscernible reason. But he kept up the habit despite popular morality. It was amazing what you could overhear, adjacent to important conversations.

After a good minute passed without hearing any signs of human life besides muffled cussing and a creaking noise, Kabru eased the door tentatively forward. He was two inches in when a kidskin glove hit him in the face without an ounce of idiomatic gentleness.

“Ow,” he said, peeling the glove from his cheek. Then he looked inside.

Marcille lay in the middle of the floor, a small bruise forming on her chin where her suitcase had nicked her when it exploded. She kicked her strewn clothes aside and rolled over, apologetically mortified.

Kabru hazarded a line of inquiry.

“Packing not going well?”

“How did you know?”

“Just a hunch. Only we’re supposed to be off in half an hour—”

“I am aware, thank you very much. The stupid thing won’t close. But if you give me a minute I’ll take care of it. They can wait.”

Kabru tactfully avoided any mentions of who had arranged their schedule, in case they annoyed her.

They lapsed into silence, the sort of absence of conversation usually found among coworkers who haven’t enjoyed each other’s company outside of official events and have now, after a year’s worth of polite meetings, finally depleted their mutual stock of icebreakers.

Kabru coughed, non-intrusively.

“I imagine you’ve tried putting less clothing in.”

“No, actually.”

“Would you mind telling me why that is?”

Marcille paused in between re-folding unmentionables and sighed.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

“I might.”

“It’s more of a woman’s issue.”

Carefully tiptoeing around any possible revelations concerning his origins, Kabru devised a reply:

“I can be very understanding.”

Marcille relented.

“All right, but you’d better not laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“You see this?” She held up a snatch of golden fabric from somewhere in the sartorial heap. Kabru inspected the patterns shimmering across its surface.

“It’s very nice.”

“Yes it is. And have you ever seen me wear it?”

Kabru shook his head.

“That’s my point. When we were in the dungeon I really only had one outfit—we’re not talking about the other one—and my wardrobe as advisor has pretty much settled into the same three dresses. I haven’t had a real reason to put effort into my appearance in ages. So I want to air the rest of my closet out while we’re traveling. Is that so selfish?”

“Not in the slightest,” Kabru said quickly, “although you may want to leave a few things behind so you can shut your trunk.”

“Oh, most of it’s actually alchemical supplies, since I haven’t decided on if I want to do a demonstration or not and it’ll be useful to have handy anyway. Say, how’re you feeling? Laios said you were looking peaky.”

“I’m much better, thank you,” said Kabru, whose well-being had progressed from burnt out to merely smoldering. “Maybe you could take out that one?”

Marcille followed his gaze to a lavender ensemble submerged in ruffles.

“Looks fine to me. Why, don't you like it?”

Kabru groped for something polite to say.

“The other ones might do you better.”

Marcille sighed. “You're right. It doesn't suit my style.”

Or your color, shape, and age, Kabru thought.

“It's a pity it won't fit, though. You know I almost made a pocket dimension.”

“A what?”

“Oh, one of those bags where there’s more space on the inside than outside. One of them costs a fortune, which is why you never saw them in the dungeon. I have the equipment to make one now but I figured it wasn’t worth the hassle,” said Marcille, sinking her elbow into her suitcase’s lid.

“Plus I already used up plenty of mana arranging transportation, and even making a pocket dimension is terribly expensive, so I've decided–urk–to go with the—hrgh—tried and true method for travelers—aha! I've got you now you little bastar–DAMMIT!” The trunk sprung open again, rewarding Marcille with another bruise for her efforts. Kabru remembered the glove and tossed it in.

“You’re awfully excited about all this.”

“I can’t help it! Planning just wakes something up in me. Would you mind sitting on that for a minute?” said Marcille, pointing at the offending piece of luggage.

Obediently, Kabru sat down. Marcille hammered the clasps into place and fell back, satisfied. Her luggage strained under enough internal pressure to rupture an elephant, but remained shut.

“There we are, perfect. Are you ready to go?”

A thin mist slunk around the courtyard, keeping low so as not to moisten anyone’s knees. Merini’s political hub, being on top of a mountain, tended to attract condensation. Kabru held tight to the straps of his rucksack and politely ignored Marcille’s suitcase scraping wetly across the cobbles. He’d been trying to have the palace grounds redone in a herringbone pattern, but Yaad maintained that cobblestone held historic novelty.

Speaking of…

“Do you have any idea where Yaad is?”

“You don’t remember? He’s been away for a while now, down at the coast. Something about having Thistle get some fresh sea air for his health. Though I don’t see what’s so rejuvenating about that. The air’s not even that fresh.”

“You’ve lived down there before?”

Marcille sniffed. “Yes. Our family had a beach house. I told you about it.”

Kabru shook his head. Of course she’d told him about it. He remembered now, but the problem was he’d forgotten. Maybe he did need a vacation. Yaad being gone made that trickier, however. He would really be leaving Laios without a leg to stand on, or at least a shoulder to lean over while he received furtively whispered advice.

They ambled past the bailey and over the drawbridge, where the carriage sat.

Kabru was, regrettably, out of the loop of things, what with having spent most of the last week asleep, and hadn’t had a chance to see the familiars. He saw them now.

If you started at the bottom, they could pass for members of the genus equus. Glossy red hooves transitioned, via a set of powerful legs, into well-groomed scarlet torsos. Kabru’s eyes trailed down the bodies, over the ribcages, around their delicately braided tails and back up the necks, where they stopped and recalibrated.

Marcille had never been very good at drawing horses. Laios, who couldn’t sculpt anything without scales with a knife at his throat and bentonite in his hands, hadn’t been much help either. Anything besides the body, which it required to function, didn’t need to be perfect. As a result the faces were lacking. Features, for one.

Two thumbprint-shaped indents regarded Kabru from a skull with the same level of definition as an egg. He stared back and they turned away, apparently satisfied.

“They were a better choice than broomsticks,” Marcille said, by way of explanation. “Those would’ve been faster, but since you don’t have enough mana to carry us, if I got too tired mid-flight we would fall to our deaths.”

Somewhat disappointed she hadn’t picked the option that would offer her more control over him, Kabru nodded amiably. “I see. Though clearly you spared no expense in their construction.”

Before Marcille could retort, a pair of footsteps bounded across the cobbles.

Laios skidded to a halt. Behind him, Rin deaccelerated while making sure to look comparatively dignified. The castle staff trailed in their wake, or at least the portion of the staff who didn’t have jobs to do did. There was a bulky lump in Laios’ hands. He thrust it in front of him.

“Here,” he gasped. “We had the kitchen make you some sandwiches for the first few days. Don’t worry, there’s nothing weird in them. And there’s other stuff, too, like local maps and a couple of booklets in case you get bored, a few crosswords, and… oh! I just remembered!” He rummaged around in the bundle and pulled out an inkwell with a quill and parchment lashed to its bottom.

“For letter-writing,” said Rin. “The quill’s griffinware, ethically sourced.” She eyed Laios for confirmation. He nodded.

“Yep, ethically sourced. Sturdy, too, so if it gets crushed in transit you could still use it to write us. If you want to,” he added quickly. “It’s not obligatory.”

Marcille smiled, warmed by companionship. “Of course we will. Oh, come here, I’m not going to be seeing you for a while.”

As she pulled Laios into a hug, Rin sidled over to Kabru. This proved difficult, since she was not a natural-born sidler.

“Don’t worry about anything going wrong while you’re out,” she said, slotting her arms into the crooks of her elbows. “I’m at least as competent as she is, so that’s magic covered. And I’ll keep an eye on him too. I know you want to worry, so don’t.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

She caught his gaze fiercely. “You’d better enjoy yourself. Because you know I’ll be worrying about you the whole time. Rest up and come back better, all right? I can’t do your job forever.”

Kabru grinned and wrapped his arms around her. It was a stiff, brittle embrace, but they both meant it.

After a bone-squeezing hug from Laios and a professional handshake between Rin and Marcille, it was time to leave.

The coach had been fashioned for discreet travel, entirely innocent of Merini’s regalia. The upholstery inside seemed plush enough, however. Kabru heaved his backpack onto the railings and sank into it. Laios hefted Marcille’s suitcase over the luggage rack before she could do anything about it. Defeated, she clambered into the front quarter, ducking to avoid the roof’s slight buckle.

The cabin lurched forward. Realizing they were moving, they leaned into the window and watched the gathered crowd wave as the familiars trotted on.

Without a coachman's guidance, the carriage descended into the mist.

In a dank and hallowed antechamber high above the agricultural sector that supported it, hushed voices wrapped up the end of what had been a long and complicated conversation.

The anonymity given by the hazy darkness was a mere formality. Most of the figures knew one another, since they frequented similarly lofty circles. What darkness offered was the illusion of deniability, so when they asked you for a list of names after the whole operation came crumbling down you could confidently say you never saw their faces.

“It’s agreed, then,” spoke a voice from the recesses of a hooded chair.

“Merini was handled well, but there were unfortunate.. oversights. Fortunately, we know how to do better.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. They all shared the distinct sentiment that if matters were left up to them, the world would be a more pleasant place.

From behind a cloud of cigar smoke, another voice piped up.

“Right shame your acquaintance got away, though. With all the information you told him about our secret plan. It goes to show you never know who you can trust, eh?”

The shadowy figure across from him didn’t glare, choosing instead to simply exude withering disapproval.

“Yes,” it said, in a voice drier than an arctic desert.

“Shouldn’t we ought to do something about that?” the previous speaker continued obliviously, “only I feel like we ought to do something about it, what with him looking pretty intent on telling everyone.”

“I’ve already arranged a fate for him,” the other voice replied briskly. “Letting him warn our mana source might make it disperse before we can reveal our intentions. No, I wouldn’t let him go. He’ll be dealt with. Immediately.”

The chairs’ occupants invisibly relaxed. Committing a heinous crime against humanity was all right and put no great burden on one’s conscience, but being held accountable for it was too much to bear.

“Yes… they wasted an unforgivable opportunity in Merini. We’ll do better. As we should.”

And that was that. After delicately dancing around a subject that, while regrettable, they all agreed was necessary, the deed was done.

Some avalanches start with a pebble. This one began, unknown even to those plotting its course, in that very room, spurred on by a sense of myopic righteousness.

The whole world saw what happened to Merini. Most of it came to a sensible conclusion about why it happened, and heeded the subtle warning surrounding their victory.

Most of it.

What is a God to a king? A tool, if he knows how to use it.

“Dearest Falin,
We are well into our journey now, having departed a few days ago. With the amount of distance between us and the castle now I cannot tell whether it is on fire or not so if Laios has royally messed things up we will never realize and it’s his problem to deal with anyway. Besides that, we have had a nice time so far! Kabru is feeling—”

Marcille paused, searching for an adequate adverb. She stared out the window at the scrolling vegetation, then realigned the parchment on her knees and resumed writing.

“—marginally better, as you know I wrote to you about his coming along with me in my last letter. Currently we are making our way down the coast but we will have to detour inland because Kabru said he wasn’t able to smooth everything over during the trade negotiations with Kahkha Brud and we may risk being held hostage in exchange for their fishing industry back. In other news, our provisions are nearly depleted—”

A bump shook the carriage, dislodging Marcille’s quill and splattering ink across the paper. She cursed under her breath and covered the inkwell with her hand. Then she looked outside.

Beneath them, the gradual transition from ancient pavement to newly matted dirt marked the path ahead in a way that could only be described as mottled. Soon enough they would be over the border. Marcille bit the tip of her pen and continued, adjusting the path of her stroke to compensate for the constant shifts in altitude.

“—so we will have to stop for a meal at some point. I’ve heard there’s a thriving immigrant scene even at the kingdom’s edges, and I’ve been looking forward to showing Kabru some delicacies from home. Although the outskirts of Merini, in my opinion, are more than a little shady. The mist right now is making it especially difficult to tell what’s outside…”

Three figures departed from an alleyway and plunged into the foggy soup of the afternoon.

Since they were professionals, their clothes were of a subtle black and not the polished obsidian of lesser, more ostentatious assassins. They preferred to be light on the cloak while heavy on the dagger.

They trudged through the muck as one, in the shape of an arrowhead and just as persistent. None of them spoke. All necessary conversation had taken place over an hour ago, when they’d received their instructions.

Someone was going to die tonight. The receipt signed in triplicate in the lead figure’s pocket said exactly who it was, but no one had bothered to check it. They knew where he was headed. Many freshly paved roads led to Merini, but only a few led out of it.

All they had to do was find a suitable stretch of countryside and wait.

As they stalked the streets, a completely unremarkable carriage rattled past them and into the gloom of the restaurant district.

“—but now we are stopping for supper so I will have to write you again later when I am not in danger of blemishing this fair parchment with sauce of some sort.

Forever yours,
Marcille”

Marcille capped the inkwell and slotted her letter into an envelope. Then, because she didn’t know what Laios had used to make them, she licked her hand and gummed the seal shut with her thumb. Satisfied, she set it on top of the five other letters to Falin she’d written over the course of the past forty-seven hours.

Marcille had deduced that sending Falin updates about their journey which she wouldn’t receive until weeks—or months, depending on her location—after the fact was plain silly. The logical option was to instead accumulate as many letters as possible in transit and deposit them at a courier once their travels were finished, so Falin could peruse them at her leisure without having to wait for the next installment in a saga that had already ended months ago. Marcille had taken the trouble to label them both chronologically and by topic-related subset. In the left hand corner of this one sat a six, a ‘K’, and an ‘F’.

A flash outside the window caught her attention.

Turning her head, Marcille temporarily overrode the familiars’ blueprint with her own consciousness, bringing the carriage to a halt. Kabru, who had been dozing, startled awake.

“Are we there?” said Kabru, peering out the window.

Marcille nodded. “Yep! I didn’t know we had real northern food around here until I read the guidebook. Apparently, this restaurant is supposed to be pretty good. Authentic, too.”

“It might be better if we stayed inside. We’ll get off track if we stop too much.”

“I know, but I can’t eat sandwiches for dinner too. Come on, it’ll be nice!”

Kabru sighed. He cracked his neck, then jammed open the latch on the carriage door.

“All right then, let’s give it a try.”

Several glowworms nailed in the shape of human writing heralded the awning of Gepetto Ampersand Son’s. In the outskirts of Merini where the curse strained to have any effect, monsters were in fashion.

Marcille slowly pushed the door open.

From behind a dingy pulpit a stunted maitre d’, presumably Ampersand Son, slouched to greet them. There was a cricket in his hair, but it didn’t seem polite to mention this.

Marcille coughed.

“Er, hello. Table for two, please?”

The maitre d’ grunted, pointing toward a table near the kitchen area. Marcille and Kabru struggled through a sea of fellow diners and sat down. Two slabs of hastily engraved leather slapped onto the table, and that was that.

Not one to be easily discouraged, Marcille propped up her menu and scanned its contents.

“Well, this should be better than sandwiches,” she said convivially.

“Could be. What’re you having?”

“I’m still looking. And you?”

“I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know much about Northern cuisine. Would you mind helping me read this?”

Marcille leaned over the table and squinted, almost crushing an artisanal candle in the process.

“Oh, penne alla vodka. Very nice. What’re you having trouble reading?” she said.

“Does the vodka come on the side? Only I was wondering if I should order a meal that comes with a drink if it’s cheaper.”

“It’s cooked into the sauce. Also, we aren’t on that tight of a budget. You can have a drink.”

“Really? I can’t understand how the vodka does much for the flavor.”

“What you don’t understand could fill a library.”

Kabru blinked. Setting down her menu, Marcille rubbed her temples.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a long ride.”

“That’s all right. You were saying?”

“Right—well, you could order some and find out. There’s tomatoes in it. You like tomatoes, don’t you?”

“Since I last checked, yes.”

“Perfect! I’ll have some too. All this penne talk is making me hungry.”

Marcille signaled for a waiter. She did this by raising her wrist and flailing it in a circle. Miraculously, Ampersand Son interpreted this as a call for service and bobbed woodenly to their table. He grunted. Marcille interpreted that as a sign to order.

“Erm, hello again. Two penne alla vodka, and a wine sampler, if that’s all right.”

Another grunt, followed by the scritching of a pen on paper. Marcille lifted her menu, then hesitated.

“Oh, and a plate of arancini. Yes, that’ll do, thank you.”

Their server nodded. His nose, which Marcille had just noticed, trailed behind the rest of his features as he turned around and loped off to the kitchen.

“That’s big..”

“What is?”

“Hm? Nothing. Anyway, you were wondering how the vodka works, right? Still want me to tell you?”

“Of course,” Kabru replied.

“All right! Well, the alcohol molecules like to bind with the aroma molecules in the sauce, and in small amounts they combine just right enough that the vodka smell doesn’t overpower the tomatoes and cream. Instead, it works to bring out the flavor.”

“Really?”

“Yes! I can’t believe you thought they served the vodka on the side. That would taste awful.”

“I’ve never had northern food before, so I’ll allow myself some slack.”

“There’s no way you haven’t had it. Even if it doesn’t look recognizably like the real thing, you’ve definitely eaten it at some point. People are always bastardizing our food for a larger audience. Like the meatballs. I’d never even heard of meatballs in spaghetti until—Ah, here we are!”

Kabru shifted his attention from Marcille’s emphatic gestures to face their waiter. He shuffled his cutlery to the side to accommodate their platters. Marcille just let him maneuver it over her forks.

In front of them, two piping hot plates of penne alla vodka sat coyly, making themselves look appetizing. Kabru licked a fleck of saliva from his lips and tucked his napkin into his collar.

The first few mouthfuls were pleasantly savory. From behind a barrier of tomato sauce, Kabru mumbled:

“This really is quite good. I can taste the difference between the sauce here and non-alcoholic bases. Say, do you need me to get your hair?”

“Eh?”

Marcille looked down, only to find the loose strands of her braid dragging across her pasta. Dropping her fork, she quickly yanked them out and rubbed the tips into her napkin.

“It’s okay if you need someone to redo it for you—there’s no shame in receiving help,” Kabru continued, setting down his own prepared handkerchief. “Chilchuck told me he braids it for you sometimes.”

Marcille shook her head, flicking the discarded locks behind her back.

“No, I’m fine, thank you. I’m actually getting better at doing it these days. I haven’t re-knotted it in a while, though. That must be why it’s falling apart. Falin did it in this style last, and I’ve been trying to mimic it ever since,” she said, casually hopping to a well-worn topic. It seemed to Kabru that every conversation was only a few turns away from rapidly detouring into Falin at any given moment.

Marcille sighed. She wrung the soiled cloth in her lap as she gazed across the sea of fellow diners.

“I wonder how she’s doing right now…”

Thousands of leagues to the east, in a spiral of scaffolding overlooking a variegated landscape of gleaming tile rooves, a messenger descended from the newly-installed dovecote, wiping guano off his hands and praying that whatever had arrived via the incontinent pigeon’s ankle wasn’t worth shooting him over.

The young master had been insistent about opening communication routes with the outside world by any means possible. Training the pigeons hadn’t been easy. Neither had using them for their intended purpose, or even living in the same quarters as them, the messenger reflected, massaging a collection of suspiciously beak-shaped scars dotting his palms. But the Nakamoto clan was dragging itself into the modern era kicking and screaming, regardless of any hiccups along the way.

On a balcony branching off one of the side hallways sat two figures, features reduced to shadowy cutouts by the shoji. Fragrant steam seeped from behind the wooden framework.

The messenger cleared his throat and eased the paper door open.

Underneath a therapeutic incense burner, the young master himself reclined with his honored guest. He lifted the cucumbers from his eyes and sat to nervous attention.

“Excuse me, sir—”

“Is this something important?”

No, whoever sent this only marked their insignificant piece of transmission with an R.S.V.P. and several intricate seals for shits and giggles, is what the messenger didn’t say. Instead, he swallowed and responded appropriately.

“I’m not sure, sir. Aside from the postal shorthand you had us memorize, I can’t read the western script. You have my sincerest apologies.”

“Should I take a look?”

The guest, who hadn’t made a peep until now, shifted in her loungechair. The messenger couldn’t help but feel uneasy in her presence. After spending weeks in the company of small raptors before they made the move to pigeons, her mannerisms reminded him a little too much of something ready to take flight.

Ever courteous, the young master shook his head and took the letter.

“My understanding’s improved lately. I’ll read.”

He held the paper a foot away from his face, pausing to form every other letter with his lips. The exfoliating clay he’d spent the morning gathering with his retainers flaked off in small clumps with each movement.

“To.. our dear, and esteemed.. former student… oh, this is for you.”

“What’s it say?”

“Something about a mage’s convention at your old school. Would you like to attend? I can arrange to have your things packed early.”

The dragoness of Merini lazily opened one eye, fixing her slitted pupil on the magic academy’s emblem. The second eye followed soon after, curiosity pulling her up in her seat. Her bathrobe slid off and revealed, to the messenger’s simultaneous distress and relief, a chest cloaked by a modest array of feathers. She scratched them with one hand, plucking a cucumber slice from an adjacent bowl and popping it into her mouth with the other.

Falin finished crunching and swallowed. She sucked the leftover seeds from between her teeth while she thought. Marcille would probably be going too, and it would be nice to catch up. But she was enjoying her time in the East so much…

She studied the invitation in Toshiro’s fingers. Then, she came to a decision.

“I think I’ll go. But you’re coming, too.”

“We should really get going now.”

Marcille blinked and looked up from her pasta to where Kabru sat, maintaining a perfectly calm expression. If there was one quality she’d picked up in him over their shared time in the Merini civil service, it was his ability to remain discreet.

“Why’s that?” said Marcille, dabbing sauce from her chin.

“People are starting to notice the familiars. Look out the window,” Kabru said, nodding towards the spectators with his chin.

A few passers by had stopped beside the carriage to admire their noble steeds. One half-foot child was trying to feed them a carrot, struggling due to the lack of available orifices.

“They might be fond of monsters, but since the majority are short lived, some of the immigrants aren’t so keen on magic. If we stay any longer they might feel inspired to ask questions.”

“Are you sure? But we haven’t even gotten to try the arancini, or the

Kabru's plate clattered, suddenly burdened by cutlery. He grinned as he reached for his coat.

“I’ll pay the bill.”

Outside, clouds had crystallized over the orange evening sky like a particularly virulent strain of bacteria on a petri dish. Hurrying to the carriage, Marcille wiped the first few fat raindrops off her cheeks.

“If the familiars are the problem, I could always put them in the trunk and we could hire real horses,” she whispered, eyeing the assembled gawkers.

Kabru pictured what folding up the familiars would look like. Then he discarded it in favor of other, less distressing thoughts.

“Er, no. That’s fine. We should be okay once we’re on the move.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll get in the driver’s seat anyway. They won’t react quickly enough to obstacles in this weather, so I want to sit where I can see the road.”

Marcille hopped up, bunching her skirts to avoid snagging them on the step. Kabru followed suit. He smiled reassuringly at the gathered crowd.

“They’re nice horses, aren’t they? You might want to step back. We’re about to leave.”

They took the hint. Marcille gripped the reins, guiding their party out of the stable and into the street.

From above, rain trickled down the driver’s canopy with a light pattering sound. It was beginning to pour.

The assassins converged in an irrigation ditch underneath the main Eastern byway out of Merini. One of the boons of the new public roads was that people were more concerned with what was on them than beside them. From within a heavy black cloak, a pair of hands lit a cigarette and passed it around, thick fabric preventing it from being promptly extinguished by the deluge outside.

A different pair of hands pulled out the target sheet, then scratched their head.

“Sure he’s coming this way?”

“Positive.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be Gnommish? There’s no reason he couldn’t just, say, take a crystal ball and give ‘em his message like that, leaving us looking like a bunch of sorry bastards.”

The adjacent cloak shook its hood emphatically, dislodging small puddles of rainwater onto the soil below.

“Nah. For one, they saw him leaving the gates a while ago. For two, they’ve probably got the lines bugged. Plus half the people there most likely are in on it in the first place.”

“People where?”

“Damn if I know. Our contractor just muttered something about him not having any friends there, wherever it is.”

The smallest by far of the three cloaks tapped out the cigarette on its glove.

“Come on. We’ve still a few miles to go before we sleep. If the info’s correct, he’ll be up ahead. Let’s catch up before he catches on.”

On the expressway above, something heavy hurtled past, sending a short sharp shower of mud cascading onto the fields below.

The assassins paid it no mind, however. They were looking for a pedestrian.

After hours in transit the constant barrage of raindrops pelting Marcille’s skin had ceased registering as an annoyance. Instead, the sensation nearly soothed her, making it a chore to stay awake. Kabru had already fallen asleep a little while ago. He twitched occasionally, but the carriage’s rhythmic pace kept him content. She shifted her shoulder to prevent his head from careening into the footboard iron.

Even though she was the one clutching the reins, Marcille couldn’t help but be reminded of bleary evenings spent on the back of her father’s horse. An afternoon of playing by herself in the fields would usually leave her too tuckered out to walk back without help. He would tuck her arms around his waist and ride her home, letting her nod off in peace.

She’d felt secure then. Sometimes it was nice to be completely taken care of.

Kabru, she reflected, seemed adverse to the idea of letting anyone else take care of him, let alone alerting them to the fact he needed help in the first place.

This wasn’t necessarily a character flaw. Marcille held a grudging respect for self-reliance. But, as his head wobbled on her cowl, she wondered if it wasn’t so bad to be someone else’s security for a while.

She blinked. It was becoming more difficult to stay upright. In a few hours they would need to either break off and make camp or find a coaching inn. The visibility wasn’t helping, either. By now the downpour had thickened considerably. The carriage’s feeble lamps struggled to penetrate the darkness. Once a droplet had hit the ground it was immediately replaced by another, giving the impression of a wall of water.

Marcille squinted. One of the raindrops was a bit darker than the others. It also seemed to be getting closer. Rapidly.

In the moments following her sudden realization, several things happened very quickly. For one, Kabru woke up. This was because slamming one’s skull into the shoulder of one’s fellow passenger will do that.

The carriage keeled sideways, momentum heaving its center of gravity forward while the familiars flailed uselessly in the muck.

Marcille watched as her suitcase sailed over the railing and into the pedestrian she had swerved to avoid. Followed by the rest of the carriage.

There was a sickening crunch.

And then, silence.