The sun sinks distressingly low in the sky, the deep orange light reflecting prettily off the embossed copper entry permit that the porter flashes at the ferry guards. The guards – wearing frilled jerkins in all sorts of fabulous colours – take their time inspecting the permit, probably enjoying watching the porter sweat as they postulate over the legitimacy of the filigree. It’s only after their overseer shouts at them to stop fucking around that they let the porter drag his cart of boxes onto the ferry. The boxes are too small to fit someone in – and the guards keep opening them up – so that’s another idea down the drain.

“We’re not going to be able to sneak in without those permits,” I say as I join the other two under the shade of a tree. Evelyn sighs and slides to the ground, while Emmet scrunches his brow in thought.

“They’re not taking on new hires either,” Emmet says with a frown.

“So, what you’re saying is that we have to replace three of the current hires,” I say blithely and he frowns harder. “We just wait for one of them to take a shortcut through a dark alley…,” I trail off with an evil grin, very much enjoying Emmet’s pout and Evelyn’s consideration.

“No, no, I’m calling veto – no assault,” Emmet says, waving his arms around. If I’d known that we were going to be taking our earlier conversation seriously, I would have definitely drawn up a contract or something over those veto rights – especially since Evelyn still can’t read.

“You’re no fun – I wasn’t going to anyway,” I say, crossing my arms. Emmet is quick to placate me, but loses some tension either way. There aren’t even any decent alleys in this town anyway. Evelyn interrupts us by groaning at the world.

“Is this at least the right boat?”

I look up at the wine-red ferry and nod. It’s actually a little disingenuous to call it a boat – and not because of whatever asinine difference there is between that and a ship. The ferry looms over us in a display of pretentious extravagance that I have no choice but to respect. I’d expected a watertight tavern, but whichever visionary scammed enough money out of the empire to build this monstrosity seems to have included another half of a town as well.

The ship squats low in the water like an engorged tick, the tall sides of its hull cast the wharf in shadow and I have no idea how it manages to float, let alone sail. It becomes immediately apparent that this is some kind of luxury affair. From our position, we can crane our necks up and see the passengers milling about and sightseeing – decked out in all kinds of puffy dresses and slick suits. It goes back to our issues with sneaking on – nobody seems to be interested in getting off the ferry and visiting the town. The snobby bastards.

I rake my eyes over the mahogany hull, imagining the dozens and dozens of cramped storage rooms that could fit inside it. Just as it had when I first saw the thing, a faint pressure presses on the back of my eyes and a cold sweat settles on my shoulders. This is definitely the right place.

“So, what do we do now?” Evelyn asks. “Just jump aboard and try to make a run for the room?” I don’t even bother answering her as we both glance up at the entire forestry currently bobbing slowly in the river.

I’m about to suggest setting the boat on fire – if only to get a rise out of Emmet – when a delicious greasy smell wafts past and derails my train of thought. A chunk of spiced meat spins slowly over a fire as the cook finishes setting up his wooden stand and begins selling slices with bread. Another food stand opens up, this time selling beer, a little way down the wharf and I only now notice how we’ve been joined by a throng of people. I turn to the others to suggest breaking for dinner, but Evelyn is already pushing her way back towards us, precariously holding three meat-buns.

I nod in thanks and try to push our current problems out of mind. The ferry still makes my eyes itch, but I’m good at ignoring things by now. There’s a flash of light and the crowd lets out an awed gasp. Peering around some heads, I see a pair of shirtless men dancing around, spinning poles with flaming torches on each end. The crowd claps along with the music being played and cheer with every near miss the dancers make.

There’s cheering above me and I look up to see that the passengers are pressed up against the rails, watching the performers with glee. The dance finishes, with only minor burns detracting from the spectacle, and the ferry passengers go wild, throwing handfuls of something off the boat. One of those somethings hits me in the forehead and I hear some kid above me cackle. I’m about to show the little shit who’s boss with a firebolt when I look at whatever he threw and find a silver baron glinting up at me. That’s dinner paid for at least.

The rest of the coins mostly fall into the water while the crowd scrabbles for the few that make it to land. I see a couple of people jump off the wharf with baskets – no doubt prepared in advanced for this to happen.

“This is kind of fucked up,” mutters Evelyn as we watch a few more divers sift through the river silt.

Another pair of dancers step up – this time juggling torches – and the tourists calm down long enough to start throwing change at the new target. It’s probably wonderful for the local economy, but the demented fever of the whole thing puts me in mind of a zoo more than anything else. I check around me for any forgotten coins, finding none, then turning to leave.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Maybe the inn has someone desperate enough to be bribed with something that we can afford.” Emmet does the math and apparently decides that bribery is low enough on the list of sins that he’ll let it slide. Evelyn manages to tear her eyes off the shirtless performers and follows after me.

The sudden cash injection seems to have triggered an unofficial festival in the town, and the village square is teeming with drunken dipshits. I thread my way through them – carefully, and mindful of how my last time surrounded by boisterous drunkards ended – and head towards the tavern.

The place is fairly empty since most people have flocked to the wharf for the free entertainment. Those left behind have probably long since fused with their chairs some time in the past decade and are already deep in their mugs. The only person in the room with any energy is a guy wearing a cape of feathers and chatting up a very put-upon barmaid. She sees us enter and grabs the opportunity to excuse herself faster than if he’d had her at sword point.

She greets us then sits us down right next to the feathered weirdo – probably as a diversion to redirect his attention. The waitress scampers away without another word, and the guy fixes his attention on Evelyn almost immediately, so I’m probably right. We have just enough time to sit down and enjoy the rustic charm sawdust and old beer, before the man heaves himself up – banging his knee on the table – and stumbles over to us.

“Howdy gents,” he greets us with a bit of a slur, then he turns to Evelyn. “Milady.”

Emmet returns the greeting politely while I nod silently. Evelyn swallows a grimace with a fortifying breath and turns to the guy with a paper-thin smile. She greets him simply then turns back to the two of us.

“So Emmet, what were you saying about meditation? I tried last night but I can’t seem to get the hang of it.” Emmet starts at the unusually loud question and stammers something about clearing your mind and focussing on your kneecaps. Evelyn nods along in a valiant attempt to ignore her problems away, but she made a significant error in presenting any kind of foothold at all.

“If you’re interested in meditation, I can give you anything you need,” the drunk presses a hand to Evelyn’s shoulder – she tenses up and her eyes flick to the sword that’s still wrapped up in my bag. He squeezes her shoulder and flops into the empty chair beside her, flashing the nearest approximation of a charismatic smile. His feathered cape gets caught under him and he spends a moment rearranging himself while Evelyn stays stiff-spined in his grip.

“Maybe another time?” Evelyn tries, her back straight and shoulders squared as he leans in, completely ignoring Emmet and I. She stays uncharacteristically polite – gossamer thin, but still. The guy doesn’t seem to notice and leans in further.

“Nah, I’m a priest myself. Why don’t we go have a chat – all personal like?” Evelyn’s mouth twitches down for a moment before she drags it back up and nails the smile in place. Her eyes dart to me and she makes an almost imperceptible jerk of her head towards our intruder. Just tell him to fuck off – what’s so hard about that?

“Hey buddy,” I say, clearing my throat as it comes out too quiet at first. “Hey buddy, Emmet here is a priest too – we’ve got it all covered.” He frowns as he glances towards me – as I’m getting in the way of something. “How about you back off and we’ll fetch you if we need a peacock.”

He puffs up predictably and Evelyn cringes at me – what did you expect? Apparently seeing me as some kind of threat, he straightens up, showcasing the solid inch he has over me. As funny as it is to watch a grown man behave like a chimp, I consider whether it’s time to throw Evelyn her sword.

“I’ll have you know that I’m not just any priest,” he blusters and reaches into his shirt. “I was chosen as the chief diviner for the Porcine Mango!” He finishes fumbling around his nipples and yanks out a copper plate, adorned with much more elaborate filigree than the porter’s version. Holy shit, how did this idiot his hands on an entry permit?

In the space of time between shouting that stupid name and brandishing his copper ferry ticket, Evelyn transforms into a different person. Her strained smile curves predatory and she leans right in, battering eyelashes and gasping vacantly. The performance is egregious and just as bad as her acting usually is, but the priest rises above such petty details and completely falls for it.

“Oh my gosh!” Evelyn gushes. “How on earth did you manage to get that? I heard that it was like, impossible to get an invitation!” She starts playing with her hair and the idiot drops our stare-off like a hot coal.

“I was recommended to the captain because of my mastery over the winds of fate,” he boasts, letting Evelyn take the permit and marvel at the, no doubt, expensive embossing. “They’d let me bring a guest,” he wriggles his eyebrows and Evelyn giggles back. It’s all truly sickening, but he seems to be buying it.

“Let me just talk to my brothers for a second, if that’s okay?” She glances up at him through her lashes, but she needn’t have bothered. At the word ‘brothers’ my presence completely disappears from his awareness and he sinks back into his seat with a lazy grin. Evelyn pulls Emmet and I just out of earshot and we lean into a huddle.

“Alright – this is out chance,” Evelyn whispers, her character flaking off without a hint of shame. Emmet looks a little lost, but I nod. It’s all very mercenary – just the way I like it. “I can distract him as long as we need – I know his type. What’s our plan?”

“Obviously we steal his permit – shut up Emmet – and impersonate him,” I say, ignoring Emmet’s knee-jerk moralising. It’s better than some random porter’s permit – and this guy is a creep, best of all worlds. Evelyn nods easily at my great idea.

“I can keep him distracted for a few hours at least – and the ferry leaves at dawn. Do we just wait for him to fall asleep?” I give it a second then shake my head.

“If he wakes up and notices that he’s been robbed, we’ll get found out,” I say. “We need to remove him.” Emmet stamps on my foot.

“You’re not suggesting that we kill him? Are you?” He asks, outraged. I shake my head again.

“No,” even if that would be easier. “We just need him to still be asleep when the ferry leaves.” Evelyn and Emmet nod along.

“You don’t have a sleep spell, do you?” she asks. She knows as well as I do that I don’t. I’m about to ignore her but the thought sparks between my neurons.

“Hold that thought,” I say, pulling Emmet towards the door. “I’ll be back in a bit. Keep him drinking in the meantime – if this doesn’t work, we’ll just get him drunk and hope that he oversleeps.”

Evelyn grins and waves us out. She takes a deep breath and slaps a vapid smile back on her face. The sound of insipid giggling follows us out as the door clicks shut behind us. The street party seems to be in full swing and I veer right around the back of the inn.

Now, it obviously occurs to me that we could just get him drunk, or bash him over the head. There’s a certain simplistic elegance to either option, but one would take money that I don’t want to waste and for the other, I don’t think head trauma works that way in real life. Honestly though, Evelyn gave me an idea and I just want to try it.

Somehow, I’d almost forgotten that I’d left home with the explicit goal of learning magic. Somewhere along the way I think that I got hung up on Darke Mag’kx – maybe that’s what that dream library was about. Nothing was possible before it, so nothing can be possible without it. Ridiculous really – embarrassing even. Did I not create the totally-a-working-spell ‘Daze’ back in the caves? I even beat Sable with it – that basically counts as developing a spell. I may not have the magic to put someone to sleep right now, but I can at least try.

“So, ah, what is our plan, Lucien?” Emmet finally asks as we round the inn and arrive in a dark courtyard.

“I’m going to make a new spell,” I say with maybe a bit too much force behind it. This is going to work; I can feel it.

“Alright, cool, what kind?” Emmet responds immediately and with crippling enthusiasm. I look back at him sharply and see only attentive interest written in his expression.

“Well, I mean, I’ll give it a go,” I add automatically. Emmet just nods away, apparently ignorant of my history doing this kind of thing – or lack thereof. “You remember the grease spell?” I ask, making the motion but managing to refrain from spraying oil down my front. He nods again. “Well, the actual mechanics behind it involve creating a mana construct of pseudo-liquid and bonding it with the properties of grease using a catalysing agent.” I’m speaking quickly but he doesn’t seem bored by the explanation, just thoughtful.

“Evelyn was reading something like that from your book, right?” Emmet asks and I grunt in agreement. This still counts as my idea, even if this is still all cribbed from Rothmore.

“Right. So, I should be able to conjure a different liquid if I use a different catalyst.” Emmet pauses for a moment before his face lights up.

“So, then you can make a sleeping potion!” He exclaims, not entirely correctly. “What are you going to use as the catalyst?”

“Death mana,” I say, holding up a hand and letting the inky wisps curl around my arm. Emmet looks horrified for a moment before he crosses his arms and gives me a stern look.

“You can’t possibly expect me to agree to that.”

“No, no, it’s all about intent anyway. If it goes right, it should conjure-”

“Poison.”

“Non-lethal poison – ideally.” He scoffs and doesn’t look the slightest bit interested in this. I sigh and deflate, oh course he was never going to go for this. It’s probably stupidly overcomplicated anyway. “Would you at least just hang around while I give it a go? We don’t have to use it – I just want to try making a spell again.” He stares me hard in the eye then a small smile appears on his face.

“Yeah okay,” he says, his voice laced with an embarrassing amount of understanding. “I’ll just give you some space,” he says as he backs away, giving an exaggeratedly large berth to the death mana in my hand. “Also, only a few tries. I don’t think we should leave Evelyn alone with that guy.”

“She’ll be fine – she’s good at dealing with idiots,” I say, mostly to cover up the excitement bubbling away in my stomach.

I splay out my hand in front of me and snap my fingers, the magic pseudo-liquid coming to me easily. It takes a round of mental gymnastics to not immediately turn it into grease, but I manage to hold back the muscle memory. With the liquid conjured, I turn my attention to the black mana pooling in my other hand. Emmet is basically totally correct in his guess that the outcome of this is going to be poison. One way or another, using death mana as a catalyst is probably going to attach some pretty dire properties to this mana construct – it’s all very exciting.

Based on prior experience – and wild speculation – the trick is probably to think of nothing but puppies and all things nice, and just let the death mana carry the rest through. Start from death soup and work back.

I centre hot chocolate and flowers in my mind – I throw in a cake too since it works for Rothmore. Invisible sparks crackle through the death mana and dart between my hands. The liquid mana construct thrums with potential, begging for release. Now all I have to do is think of a cool incantation. I focus really hard on sleep and pillows and lullabies, then I snap my fingers.

“Befoul.”

There’s a pop and my hands are empty. I frown, I definitely cast something – it was all tingly and everything. I run through the process again, then a third time. Each cast results in just another pop and not a drop of poison – of any lethality. It’s weird, because if I failed the cast, it would show it. This feels like I succeeded – succeeded in something.

I almost lick my finger to test if there’s any residue left over, but stop. Not because that’s an extremely stupid thing to do, but because my lungs suddenly start to itch and my throat stings.

“Emmet,” I croak out, getting his attention. “Not to alarm you, but I think I may have just poisoned the air.”

I collapse as my legs give out and the itch becomes a burn. To Emmet’s credit, he only panics a little before taking a deep breath and running towards me. My vision swims and I get a face full of grass as my neck goes limp, but I feel my feet lift up and my body start to move as Emmet drags me out of my invisible death cloud.

Something starts glowing somewhere behind me and the burning pain starts to retreat as a soothing coolness spreads through me. It stops after a while and the pain returns – less this time, but still mostly debilitating. I moan through a slack jaw and Emmet’s healing magic returns. My brain is puddle pooling at the base of my skull, but I manage to reassemble my grey matter enough to realise that the poison is still probably in me. Emmet’s magic just heals the damage it does. I groan and focus on sweating the stuff out – gods, I hope magic poison works like normal poison.

“Alright, I think I’m good,” I say after what’s got to be an hour. Emmet sighs in relief and slowly releases his spell. I feel like shit but I’m no longer dying.

“What happened?” Emmet asks while still fussing over me. I’ve had a lot of time to think on it – dying being an awfully boring activity.

“My working theory is that I didn’t conjure anything,” I start and Emmet is attentive enough to grace me with a look of confusion. “The spell doesn’t create poison, it poisons things.” Emmet looks scandalized by the arbitrary switch between noun and verb, but magic is just like that sometimes.

“You’re sure it doesn’t just create poison gas?” Emmet asks, looking like he’s not quite sure which eventuality he’d prefer.

I stoop down, snap my fingers and poke a weed.

“Befoul.”

The plant instantly wilts and I scramble back on the off chance that we’re both right. When I don’t vomit my lungs out again, I turn back to Emmet with a massive grin stretching across my face.

“Yeah, it poisons things. Pretty cool, isn’t it.” Emmet seems to disagree. “Though it’s not exactly a sleeping potion, is it?” I cast a new spell, I’m happy. Emmet hums and looks thoughtful.

“Well actually,” he starts, a wonderful mix of guilt and mischief warring across his eyes. “We’ve kind of proved that it’s non-lethal – as long as I’m around, that is.” I stare at him dumbly for a moment before a grin splits my face in half. Emmet giggles a little hysterically at what he just suggested and we start figuring out the details.

O – O – O – O – O

“I came in fourth place – but I could totally have placed higher. My brother was playing and I couldn’t have upstaged him too much.” Florence starts laughing with a slightly panicked timbre that suggests that he didn’t include that amendment to portray his compassionate, family-oriented side. I just nod encouragingly, an actual verbal response unnecessary now that he’s built up enough conversational momentum.

His hind brain must momentarily tap into some empathetic wavelength because he quickly starts up a different round of boasting while I heroically hold myself back from castrating him. I take a calming sip from the beer that he’d bought me – which he takes as a challenge and sculls his own tankard.

Drinking like a fish has absolutely no impact on his ability to invade my personal space or construct elaborate allusions to his dick. I laugh at whatever he just said and feel like I have to activate each facial muscle individually. Like saying a word over and over until it loses it’s meaning, I don’t even know how a smile works anymore. This was a terrible plan.

I calmly redirect his hand off my leg and ignore the waitress as she watches with equal parts guilt and relief. Meanwhile, Florence slurs between professional achievements and how many push-ups he can do, without much in the way of a train of thought.

Luckily, the door slams open, delivering me from hearing about how much of a bitch his last girlfriend was – for the third time.

“Oh, hi, my brothers,” I stress the word in case Florence has forgotten by now – which by the looks of his bristling, he has. “Did you have fun?”

Lucien looks at me blankly for a moment before shrugging vaguely. He looks pale and clammy – more so than usual – and a little unfocussed. Emmet stands behind him, looking a little concerned and with hands extended, ready to cast his healing spell. I shoot him a look and he just shrugs back, so I guess it’s not too dire.

“Huh? No, yes, sure,” he sways a little and Emmet reaches out to steady him. “We’ve just come back from the festival out there. They were selling these drinks, they’re great, you’ve got to try them.”

He proffers two mugs that smell of beer and Florence perks up immediately. Lucien deliberately presses one of them into my hands, then whispers something as he lays the other in front of the priest.

“Don’t mind if I do!” Florence drains the mug without another word, the beer flowing down his throat without any swallowing mechanism involved. Almost impressive really. Lucien stays staring Florence down, waiting for something, while Emmet shifts closer to the feathered priest. I hope that that was a sleeping potion or something and not us moving to plan B. Florence seems pretty resistant to alcohol.

Florence burps and fails to do whatever Lucien’s waiting for. He shares a worried glance with Emmet, then sighs.

“Why do I bother with subtlety?” He says then snaps his fingers and presses his hand to Florence’s face. “Befoul.”

Florence immediately goes purple and starts foaming at the mouth. Emmet yelps, rushes forward and presses glowing hands into his chest. Lucien just motions for me to get up and starts dragging Florence’s limp body towards the private rooms. What the hell is this?

“Lucien, what the hell did you do?” I ask, though I still grab Florence’s other arm and start dragging.

“Poisoned him,” he whispers to me, then turns to the vaguely concerned waitress. “Hey, our friend here drank too much,” he says without any attempt at believability. “Which room is he in?”

It’s a testament to Florence’s apparent reputation that she just lets this happen and points us to his room. We drag him up a flight of stairs and arrive at his door. Emmet has been keeping up the healing so far and Florence isn’t looking any more purple than when we started.

“Spongify,” Lucien casts at the door, then bashes it in with his shoulder. The wood around the lock bends like rubber and the door swings open with a click. Lucien looks a little too pleased with himself as we drag the priest onto his bed, but I’ll let him have this.

“So, what the fuck is this?” I demand once Florence is on the bed. Lucien looks around and rummages through some of the bags and produces a coil of rope, then starts tying Florence to the bedpost.

“I poisoned him and Emmet’s making sure that it doesn’t kill him.”

“That’s so much worse than plan B,” I groan, eyeing the pink foam frothing at the priest’s mouth. “Is he going to be okay?” Emmet glances over and gives a shaky thumbs up. Well, I guess that makes this all fine then.

Lucien hovers around the bed as Emmet keeps the magic pulsing. Lucien seems to have realised that taking the ferry permit now would be in poor taste – with the owner choking on his own tongue. Or maybe this is even less of a foolproof operation than it already looks like.

“I think he’s going to be fine, thank The Mother,” sighs Emmet, pulling away from Florence and stepping aside. Lucien visibly relaxes at the news and I feel a sense of nausea that I hadn’t noticed, dissipate. “His liver was something else,” Emmet continues, moving towards me. “I fixed it up – as well as some scabs around his groin.” Ew, Emmet’s face scrunches up too. “Hopefully that pays him back a little for this.”

“More than he deserves as far as I’m concerned,” Lucien says, finally walking up and grabbing the copper plate from around Florence’s neck.

“We did poison him, Lucien,” Emmet says reproachfully. “We tested it, but it’s still dangerous – especially when you hit him directly.” Lucien wilts a little and takes a full three seconds to inevitably rally by changing the subject.

“This thing says that we can bring a guest, so hopefully we can stretch that to two,” he says throwing the plate to me.

Florence Polters. Chief diviner of the Porcine Mango. Maybe he wasn’t just all talk.

“This guy sounds kind of important,” I say. “Are we going to be able to pretend to be him?” I look up to see Lucien tugging on Florence’s feather cape.

“You aren’t, I am,” he says, yanking the cape out and throwing it over his shoulders. He looks far too pleased by it and catches himself in the process of striking a pose. What a nerd.

He rifles through some more of the bags. He pulls out a few satchels, apparently full of bird bones and twigs. Emmet looks uncomfortable with the looting, and I don’t know what I’m looking for, so we leave him to it.

“Right, let’s get our story straight,” Lucien says and points at Emmet. “You’re my apprentice,” he points to me, “and you’re a guest – or something.” He trails off in a question. Showing absolutely none of the surety that’s going to be necessary for this to work.

“I’ll be the guest,” I say. “If anyone gets anal about it, I’ll just pretend to be your bodyguard.” Not far from the truth, to be fair.

We agree and turn to head out. Emmet lingers to double check on Florence, healing a few bruises that had appeared, probably thanks to dragging him up a staircase. Lucien huffs impatiently, allergic as he is to empathy. Emmet finishes up and hurries out and I start walking downstairs as Lucien locks the door.

There’s a moment of silence, followed by the sound of him digging through his bag. I hear the Pavlovian tinkle of coins on the hardwood floor and the slam of the door as Lucien hurries to catch up. I shoot him a knowing look and he flushes pink, screwing the lid back on our coin jar and stuffing it into his satchel.

We walk back through the tavern in an open mockery to the idea of acting casual. The waitress takes one look at Lucien’s new feathered cape and pointedly looks away. I doubt that she’d draw the line at stealing when she saw us literally poison and kidnap a guy, but I shoot her a thankful smile anyway.

We hurry out the door and head back towards the wharf. I hope that this mystery girl is grateful for all the effort that this is taking. Could she not have just stowed away on a fishing boat or something? The crowd naturally parts as we push through, Lucien’s wizardly aura having upped a few notches with the new cape.

The ferry with the stupid name looms over the rooftops in front of us and we join the line of porters and extremely drunk passengers ready to board the ship. Lucien sets his face into his best impression of chief diviner – whatever that is – and with nothing better to do, I try to match it.