It had been hours since the feeling set in, but Lan had not been inclined to worry. The river was, at its heart, a chaotic process. Eddies, whorls, ripples where the surface was disturbed–all were commonplace. But what was not common was constancy, and as dusk fell, and Lan docked beside a shallow crossing, and Gene and Bleeding Wolf disembarked heavy with apprehension which Lan knew–uniquely perhaps–was ill-founded, he found himself more and more distracted, more and more irritated with the anomaly he had apparently left behind in the Crossroads. Alone on his vessel, he stared down the river’s burbling surface, contemplated the currents’ beginnings and endings and assimilations. And there it was. The constancy. The source of his unease, it seemed, was not a ripple–it was a ripple which had disappeared.
This was serious. He made up his mind to return to the Crossroads. Then he was there.
Stepping off his boat with highly irregular purpose, he made for the tavern at the end of the tradesmen’s street. The timbre of the cricketsong told him the apothecary was presently occupied, and the other ideal witness was…compromised. This left the fateful stowaway repacking his experience with mulled wine in the tavern’s soft candlelight. Ah, yes, he was there: Lan kicked open the door, slamming it into its hinges hard enough to dislodge a nail, to the clear consternation of the proprietor and her patrons.
“Where is the girl?” he barked at the third table from the door.
“Ah!” Naples gasped, looking up with a jolt from his journal. “Captain al’Ver, I’d thought you were awa–”
“Answer, man! Everything depends on it!”
“The girl! Miss Orphelia. You were to be watching her.”
“But, I,” Naples sputtered. “What–no!”
“No, of course you never agreed to,” Lan said, charging the table and grabbing Naples by the shoulder, “but you certainly intended to.”
Even in the dim light of the barroom, the shock on Naples’ face was electric. In the split second of silence that followed, though, the presence of the tavern’s denizens reintruded.
“Mr. al’Ver–” the barkeep began.
“Captain!” Lan corrected.
“Yes, uh, what is this about?” Lan swept his hand dramatically in the direction of the bar.
“A girl has gone missing, my lady, and Mr. Naples is to help me locate her!”
“I swear to you there was nothing untoward about–” Lan interrupted Naples limping excuse with a roll of his eyes:
“Yes, yes, you wanted to investigate her connection to my illustrious self. I am very interesting. Now gather your things. We have work to do!”
As he snarled the order, Lan instinctively scanned the rest of the tavern. Most of them were visibly bewildered by the intrusion, a small few were adeptly ignoring the interruption which, for all its suddenness, was still in no way their business or their problem, but there was one set of eyes fixed significantly upon Lan with intent that was not immediately readable nor obviously benign. It was an old man with a hat at the table in the corner. His presence wasn’t right, Lan noted, but it was far less wrong than Orphelia’s disappearance, and time was short to get Naples moving.
He turned, twirling his umbrella, and exited as Naples scrambled to catch up. Outside, he paused and stared up at the half-moon between the night’s murky clouds, as much for the pragmatism of allowing his new disciple to finish his exit as for respectful consideration of the ill omen that the damn sky always seemed to bring him.
“I truly have not seen her since this afternoon,” Naples said, stumbling through the doorway behind him. “She was sneaking out of the apothecary’s, went to the market, then toward the old theater. But that’s when I lost her, I swear to you.”
“I have no reason to doubt your sincerity, Mr. Naples,” Lan replied, still staring skyward. “And I will admit I already knew the answer to my first question.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“‘Where is the girl?’ Mr. Naples. It was a trick question. Miss Orphelia is currently nowhere.” After a brief silence, Naples attempted a response:
“I…don ‘t follow.”
“The river runs always, Mr. Naples, from today to tomorrow, from spring to summer, from one year to the next, and we all swim in its current like so many fish.”
“A lovely turn of phrase, Captain.”
“And so much more besides,” Lan said, beginning to wander up the street. “The trouble is that Miss Orphelia seems to have leapt from the stream.”
“Well, to run with the metaphor, fish do jump sometimes,” Naples offered.
“Except she has not come back down.”
“Ah.” Naples went silent, thinking for a moment. “Like a flying fish? Or perhaps a fish snatched by an eagle and carried elsewhere.”
At the words, Lan felt a surge of fire run up his spine, and the clarity of the old man’s gaze upon him in the tavern returned. He had been familiar, Lan realized. The wide-brimmed hat. The burning in his eyes. Ah, yes. That one.
“We had best apply our razors, Mr. Naples.”
“Sounds danger–oh! Like the Thagosian idiom?”
In spite of the foreboding complexity manifesting in the currents, intruding upon Lan’s consciousness, so rudely calling “Wake up!” at this inappropriate hour of night, he could not help but smile. Naples continued to be a pleasant reminder of how long it took for humans to truly forget anything.
“Precisely,” Lan replied. “If you don’t mind, I have further want of your aid. It has come to my attention that a few old friends of mine have come to visit. One is at the apothecary now–let us go and meet him.”
“Lazy fucking idiot. Wake up!”
Devlin started awake at the rough voice, inches from his face, as a rough hand grabbed him by the throat and dragged him from his bed. He opened his bleary eyes to see a shaggy face and a singed hunter’s jerkin by the dim light of Brill’s infirmary before being flung, skidding to the floor. He whimpered.
“Oh, shut up,” the man sneered. Devlin blinked his eyes open, shivering as he pushed himself half-upright. The man, he could see now, was tall, tall enough that the candlelight didn’t reach his face above his beard. But that notwithstanding, Devlin had never seen him before in his life.
“Wha–what do you want–” he began to stutter, but the man reached back to a quiver tied behind his waist. He drew a short spear with a gleaming, serrated tip, and Devlin stopped cold.
“Where’s your sister?” the man asked, testing the tip against his forefinger.
“I don’t…I don’t know?”
“Really, fucker? Been outta the hag’ claws three days now, and you still think that’s an acceptable answer?”
“I don’t know–”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the man mocked. “Best start payin’ attention, then, huh? And don’t try to feed me any crap about being sick–you haven’t been sick since that fop pulled the bitch off your finger. You just figured that if you could still be sick, then it couldn’t have been your fault you killed your stupid mom.”
At this, Devlin sobbed and, scrambling to his feet, tried to run for the door, but the man grabbed his shirt and pulled him back, slamming him against the wall.
“And while you were making excuses, your idiot sister jumped into the deep end of the river. Time to take responsibility.” In a motion Devlin couldn’t really follow, the man pulled a hook-like implement from his belt, slotted the spear into it, and flung it backward. The spear embedded itself with a thunk in the wall. “You’re gonna fish that girl outta there, or I’m gonna kill ‘er. Those are the only two options.”
At that moment, the apothecary door on the other side of the infirmary curtain burst open, and Devlin stared, terrified, into the man’s burning eyes for several horrible, silent seconds before the curtain was swept aside by a man Devlin only dimly recognized. This one had come with Orphelia often when she came to visit him back here.
“Daniel,” Lan al’Ver said sternly. The shaggy man grunted disdainfully without taking his eyes off Devlin.
“Minding the shop now, are you, ‘Captain?’” he asked, curling his lip. Another man stumbled in behind Lan, freezing upon seeing the situation in the room.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Oh dear. Uh, who are you?” The shaggy man turned to face the newcomer, his venom now tempered by the slightest tinge of confusion. “And, uh, yes. Why are you threatening the boy?”
Daniel stared the newcomer down, weighing what Devlin could only imagine was a clear urge toward violence against unknown considerations. He kept his cool, apparently, backing begrudgingly away from Devlin and turning back to Lan.
“Stinks of cruelty, dragging an innocent into the Gyre,” he said.
“I navigate the waters as I please,” Lan replied.
“With passengers?” Daniel’s laugh was bitter. “You’ve a poor track record with what you carry, you know?” With that, Lan drew his rapier, defiant, scowling, prompting an outburst from the third man as Devlin tried as best he could to sink invisibly into the corner of the room.
“Hold on now, both of you!” the man said. “Whatever this is about, we need to find the girl, right? Orphelia. Let’s set the weapons down and talk!” At the mention of his sister, Devlin perked up. He did not understand the nature of this sudden interruption, though he was certainly glad for it. But more people looking for Orphelia made him even more anxious to find her.
The room was silent for a moment before Daniel straightened, reattaching his hook to his belt.
“Minding the shop indeed,” he muttered. Then, to the third man: “Fine. You two go get the girl out and take this little bastard with you. He owes it to her. And to Harmony.” Devlin gulped as all the men renewed their attention on him.
“Who took her?” Lan asked.
“Rom,” Daniel said, with a tone that Devlin could swear smelled of smoke. “I understand there is a certain Jin Gaenyan he wants pulled back into the fold.” Lan nodded, sheathing is sword, and Daniel retrieved his spear, all to the third man’s obvious bewilderment:
“Captain, what does all of that mean?”
“Fear not, Mr. Naples. We have our destination now, and we shall make sure that dear Orphelia and young Devlin are reunited once more!”
Daniel, meanwhile, made for the door.
“The personas, all three of you,” he muttered. “Who the fuck wants humanity anymore?” And then he was gone.
Devlin looked up, shaken, as Naples approached him with the ersatz, showy alarm of a concerned citizen with only an arm’s-length notion of how one ought to interact with children.
“Dear boy, are you quite alright?” Devlin nodded, limping away from the wall, which seemed to satisfy the man, as his focus returned to Lan: “Captain, please no more oblique reference–what on earth was that all about? Who was that?”
“That, Mr. Naples, was Daniel Patch. He is part of an entity called Harmony.”
“The cult of Matze Matsua?”
“Precisely. And yet also not at all.”
Devlin took advantage of the moment of pleading confusion to swipe his ring from the table by his bed. Over the past several dazed, he had attempted to reach it several times, but his efforts had been thwarted: The table had been kicked, its contents had been swept aside for a bowl of soup, he had received a sudden, semiconscious hug from Orphelia–each had, at the time, pushed the ring just out of his grasp, and each, he was beginning to realize, had been the direct or indirect work of Captain al’Ver. He had little idea why the Captain would care about the ring or his possession of it, but he certainly didn’t want to ask. And to make sure he wouldn’t have to, he decided to hide the reacquisition of his treasure.
As his fingers touched the cold silver, he heard the faintest sound of flapping wings outside the infirmary. It chilled him, and it comforted him, and while he could fathom the reason for neither, he was far too afraid to lose his last link to his family to question any of it.
“The magic of legend itself shrouds them, Mr. Naples, and even I cannot speak directly of what binds Mr. Patch and his colleagues. You will have to pardon me in this respect.”
“Very well,” Naples replied, dejected. “But what of the names he mentioned–Rom? Jin Gaenyan?” Lan laughed. The bravado of the gesture seemed uncharacteristically brittle. “What?” Naples inquired.
“Well-read as you are, I expect you’ve heard of them,” Lan said. “The second is the clue we needed, for though the name ‘Jin Gaenyan’ has been lost to all but the most observant chroniclers, I can assume you have encountered some mention of the Saraa Sa’een?” Naples scratched his chin. Devlin, unsure of what to make of this conversation, began to inch toward the door. He didn’t trust these men, and he wanted to find Orphelia before they did.
“The Saraa Sa’een was killed by the Barabadoon nearly sixty years ago,” Naples mused, “with–oh you clever dog! This is exactly where we left off three days ago! They did it with the help of–” Lan snatched Devlin’s hand as he attempted to sneak out the doorway. He froze, looking timidly up at the Captain. The man’s grip was amiable but frustratingly firm. He smiled warmly down at Devlin before facing Naples again.
“My friend, you should know better than most how history may play reanimator to even the longest-dead,” he declared with the inflection of a showman. “But in this case, the Saraa Sa’een is quite literally alive. He was, as it happens, captured, to be used as a defensive measure by the architect of the place where dear Orphelia will reenter the stream.” Naples exhaled, the expression on his face souring.
“The Chateau de Marquains,” he confirmed. He glanced at Devlin and grimaced. “That’s no place to bring a kid.”
“No. But it is as Daniel said. We are navigating the waters together, and my path is thus ordained.
“Mr. Lan?” Devlin piped up. “Are you sure this place is where we need to go to save Orphelia?”
“Indeed I am, my dear boy.” The man’s smile was still warm, and Devlin still found it suspicious. But needs must.
“Then I’m not scared. Let’s go!” It was partially true: Devlin truly did not fear the Chateau de Marquains, in large part because he knew nothing about it, but he was terrified for his sister, for the violence that had seized the both of them weeks ago and, it seemed, would not let them go. Would not let her go. He felt the wind of wingbeats brush against his cheek. He needed to save her before it was all gone.
“We are decided, then!” Lan proclaimed. “Let us depart before Brill discovers your intrusion, Mr. Naples!”
“A fate to rival the False Gods,” Naples joked mirthlessly. He moved to follow Lan out of the infirmary, pausing momentarily to look in the direction of Devlin’s bed.
“Come on, Mr. Naples!” Devlin called. Shaking his head, the man turned and exited.