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Chapter Text

Day 0
11:43

Hanno made the turn into the parking lot of the Hotel Merovin. They were early enough, he saw, that organizers from the University of Salia were still preparing the registration tables before the front doors. Two of them seemed to be arguing passionately over the precise placement of a folding chair.

Hanno pulled smoothly into a parking spot. As the car came to a halt and the engines quieted, the sound of Rafaella and Alkmene bickering in the backseat once again became impossible to ignore.

“Gold heavier than feathers. Is simple.”

“—no, it’s a ton of feathers, a ton—”

Antigone threw open the door on the passenger side and escaped into the sunny afternoon. Hanno exited the car on his side and knocked on the rear window, in case Rafaella and Alkmene had yet to realize they’d arrived.

The two of them emerged, still mid-argument. “—the point is, they weigh the same, that’s why there’s a ton—”

“This like tower man with falling balls?”

“No, that’s not—no—”

“Precious metals have traditionally been weighed using separate units,” offered Hanno. Antigone shot him a look of reproach.

They were interrupted from their discussion by a familiar battered van pulling into the parking space beside theirs. The front window rolled down to reveal Irene, to Hanno’s relief.

“I don’t know why they haven’t taken this thing away from her,” Irene said.

“Well,” drawled Nephele from the passenger seat of the van, “technically we’ve never seen her driving while drunk. We just know that she’s usually drunk. And that she drives.”

Irene glanced at the backseat. “Usually? Have you ever seen her put down that flask?”

“Well, she’s not dead of alcohol poisoning yet, is she?”

“Is she awake?” asked Hanno.

“Check for yourself.” Irene pressed a button; the rear windows of her vehicle began rolling down. There was a yowl of protest, and then a thump as Aoede of Nicae rolled off the back seats and onto the floor.

Hanno walked around to peer into an open window. A silvery flask rested on one of the recently-vacated seats; Aoede herself was lying prone at the bottom of the vehicle with an arm flung over her eyes. 

“Are you able to walk?” he asked.

“The light, it burns,” groaned Aoede. Hanno remained unmoved; he had long suspected that the coach of their debate team could not possibly be as intoxicated as she acted at all times.

“We will need you for the check-in,” he said.

Aoede peeled herself partway off the floor. “What time is it?”

“Eleven forty-nine,” said Irene.

Aoede flopped back on the floor. “Ask me again in… half an hour.”

A rustling noise came from the front seats, then a clink.

“Hey, Aoede,” said Nephele. “I have a bottle of Alavan pear brandy.”

Aoede lifted her head. “Oh?”

“It’s all yours. On one condition: you do your job.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Aoede wheedled.

“Now or bust.”

Aoede groaned, but that propelled her to sit up and fumble at the door. Hanno stepped back as it swung open. He felt as if he ought to say something, but there was nothing to discuss but the vices of his teammates and those vices would always be their lot. 

I do not judge, he reminded himself. 

They were, at least, still in a favourable position time-wise—which in his eyes was worth rather more than a bottle of brandy. 

Leaving their coach’s car and Hanno’s own ride behind, the group made their way towards long tables laid out before the hotel’s main entrance, which were manned by sharply-dressed students trying admirably to look as if everything had already been in perfect order for at least half an hour. The tablecloths were emblazoned with the logo of the University of Salia; signs proclaimed the Calernian Universities Debate Tournament, Salia 1328. 

 A young woman in a blue dress broke off from the others by the tables and came to a stop before them, barring their way. The card on her lanyard bore the name Agnes Hasenbach.

“Excuse me,” she said, “you are not allowed in.”

“Why is that?” Hanno tried to ask, only to be drowned out by the chorus of incredulous exclamations.

Agnes blinked at them. “Oh. The rest of you are fine. But she—” she pointed at Aoede “—is not allowed to participate.”

“We all registered our names three months in advance,” Hanno said.

“Some creatures have many names,” replied Agnes. “And that was a false one. The owls have told me so. Also, I can see.”

Aoede was leaning heavily against Rafaella. “This is unjust,” she protested feebly.

Agnes crossed her arms. “You know what you did.”

It was always a stroke of misfortune, Hanno reflected, when the complications reared their heads before they’d even touched the refreshments.

—

15:02

They were almost inside. They were almost inside, and then Catherine would finally be able to relax in a comfortable chair with a glass of—no, not wine, too early in the day for that, but—

But, the point was that she had been crammed into a confined space with her dearest friends for far too long, and now that they had at last arrived at their destination, they were being held up over—over—

“I’ve heard of you,” the student behind the table said slowly. Christophe, right, that was his name. “You were at that competition in Summerholm.”

“You must be remembering how I crushed that edgy prick in the leather coat,” Catherine suggested.

He narrowed his eyes. “No. You set fire to a… to a… “

“A nothing,” said Catherine.

“A Wendy’s,” supplied Indrani, the traitor.

“Look, I was going through a lot in life, okay.” Catherine spoke quickly. “And fine, maybe I indulged in a spot of arson, but the fact is that I’ve changed as a person since then—Hakram, back me up—” 

“It’s true,” Hakram allowed. “She’s even been working on her drinking problem.”

“Right! I don’t understand how you burn down one building which definitely deserved it, and suddenly everyone remembers you as a building-burner, when you’ve been in lots of other buildings—perfectly nice buildings!—that came out of it completely fine. I’m just saying, after a while, don’t you think you should just forgive and—”

The hooded student beside her coughed politely.

“Oh, don’t you start.”

“There must be a mistake,” said Christophe. “I can’t believe that they would let an arsonist attend.”

“Oh, there’s a mistake somewhere,” muttered Indrani. 

“What was that?”

Black—Catherine still couldn’t think of him as Amadeus, his actual name—cleared his throat, having apparently tired of watching them suffer.

“Speaking of mistakes,” he began, politely enough to alarm Catherine, because that wasn’t a make-someone-cry tone, that was a break-someone’s-spirit-utterly-and-leave-them-an-aimless-wreck tone. No, it was too early in the tournament for the psychological destruction, as irritating as Christophe was. She opened her mouth to intervene—

—when another volunteer wandered over, carrying a clipboard. Catherine remembered him vaguely from a few other competitions—it was Roland de Beaumarais.

“Christophe, are you holding up the line again?” 

Christophe pointed an accusing finger. “That woman is an arsonist." 

Roland raised an eyebrow. “Is she on the blacklist?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Wait, you have a blacklist?” Indrani leaned forward. “Who’s on it?”

Roland grimaced. “Well, for instance, there was this lovely young woman named Aurore—I don’t know if you know her—” 

“We’ve had a few drinks,” Vivienne volunteered.

“—right, well, long story short, all our trophies disappeared, and then all our tapestries disappeared, and we thought there was some organized ring of burglars pillaging our halls, but it turned out she was behind it all. Just her.”

“I’m shocked,” said Vivienne. “That’s appalling behaviour. I would never have expected it of her.”

Catherine broke into a fit of coughing; Hakram clapped her on the back. Christophe frowned. “So the thief is banned, but someone with a history of burning down buildings is welcomed in with—with complimentary pens.”

“It was the one building.” Catherine held up a finger. “One building. One.”

“Can I have her complimentary pen?” asked Indrani.

“No,” said Catherine. “I want my pen.”

Roland sighed. “Christophe, you know how it is. If they’re registered and they’re not on the list, they’re allowed. Even if—” He glanced at Black. “Even if they say to innocent people, and I quote, ‘It is not too late to save your parents’. For absolutely no reason that I can tell.”

Black smiled knowingly.

A voice rang out from afar. “Catherine! My dearest friend!”

He always did have the gift of spectacularly inconvenient timing. Catherine turned to find Kairos Theodosian rapidly approaching, seated in what seemed to be a wheelchair decorated in the manner of a throne—it was badly painted gold and studded with rhinestones. The skulls on the armrests were probably fake. Well, Kairos had never been one for a dull entrance, although in Catherine’s eyes nothing would ever top the time he’d ridden into tournament finals on a live goat.

Not that she’d ever speak that opinion aloud. Knowing the little shit, he’d take it as a challenge.

The man and woman who followed him she’d met before—Anaxares of Bellerophon and General Basilia. Basilia was a member of the faculty at the League College, and as far as Catherine could tell, Anaxares was actually a student of some sort, whose prolonged exposure to Kairos had driven him ever closer to snapping and single-handedly attempting to topple the state. His state? Any state.

Kairos himself came to a stop beside Masego, who seemed too nose-deep in a book to notice or care. He leaned to the side to peer past him. “Catherine, is that Akua Sahelian standing beside you?”

A beat.

“It is definitely not,” said Catherine. “I don’t know why you would say such a thing. As my dearest friend.”

“I suppose I must retract the accusation, then. As your dearest friend.” Kairos squinted. “Although I do say, the resemblance is striking.”

“Not to worry, it is a common mistake,” said the person beneath the hood. “You may call me Thema Kivule.” 

Christophe eyed her with deep suspicion.

“Stop glaring and just finish checking them in, Christophe.” Roland turned to the newcomers. “Hello, you are—?”

“We’re from the League College,” said Basilia. “I’m Basilia Katopodis. Here’s Kairos, Anaxares. They’re competing.”

“Anaxares here is the leader of our humble team.” Kairos beamed. “I am merely his loyal follower, present to support him in all his endeavours.”

Anaxares’s eye twitched. “There are no leaders and no followers. I reject the hierarchical team structure imposed upon us by the tyrannical expectations of an oppressive and corrupt society.”

Kairos, if possible, looked even more pleased. “It’s as he says, of course.”

“...right.” Roland frowned down at his clipboard. “Is it only you three?”

Rather than answering, Basilia glanced down at Kairos, who widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Who else is there supposed to be?”

Roland had the look of a man who knew he was walking into a trap but saw no way around it. “...it says here that there’s also supposed to be a ‘Hektor’.”

Kairos gasped. “How could I forget Hektor! Basilia, you must find him at once.”

“He’s in your bag,” said Basilia, straight-faced.

Kairos slapped himself on the forehead. “Of course, of course.” He rummaged through the bag that hung off the back of his wheelchair and brought out a stuffed, misshapen gargoyle.

“Hektor, I apologize sincerely for my forgetfulness,” he said. “Everyone, meet Hektor.”

Indeed, the gargoyle wore a nametag on which was scrawled HEKTOR. Kairos squeezed it, and it said, in a muffled and staticky voice, “To offer forgiveness to the unrepentant is as the sheep embracing the wolf.”

“He’s very religious.” Kairos shrugged. “You know how Atalantians are.”

Roland stared. “You registered a stuffed gargoyle for a debate tournament.”

Kairos placed a hand over his heart. “I can’t believe you’d say such unkind things about poor Hektor.”

Catherine had to admit that this was new. A new low? A new something. 

“Did some place actually sell that thing, or did you make it yourself?” she asked, with morbid but genuine curiosity.

It was unfortunately far too easy to imagine Kairos cutting up a stuffed animal while cackling.

“Hektor has always been a cherished companion of ours,” insisted Kairos. “I don’t know why you would make such uncouth comments. Given our long and cherished friendship.”

...poor Roland would just have to deal with that madness alone. Catherine turned back to Christophe. “Whatever. Look. You heard Roland over there. I’m not on the ‘list’. And I haven’t set fire to anything in ages. Just let us go already.”

Christophe looked to be thinking very hard.

“...she does have a lighter, though,” said Indrani.

“For wakeleaf, you—” 

It was hard to tell whether Christophe was more appalled at the lighter, the wakeleaf, or the foul language that followed. Kairos wagged a disapproving finger at them. The stuffed gargoyle croaked, “And in wickedness does Evil sow the seeds of its own defeat.”

It was shaping up to be a long day.

Chapter Text

Day 0
12:04

Throughout the events they had attended, Hanno had dealt with misplaced identification, notes, clothing, electronics, musical instruments, and frankly, any other item that could plausibly exit someone’s possession with or without their notice. He could not, however, say that he had ever faced the confiscation of their coach.

“That’s a lot of identity fraud for one woman,” said Nephele.

Hanno gazed down at the stack of papers Agnes Hasenbach had handed him and was forced to admit that, yes, despite the changing hairstyles and names, all the printouts of photos from past tournaments depicted the same woman. A familiar woman, carrying a familiar silver flask.

“Nice dye job, though.” Alkmene sounded a little faint.

“I can’t believe,” said Irene, “that she went all this trouble to infiltrate debate tournaments.”

“Drinks, fancy hotel?” suggested Rafaella. 

“There have got to be easier ways.” 

Hanno glanced at the lobby entrance. He couldn’t see “Aoede” lingering outside anymore, which provoked the concerning question of where, precisely, she had gone.

“It may be easier than it appears,” he told the others. “There was a Proceran competitor who reprised the trick often enough to earn the title of ‘Face-Thief’.”

Alkmene made a face. “Why does that sound like something out of a horror movie?” 

“Because people are horrifying,” said Antigone. “You’ve never seen a wolf steal someone’s face, have you?”

Alkmene perked up. “You know, when I was little, I really wanted to turn into a bird- -”

Antigone nodded fervently. 

Hanno cleared his throat, suppressing a smile. “We should take our bags up to our rooms.” 

The lobby was large enough that they were not, strictly speaking, blocking the way, but he could see a nearby gaggle of students shooting them strange looks—not that it was any of their concern whether someone did or did not want to turn into a bird.

Alkmene frowned. “Actually, it was the tournament people that booked the hotel rooms—so where is she going to—”

Nephele’s phone began to ring. She fished it from her pocket, checked the screen, and grimaced. “It’s her.” 

“Put it on speaker,” Irene suggested.

The voice that came over the speakerphone was staticky but undeniably familiar. “So, about that bottle of Alavan pear brandy—”

Nephele hung up.

“Brandy for us,” Rafaella suggested. “Defeat foes, much drinking. Is tradition.”

“Wait a moment,” said Alkmene. “She’s going to take the car, isn’t she?” 

“I have the keys,” said Irene.

“Yes, but it’s her car.”

“This does sound rather like theft,” Irene admitted.

“Keepers finders,” grunted Rafaella. 

“Actually, the saying is—”

Antigone crossed her arms. “She can walk. It’s not hard.”

They all turned to Hanno, who had apparently, as an unfortunate side effect of his field of study, become the authority on legal matters. Was it that lecture on property damage in Cleves that’d sealed his fate? It had probably been the lecture on property damage.

Hanno reflected on the situation at hand.

“If she requests the keys, they ought to be returned to her,” he said. “Until that point, we may proceed with the assumption that their loan to us stands.”

It was not that he approved of commandeering another’s car—even though it was manifestly irresponsible that Aoede had caused this by deceiving them all, thus depriving them of necessary support, and her driver’s licence was likely no more legitimate than her name—

It was not that he approved of commandeering another’s car. But this was not, strictly speaking, commandeering.

“If she does ask for the keys back,” said Alkmene, “we’re not all going to fit into your car.”

“Salia has a developed public transit system. And I believe that buses for the event will be provided.” Hanno turned his eyes to the heavens—or, more accurately, to the massive, glittering chandelier that sparkled mockingly down on them. “...should that fail, we still have the Alavan pear brandy.”

Nephele cackled.

—

15:35

“This is a terrible pen.” Slumped in the swivel chair at the single desk in her hotel room, Catherine sloppily signed her name on her copy of the itinerary. “I feel cheated.”

“They’re giving one to every participant,” said Vivienne. “You can’t expect designer goods here.” 

Catherine spun the chair around to face her. “But what about the pride of the glorious University of Salia?”

“Maybe you should file an official complaint,” Indrani suggested from her perch on the windowsill. “Tell them to up their pen budget.”

Catherine snapped her fingers. “Hakram, write that down.”

She could tell, without looking, that Hakram was rolling his eyes. Could he not understand the depth of this betrayal?

“Look,” she said, “if I have to stand at a table for hours—”

“Half an hour,” said Hakram.

“—hours, arguing with some self-righteous dipstick about my sordid criminal past, then the least they can do is cough up some decent stationery supplies as recompense.” 

“It was most definitely not hours,” said Masego. He was seated in one of the non-swivelling chairs, and pretending badly that he wasn’t reading a book which could pull double duty as a deadly bludgeoning weapon. “I didn’t even finish the chapter on propagator methods, which I could’ve if we’d remained in place only four minutes longer.”

“You've finished it now, haven't you?”

“Well, yes,” said Masego, “but it’s still irritating to be interrupted, you should know.”

He said that rather pointedly, which Catherine felt was unwarranted. Strategy meetings were necessary, it wasn’t as if she was just barging in on his reading for the fun of it.

Speaking of which.

“So,” Catherine said, clapping her hands together, “about our strategy.”

Masego made a noise of protest. Indrani snickered. “You brought it up yourself, Zeze. Bet she would’ve spent longer moping about the pen otherwise."

“I’m over that,” sniffed Catherine. “Mine is a magnanimous and forgiving nature.” 

Indrani gestured at her. “That is how our Zeze learned to lie. Isn’t that right, Zeze?”

“Indubitably,” Masego agreed, not even pretending to look up from his book.

Catherine narrowed her eyes. “Don’t test the limits of my magnanimous forgiveness.”

Vivienne cleared her throat. “So where’s Sahelian wandered off to?” she asked, as if she suspected Akua of being up to deeply unsavoury acts, which, honestly, was fair. 

Catherine waved a hand. “Oh, you know. Somewhere. Doing things.”

Vivienne didn’t seem to find that reassuring. “And Amadeus?” 

“I’m sure he’s doing things too.”

Vivienne gave her a flat look. “He’s trying to terrorize the competition, isn’t he.”

“He’d be terrorizing them even if he weren't trying,” said Catherine, which was true. “Anyways, enough about them. They don’t need to be a part of this. I can do strategy all by myself.”

“Then by all means, Your Majesty.” Indrani batted her eyes. “Strategize away.”

Catherine chose to magnanimously ignore the mockery. “Okay. First point of order. There’s a party tonight, it’s on the itinerary. Social thing. Time to mingle, cozy up to the other competitors, before we all verbally eviscerate each other starting tomorrow.”

“Time to get drunk,” suggested Indrani. 

“No!” Catherine held up a finger. “That’s part of our strategy. We are not going to get drunk. We are going to stay sober.” 

Vivienne raised her eyebrows. “Just to clarify, you’re telling us to stay sober.”

“I know who stole the last bottle of Vale summer wine, Vivs.” 

“That’s right,” said Hakram serenely. “It was me.” 

Catherine gasped. “You?”

Vivienne, wheezing with laughter, keeled over on the mattress she was sitting on. 

“Don’t worry,” Hakram added. “I shared it. Unlike you, when it came to the other five bottles.” 

“I can’t believe you did that to me.” Catherine shook her head. “Everywhere I go, I’m surrounded by traitors. Backstabbing villains, the lot of you. I can’t get any respect. Masego, I can tell you’re still reading. Masego, I’m trying to monologue here. Masego—” 

—

CUDT Salia 1328 04/04/1328

Hello attendees, and welcome to Day 0 of the Calernian Universities Debate Tournament ! A few reminders:

1. Please wear your ID card at all times.
2. If you were unable to check in today, then you must check in before 8h30 tomorrow morning. Otherwise, you will be unable to participate.
3. Take the time to refresh yourself on the code of conduct in your tournament guide. Note that ominous whispering is included under the ban on harassment.

There will be a social event this evening starting at 21h00 in the ballroom of the Hotel Merovin, featuring drinks, music, and the opportunity to get to know your fellow contestants. We hope to see you there !

P.-S. If you have concerns about your fair treatment by tournament administration, then please submit your complaint to the Equity Team. Note that serenading them on a lute does not qualify as such a submission.

Chapter Text

Day 0
Evening

Frederic returned from his washroom break to find that the main doors to the ballroom had been closed. This was not, immediately, a cause for concern.

He tried a handle. The door was not locked. 

He pushed. The door did not open.

He pulled. The door still did not open.

He pushed again, harder. There was a scraping noise, as if something heavy had been propped up on the other side.

Frederic knocked on the door.

A voice answered, “Who’s there?”

It was the perfect setup for a joke. Frederic, with great strength of will, refrained.

“I’m Frederic, one of the organizers for this event,” he said. “I can’t seem to open this door; could I request that you remove whatever is blocking it on the other side?”

A pause.

“You may not request that, no,” said the voice, gone noticeably colder.

“...and why is that?”

“I know you, foreign tyrant,” intoned the voice. “I reject your authority. Meddle not in the affairs of those you falsely claim are beholden to you.”

“I’m an elected member of the student government,” Frederic attempted.

“We are not your electorate. Begone.”

Frederic, again, attempted to force open one of the doors. This time, it did not budge at all. He surmised that the self-appointed gatekeeper on the other side had begun to lean against it.

He pulled out his phone and texted Otto.

—

Catherine scanned the roving crowds, noting the familiar faces—that Levantine with the overflowing cup, that now slightly-less-green trio, presently bickering, and oh, there was Kairos Theodosian, determinedly approaching some guy wearing an organizer’s lanyard. Poor soul.

Indrani nudged her; Catherine barely caught her words over the music. “Looking for Ringlets? I think he stepped out a couple minutes ago.”

Dammit.

Well, at least it wasn’t Self-Righteous Dipstick on the organizer roster tonight. And Pretty Ringlets ought to be back at some point, unless he’d been eaten by the local wildlife.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Catherine lied. “I’m just trying to scope out the opposition. You know. Like a professional.”

Indrani waggled her eyebrows. “Sure. Professional.” She struck a pose. “Guess you’ll just have to scope me out instead.”

It was a horrible line, but a pretty good pose. 

The opposition could probably wait.

—

“I’m going to step outside,” Hanno said—or tried to. The music was loud enough that he could hardly hear the sound of his own voice, which frankly did not seem conducive to socializing.

Rafaella seemed to have no such issues; she flipped him a thumbs-up as she and another Levantine—Sidonia—clinked glasses for their second round of drinks, spilling a significant amount of alcohol in the process. That was, it seemed, the key to situations like this: once all parties were sufficiently intoxicated, minor concerns such as one’s ability to actually hold a conversation became moot.

The itinerary had called this event an evening social. Personally, Hanno was put to mind of the sort of party that grew steadily less civilized over the course of the night and inevitably ended with the participants fleeing in all directions to the blaring of sirens. They had not reached that stage yet, but the night was young, the bar was open, and the characteristically professional student organizers were, for whatever reason, not intervening.

Rafaella, despite her inordinate fondness for such events, could be trusted not to allow her drinking to impede her tournament performance, and so Hanno left her to her festivities. He passed the refreshments table on his way to a side door that led outside, and loaded a few sandwiches onto his plate. He wove around a passionately kissing couple, dodged a flying paper cup, took a detour to place a wallet in the lost-and-found, and then, at last, escaped into the night air.

It was cool outside, and quiet, save for the muffled beat of the music through the doors behind him and, in the middle distance, a student orating fervently at the wall. Hanno politely ignored them and went to find a seat on one of the benches in the hotel gardens.

Perhaps pessimistically, he had brought his laptop to the social with the expectation that he would make an early escape. He retrieved it from his bag and settled down to work.

—

“We must think of the children, you understand,” said Otto’s new nightmare, having at last cornered him.

“There are no minors at this event,” Otto replied.

His phone buzzed.

“It’s the principle of it all,” insisted Kairos Theodosian. “I have, if you’ll pardon my language, moral concerns.”

Theodosian, frankly, looked far too gleeful for someone supposedly having “moral concerns”. Otto had never met him before, but his reputation preceded him; Cordelia Hasenbach had shared the horror stories.

Otto’s phone buzzed again. With great reluctance, he said, “Go on. Make it brief.”

He might as well have asked winter not to be cold; it was doubtful whether Kairos Theodosian had ever been brief in his life. 

“First of all, we must talk about all this drinking,” said Theodosian. “Excessive, you must agree. Appalling behaviour. Someone ought to outlaw it. Do you know, I have outlawed it? I had to replace Dion’s stash three times before he’d stop bringing his flask to student council meetings. The first time I used prune juice; then I had to get creative. I’ve been keeping all the confiscated alcohol in a large vase; I threaten to drown people in it sometimes. Somehow they keep electing me.”

“Would you get to the—” Otto’s phone buzzed yet again. Kairos Theodosian pouted at him.

“Oh, do turn that off. I find that very rude. I’m expressing my concerns here, you know. Now, about this music. I find some of these lyrics quite offensive. In particular—”

—

Hanno didn’t notice the swan until it began to make honking noises, at which point it was only three metres away, white feathers almost glowing beneath the garden lights.

He stared at it. It stared back at him.

He tore a corner from his (benignly mediocre) sandwich and—

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!”

—tossed it to the bird, which devoured it immediately.

Hanno looked towards the voice. The person who’d spoken seemed to have recently emerged from the party. She was short, with a cane in one hand and a lighter, flame flickering, in the other, and—it was difficult to identify the colour in the dark, but her dress seemed pastel. 

“I have heard that feeding animals is ecologically irresponsible,” Hanno admitted regretfully. He packed his laptop away, clasped the bag shut, and stood. 

The swan, having consumed its morsel, continued advancing towards him.

“Uh, sure. But that’s not the reason I’m warning you. The reason is—” 

Hanno stepped back. The swan waddled faster.

“—because swans are bastards.” 

The bird lunged like a striking snake and nipped at Hanno’s hand. He yanked it out of reach and retreated quickly, with the sinking realization that if, no, once Antigone learned about this, she would never let him live it down. 

The swan spread its wings in a threatening manner.

“I’m beginning to see what you mean,” Hanno acknowledged.

“Run?” suggested the stranger.

“Run,” he agreed.

—

Running: easier said than done.

Sandwich Guy had ditched the remainder of his sandwich, at least, which had brought them some time, since apparently even bloodthirsty swans couldn’t resist the siren call of lettuce and lukewarm ham. Despite Catherine’s head start, he got to the door first, and actually held it for her until she caught up, like a chump.

Then they were both inside—hells, had the music somehow gotten louder since she’d stepped out? The door clanged shut behind them, but Catherine knew better than to think such a flimsy barrier would deter the ravening beast that Sandwich Guy had unwisely brought down upon them.

“I’m not going to say I told you so,” said Catherine.

Sandwich Guy raised his eyebrows.

“I appreciate that,” he replied after a pause, even though she knew, and he knew, that what she’d said definitely qualified as an I told you so.

Who was this guy, anyways? Catherine squinted at the card on his lanyard. It read: Hanno of Arwad. Providence Academy.

Why did that sound familiar?

He seemed to recognize her name at the same moment she recognized his.

“I’ve heard of you,” the two of them said in unison. 

Oh gods, don’t mention the Wendy’s Incident, Catherine prayed. Best to head that off early. “So, Black—Amadeus—judged at one of your competitions and said—“

“I spoke to Tariq Isbili and he mentioned—“

They both broke off. 

Hanno extended his hand. “Hanno of Arwad.”

“Catherine Foundling.”

They shook.

“I’ve been warned about you,” Hanno said, like that was a normal conversational opener.

Was it fire? Did they warn you about fire? Not that Catherine was going to ask; if he didn’t bring up the fire, then she’d keep her lips sealed to the grave.

“For a while it sounded like you were supposed to be my sworn enemy or something,” she said instead. “But in retrospect I think Black just really wanted to rag on you.”

They were interrupted from their (standard and healthy) introductory small talk by the muffled yet unmistakable sound of the swan-beast throwing itself futilely against the door. Having not succeeded in bursting through and mauling them, it let out a furious cry.

“This strikes me as atypical swan behaviour,” Hanno noted.

“You sound like you’ve never met a swan before,” Catherine muttered. “It’s probably after your flesh.”

To Hanno’s credit, he took that remarkably calmly. “I’m under the impression that swans are primarily herbivorous.”

“I mean—” Catherine gesticulated “—does a swan actually understand the concept of a sandwich as a discrete item? Or does it just want to eat you?”

“It could simply be convinced that I possess more sandwiches,” said Hanno, which was far too sensible for this time of the night.

“That was a ham sandwich. Probably gave it a taste for flesh. You know, I’ve heard that people actually taste like pork? Not from personal experience or anything, I just looked it up because… you know what, just take my word for it.”

Catherine was excused from having to further justify her cannibalism trivia by a tipsy partygoer making a beeline for the door. She barred his way. “Sorry, this door’s closed. There’s a man-eating monster outside.”

The partygoer looked to Hanno, which was just unfair. Did he have a more trustworthy face or something?

“It’s for your own safety,” Hanno assured him. “There is another exit on the far corner.”

There was a bang as the swan launched itself at the door again. The partygoer paled and left quickly. 

“Are you familiar with the behaviour of swans?” asked Hanno.

Catherine grimaced. “Trust me, I’ve seen the worst of it. There’s a whole infestation of those things in Liesse. City of Swans and all.”

“I’ve never been.” Hanno sounded as if he had a genuine interest in going, which in Catherine’s eyes was akin to hankering to dive into a pit full of man-eating tapirs while being actively pursued by the beasts.

“Pretty city, awful birds.” Catherine scratched her chin. “They remind me of someone I know, actually. Beautiful, graceful, ruthlessly vicious—” She saw a familiar face approaching. “Oh, hey, Kivule.”

“Hello,” smiled the girl she’d addressed. “Foundling.”

Was there any occasion to which Akua Sahelian was not irritatingly, immaculately, and distractingly well-dressed? No, probably not, as much as Catherine hated to admit it. The other girl had dispensed with any pretense of hiding her face, but Hanno did not cry out “begone, foul villain” as he saw her, so all was well.

Also, she was wearing a hairpin shaped like a swan, which honestly sounded like some Hellgod’s idea of a joke.

“Not funny,” Catherine told the floor.

The floor did not reply. Akua looked at her as if she were insane. 

The swan chose that moment to launch another assault on the doors. Akua’s face twitched. “What is that?” 

“It’s a man-eating beast from the Hells,” said Catherine.

The beast screamed. Akua gave her a distinctly unimpressed look. “That’s a swan.”

“It wants our blood.”

“Tell me, dear heart, what exactly did you do to it?”

“Nothing,” Catherine protested. “Absolutely nothing. Honestly, what did I do to deserve all these baseless accusations of wrongdoing?” 

Akua raised an eyebrow. “If you would like me to furnish you with a list…” 

“Nothing,” Catherine repeated firmly. “I did nothing to that hellbeast. It craves carnage by its very nature.”

“I gave it a sandwich,” Hanno offered. “Though this level of aggression in response seems excessive.”

Akua spun on him, looked him up and down, and narrowed her eyes. She snapped her fingers. “You. Check your bag.”

Hanno gave her a quizzical look, but obligingly lifted his satchel. He unclasped the flap—

—and a blur of grey fuzz rocketed out. Catherine caught it. 

It was a baby swan, and it promptly bit her, which just went to show that no good deed went unpunished.

“Ow,” she said. “What the fuck.” 

Akua looked unbearably smug. “Language, dear.”

Hanno was hurriedly checking the inside of his bag, as if there might be more grey fuzzballs lurking within. Apparently satisfied that the sole occupant had escaped, he closed the bag and turned to Akua, looking impressed. “How did you know?” 

“A lucky guess,” Akua said sweetly. “It always bears further investigation when Catherine Foundling insists that nothing is afoot.”

“Look, I didn’t kidnap the baby.” Catherine thrust the little beast towards Hanno. “You kidnapped the baby, you can hold it. It bites.” 

“I noticed,” said Hanno, with a grimace. He nonetheless accepted the baby, possibly out of a sense of guilt, and possibly because he was unusually open to the risk of losing fingers to temperamental waterbirds. The baby—swanling? swanlet? whatever—attempted to peck off the tip of his thumb, which he bore with equanimity and a great poker face.

“So, walk me through this,” Catherine said, crossing her arms. “You’re sitting outside a party, you’re on your laptop, eating a sandwich. A baby swan walks up to you and climbs into your bag. And you don’t notice a thing. What were you watching?” 

“Wikipedia, mostly,” Hanno replied. 

Catherine genuinely couldn’t tell whether he was joking.

The baby swan let out a peeping sound, which prompted another assault on the door from the larger edition outside.

Akua coughed delicately. “May I remind you two that there is an anxious parent waiting beyond that door. Unless this is an adoption, in which case, my sincerest condolences.”

“Right.” Catherine stroked her chin. “Here’s how we’re going to do it. I’m going to open the door just a crack, and you—” she pointed at Hanno “—are going to drop the baby out. Kivule, you punch the swan if it tries to get in.” 

Akua wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t punching meant to be your wheelhouse?” 

“It’s a swan. Not, you know, a face. Not that I punch faces,” she added quickly, for Hanno’s benefit. “I mean, not here, at least.”

Hanno tilted his head. “Not here,” he agreed, in a way that made Catherine suspect he had been warned of that little tiff in.. okay, fine, more than a few little tiffs.

Ugh. Best to move on. She looked back at to Akua. “Anyways, my point is, just punch the bird. Or kick it, might even work better with your shoes.”

“How uncouth,” said Akua, who had probably been waiting for an opportunity to use that word.

“So’s letting a godsdamned swan into a party.”

“In that case, I shall open the door, and you can physically assault the bird if that proves necessary.”

“Look, I’m the team captain here.” 

“Are you not the type to lead from the front?” 

Hanno cleared his throat. “Have the two of you considered flipping a coin?”

The baby had gone back to trying to maul his thumb.

Catherine threw up her hands. “Fine. Fine. Here, Kivule, you get the door, I’ll take fisticuffs duty since you’re clearly too squeamish to handle it. On the count of three—two—one—” 

In the end, actually executing the plan took a fraction of the time it’d taken to settle on it. The door opened—Hanno knelt down and gently placed the baby swan outside—and then the door slammed back shut, barely missing the tips of his fingers.

Catherine flexed her hand; it was a strange feeling to get all revved up for monster-punching and not get an actual opportunity to do it. “See, Kivule, you would’ve been fine.”

“Spare me, Foundling.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. She waved for Akua to get out of the way, then walked over to the door and pressed her ear to it. There were definitely bird noises coming from outside. They sounded marginally less bloodthirsty.

“All in a good day’s work,” she muttered, letting herself sag against the door. Then the sheer absurdity of what had just happened hit her. “Gods, I can’t believe we went through all that, and we weren’t even drunk.” She peered at Hanno. “Unless you hold your liquor really well.”

“You could call it a gift of mine,” he deadpanned, then shook his head. “No, I generally don’t drink.”

“And how general would you say that generally is…?”

He looked vaguely amused. “Not during tournaments, for one, and particularly not if my opponents encourage it.”

“No, no.” Catherine waved a hand at him. “I would’ve gotten drunk too, to make it fair.”

“How quickly your strategy evaporates,” sighed Akua.

“Excuse you, it’s called improvising.”

—

Frederic was approaching the exterior door to the ballroom when he saw the bird, feathers pale beneath the lights.

He cursed under his breath and turned away.

—

It was the tyrant named Otto Reitzenberg who had, by menacing him with threats of tournament expulsion and also a rolled-up flyer, finally forced Anaxares to abandon his post by the door, leaving the way clear for the other tyrant to return. Anaxares bore this indignity stoically, as he had borne the many indignities visited unto him by those who sought to impose their will upon their fellow man.

Kairos Theodosian, on the other hand, seemed downright merry, probably because he was a tyrant in his own right and also profoundly evil. He was leaning against one of the speakers and sipping from an ornate crystal cup, which was filled with a viscous red liquid Anaxares knew to be fruit punch. 

Two Levantine women stumbled past them, leaning on each other and guffawing in the manner of the deeply intoxicated.

“Drinking is a deplorable habit,” Kairos said piously. With his foot, he nudged the volume dial on the speaker up another notch.

Anaxares knocked back another glass of wine.

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