The second day of the El Gloriosa fair in Amsterdam dawned with a roar that made the first day seem like a quiet Sunday in the provinces.
The tides of people were thicker, the smell of fried dough and horse manure more pungent, and the cacophony of the city's heart beating against the circus tents was almost deafening.
Faust stood on the opposite side of the main entrance today, his crimson velvet suit catching the morning light as he jingled with every slight movement.
His knees, however, were singing a different tune.
"Lord, if you're listening," he whispered inwardly, leaning into his drunken sway, "please grant these knees the strength of a younger man. Or at least the strength of a man who isn't actually a century-old relic pretending to be thirty. If my patella pops now, I'm going to look less like a fool and more like a folding chair."
He chuckled to himself, the absurdity of a Duke-Doctor-Magician praying for joint health while wearing a ruff collar not lost on him.
As he spun, tossing a silver coin into the air and catching it in his hat, he saw him.
A man was cutting through the crowd like a prow of a ship through dark water.
He was tall, his skin tanned deep by a sun that didn't belong to the Dutch Republic.
Broad shoulders filled out a dark traveler's coat, and at his waist sat two heavy flintlock pistols—not for show, but worn with the casual ease of a man who used them often.
A wide-brimmed black hat was pulled low, but as he approached, he adjusted the brim, revealing eyes that burned with a startling, unnatural amber light.
He looked exactly the same age as Faust.
Mephisto's heart gave a synchronized, warning thrum.
His intuition, honed by a hundred years of survival, screamed that this man was a predator. But a clown has no room for fear. He pushed the wariness behind his white-and-red mask, widening his painted grin.
The stranger passed the other fools, ignoring the drunkard and the juggler, and stopped directly in front of Mephisto.
"Welcome! Welcome to the El Gloriosa!" Mephisto sang out, breaking into a lively, bells-chiming dance to the rhythm of a distant fiddle. "Where the impossible is merely a warm-up and the truth is whatever you want it to be!"
The man didn't blink. He watched the performance with a stillness that was unnerving.
"I heard the fool here speaks to the stars," the man said, his voice a low, melodic rasp. "I want a divination."
Faust chuckled, the sound muffled by his bells.
"The stars are busy today, traveler, but the cards... the cards are always looking for a story. What bothers a man who carries enough lead to sink a boat?"
With a snap of his fingers, the silver-encrusted Tarot deck appeared in his hand, fanned out like a metallic wing. To add flair, Mephisto suddenly dropped his weight and performed a perfect cartwheel the bells on his breeches jingling a chaotic melody.
He landed back on his feet, breathless but grinning.
"Name, birthplace, and the day you first saw the sun," Mephisto chirped.
The man rubbed his scarred chin.
"My name is Lucien. I was born in Constantinople. As for the day... I do not know it. I have no date of birth."
Mephisto's eyes sharpened.
People with no birthday were men of complex fate.
But who is he to judge? He's practically the same.
"Very well, traveler. Think of your question. Ask it seven times in the silence of your mind, and let the cards find the path."
Lucien went still.
In his mind, a single phrase echoed seven times: What waits me in the future?
At the same time, Faust did the same: What waits Lucien from Constantinople in the future?
Mephisto began to shuffle.
He tried for the flamboyant, cascading bridge Don-Fran had shown him, but his fingers, still not skillful enough, fumbled.
The silver card flew from his hands, scattering across the cobblestones in a shimmering mess. He let out a "drunk" squawk and slipped, his knees hitting the ground with a thud that he disguised as a comedic pratfall.
Lucien reached down, his gloved hand moving to help pick them up, but Mephisto's hand shot out, stopping him.
"The cards must fall where they choose, traveler!" Mephisto sat extravagantly on the ground, legs splayed like a broken doll. He gathered the scattered deck but left three cards face down. With a dramatic flourish, he flipped the first.
It was a card from the Francisco deck: The artwork showed a world falling into grey soot, with a single spark at the center.
"Ash," Mephisto whispered, his voice losing its playfulness. "Fire, transformation, and the remnants of past actions. They are resurfacing, Lucien. You are walking through the cooling embers of a life you thought you left behind."
He flipped the second: The Three of Pentacles.
"But you are not alone," Mephisto continued. "This card symbolizes active cooperation. A forge where three hammers strike the same iron. You will or have found partners in this fire."
Finally, he flipped the third. It showed a figure with two faces—one looking toward a sun, the other toward a void.
"Duality," Mephisto said, looking up at the amber eyes. "Opportunity lies before you, but it is draped in a hidden danger. One face offers a hand, the other holds a knife."
Lucien leaned in, the scent of gunpowder and old incense clinging to him.
"Which danger?"
Mephisto realized the atmosphere had turned far too somber for a fair-circus.
He let out a loud, belching laugh, scattering a handful of confetti from his sleeve.
"Danger?" Mephisto shrieked, jumping to his feet with a chime of bells. "In this day and age, everyone is in danger, my friend! The plague, the sea, or a bad batch of Dutch beer—take your pick!"
He began to strode away, his bells jingling a frantic warning, his painted face turned back toward the crowd as he resumed his frantic advertising.
"But for you, the biggest danger is missing the show! The El Gloriosa waits for no man!"
Lucien remained standing in the middle of the street.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his tanned face as he watched the crimson-clad fool disappear into the human tide.
He didn't follow.