‘Tell me again what happened, Mr Ness.’

The cramped space of the Commander’s cabin was a monument to a fallen empire. The flag of Forsara dominated one wall, a purple rectangle of cloth with a golden crown dead centre, faded after years of flying from Seacrow’s main mast, next to a cabinet of old-world artefacts. A piece of polished wood, once a door of a stately home, had been affixed to the blackened iron trunks of the two stern-chaser guns to form a rude table upon which sat sheaves of maps and charts, weighted down against the pitch and roll of the open ocean, showing the fifteen-hundred miles of Forsaran coastline and its outlying islands. Gold leaf on the ship’s bulkheads had peeled and flaked, unable to be replaced, leaving the room appearing in a rather sorry state.

The ship’s Commander, Magnus Ulstea, was a personification of his ship. He had long since eschewed his fine-frogged uniform for a simple sailor’s garb, having achieved the difficult realisation that there was no longer a king or kingdom left to serve, but he could not relinquish the artfully-crafted officer’s sword he wore at his hip. He was haggard and worn down by his years at sea, afforded little sleep or rest by whatever demons plagued his mind, the slight tidying of his long, grey-shot beard and hair a token attempt at keeping up the pretence of implacability.

‘As I said, sir, we came upon th’ elf-post too late,’ Goose explained, legs braced apart and hands behind his back in a seaman-like fashion. You could take the man out of the Navy... ‘And were ambushed by two Frekir.’

Commander Ulstea held up a hand. ‘You said one distracted you and allowed the other to close, correct, leading to the death of seaman Jan Ordnol?’

‘Yessir,’ Goose replied tightly. The loss of Hawk was still obviously weighing on him, as it was them all. There had been deaths over the years, as was to be expected in this terrifying new world, but it had been almost a year since the last. They had become good, efficient, competent at what they did. They had become complacent.

‘Is that level of intelligence even possible, Ms Saltwick?’

This question was directed at Scops, a short, slight woman of forty years with close-cropped brown hair and hard, dark eyes, who still wore her ragged Thaumaturgist’s cloak with pride. It marked her out as an officially-schooled and trained mage, which Peacock had missed his chance to be. A scholar and a naturalist, she had made an effort to try and understand the Frekir and their ways, with as rigorous a scientific approach as could be managed under the circumstances.

‘Potentially,’ she reluctantly agreed, ‘As we have observed in the, ah, mundane species of this world, a creature of enough intelligence can obtain new advantageous behaviours from sheer accidents that worked to its benefit.’

‘Will we see more of this, then?’

Scops shrugged with a grimace.

‘It is hard to say, sir. It would depend on the beast, or beasts, in question.’

Ulstea nodded wearily and stared at his charts for a moment too long, causing the gathered Scavengers to shift uncomfortably.

‘We have lost more powder and shot than we have replaced, and added another name to the roll of the dead,’ he finally spoke up. ‘It is my order that we cut this cruise short and return immediately to Havnoy to re-victual and recuperate. Dismissed.’

The island of Havnoy had been a miraculous find to the refugees fleeing the Forsaran coast, apparently untouched by the calamitous events that had ravaged the mainland. It was a body of land five miles across, two and a half days’ sail from their current position, dominated by a squat mountain on its seaward side that protected its only town from the ravages of the open ocean, and boasting a natural harbour that now hosted more than just a scattering of fishing ships. The land had nevertheless proven more than up to the task of sustaining herds of cows and sheep, and fields of some of the hardier crops, enough to feed its increased population. More than that, it was a place for the Seacrows to stretch their legs on land without the immediate threat of death.

Sparrow made to file out with the others, head filled with thoughts of the roaring fire at Njall’s Head tavern and a bowl full of hot stew. Ship’s hardtack could wear on a girl after a while, after all. However, she was made to stop by the Commander.

‘Did you at least manage to find me something, Miss Savonet?’

Sparrow nodded and rummaged around in her patched leather bag, withdrawing a small book, gilt lettering flashing in the daylight spilling through the ship’s grimy stern windows.

‘The Ballad of Baron av Barrus,’ Ulstea read with a wistful smile. ‘I used to read this one as a boy.’

‘I’m afraid there’s some slight water damage,’ Sparrow apologised as she handed it over.

‘Nevertheless... thank you Aina.’

The young woman nodded, understanding from the way he began to read that their conversation was now over. She ascended the small staircase and emerged from the sterncastle into full daylight, the hubbub of a ship at full sail enfolding around her. Men and women were climbing the shrouds under the bellowed orders of Maxten, the sailing master, trimming the topsails and jibs to better catch the middling north-easterly that was propelling them through the choppy grey waters, or tying away trailing ropes on the weather deck, out of the wind thanks to the high gunwales. Along each side eight fat 32lb carronades were leashed, those close-ranged dogs of war that had so recently saved her life, tightly lashed down for travel. Long-gone from the days of martial order the ship had become like her crew, a feral and savage wanderer, strung at her masts and rails with fetishes and charms to ward off the ire of gods and spirits or to attract the blessings of the same. Even so, she was no less diminished in splendour.

Taking a moment to savour the scene, Aina descended down into the close dimness of the orlop deck and the waiting gaggle of men and women below.