‘We’re going to raise a toast to Hawk,’ Grouse announced upon sighting her.

‘He was a bit of a bastard, but he was our bastard,’ Gannet solemnly agreed, the stout Scavenger from the other team already pouring out a measure of flat, watery beer.

‘Still has my knife,’ Stork, another man of team two, chipped in glumly, though Aina couldn’t tell whether his remorse was for the man or his knife.

Robin and Finch, the twin brother and sister making up the last of that squad said nothing, only nodding along to their comrades’ words, their usual dark humour driven below by so recent a trauma.

Aina perched on the end of one of the fold-out benches with a sigh. After the rush of their flight and near-death the fatigue had come on quickly, sapping her strength of mind and body. She freed her dark hair from its confining bun and let it cascade about her shoulders, releasing some of the tightness from across her scalp. Watched carefully by some of the Scavengers she dove back into her bag for a second time.

Whilst Hawk and Goose were celebrating their find of ale, now tragically lost with the body of the former, Aina had uncovered a dusty bottle of Docudri red, stowing it quietly so she would have something for a notable occasion. It was a great shame such an occasion had already reared its head, and with quite a maudlin aspect. With a scramble, the Scavengers produced a brace of tin mugs from their stowage pouches, into which Aina dutifully poured a measure of the fruity scarlet liquid, so like fresh blood. It did divide well between nine.

‘T’ Hawk, th’ bastard,’ Goose led the toast. ‘May he go well t’ whatever god would be foolish enough t’ take him, if Lunn doesn’t want him for herself.’

Lunn, the wolf-goddess of nature and death, the only of the Ninefold Pantheon with an animalistic form. She was the devourer of souls, a greedy beast who would just as easily store them in her belly as drop them in the lap of whatever deity held claim on the recently-departed. That was not to say the former fate was an eternity of torture, certainly nothing like ending up a Sjel, for it was said that such souls were eventually broken down and reformed in the world as any of the animals. Nor did any pray for such an eventuality, however; it was just as likely for one to return a slug as a noble stag, after all.

‘If they are not all dead,’ Robin commented, raising her cup.

Since The End of All Things, many theories had been bandied about as to the true nature of the event, from a magical experiment to the wrath of a vengeful deity, and one theory in particular suggested that the Pantheon itself had been cast down to earth along with the Frekir. The only truth in the matter, however, was that no-one but the gods themselves knew for certain. And they weren’t sharing.

‘May he go well!’ they all refrained, draining the mugs and hurling them at the opposite wall in a ragged clatter. In a holdover tradition from the Forsaran Navy, each dent in a sailor’s mug was a memorial to a crewmate lost. There had been no unblemished mugs in use for some time now.

‘Right, now t’ th’ next!’ Goose led the procession of scavengers topside, onto the small quarterdeck, past the pilot at the wheel, past Master Maxten who doffed his tricorn in commiseration, clutching it to his chest in one nut-brown hand, and onwards to the stern rail. Seamen paused in their duties, understanding the necessity of witnessing this sacred tradition.

‘T’ Njall we offer this gift, in memory of a one Jan Ordnol, such as he was denied t’ you by an untimely death on land!’ Goose bellowed at the uncaring sea. ‘Take it, you salty bastard!’

‘Take it!’ whooped observers and mourners alike as the former marine hurled Hawk’s mug into the sea with a faint splash.

A sailor’s relationship with the god of the sea was built on a mixture of mutual antagonism and respect in equal measures. Njall suffered such brazen trespass into his domain only if offered the appropriate gifts, but was still wont to throw up a rogue wave or three just to reinforce who was in charge, sometimes conspiring with his brother Hass, god of the wind and sky, to stir things into an almighty storm, or causing the same through a fraternal spat. The sailors, fully aware of this petulance, would respond with jeers and taunts. Come and get me, they would say, we’ll see who wins this round.

Tradition satisfied, seamen returned to work and the Scavengers milled around, individual thoughts lost in the roll and foam of the waves. One by one – or two in the case of the twins – they peeled away to find some corner on this tiny floating world where they could pretend to be alone. Aina’s spot was in the hold, her hammock strung between haphazardly-filled crates that were their spoils from this most recent cruise up the coast. She found the gentle rushing of the sea this far below the waterline and the soft clucking of the caged hens – kept for their eggs rather than their meat – soothed her as she tried to sleep.

She hung up her lantern on its hook, and clambered into her hammock with a practiced roll. Swinging gently, she reached for a third time into her bag to retrieve the most precious item she had found. It was another book, bigger than The Ballad, heavy with the weight of knowledge. It was bound in scorched leather and its title was sternly embossed in blocky text “Practical Thaumaturgy – The Revised Third Edition”... by Torbeon Savonet.

One hand stroked those words, bringing memories unbidden of a serious, bearded man, who could nevertheless always seem to find a smile to spare for his eldest daughter. Aina clutched the book, holding it tightly to her chest, curled up closely around it, and wept deep wracking sobs that were lost in the rushing of water and the clucking of hens.