Ruins looming further up, Agata’s house was half-way to the peak of the mountain, next to the rippling silver thread of a stream, goats and chickens roaming freely inside a walled yard. Witchery, once the purview of hermits and dabbling alchemists, had found a new life in the age of science. Potions and herbs became pharmaceuticals, old-wives’ remedies were proven to work, and the witches’ magics, a third school set aside from Thaumaturgic and Divine known as “Seith”, was finally given due respect. Maintaining their traditional roles as community midwives and curers of minor ailments, modern witches also counted some of the medical and chirurgical arts in their repertoires, beside their wild herbs and rickety charms.

Agata was digging over her garden when Aina arrived, getting ready for her winter plants. The older woman looked up when the gate creaked open, squinting against the sun to make out her visitor.

‘Already?’ she said. ‘Y’only jus’ got ‘ere yes’erday!’

The Havnoy dialect was brusque and no-nonsense, much like those who spoke it. In as hostile and remote a place as this, where every part of the day was devoted to continuing your existence, why bother with unnecessary letters?

Aina could only grimace and nod as the witch ushered her inside.

Hands around the hot cup, Aina watched curls of steam drift up from the fragrant liquid, every sip warming her chest and stomach and incrementally settling the roiling within.

‘I put some chamomile in there for y’stomach,’ Agata commented as she bustled about, hanging bundles of herbs to dry and taking others down to grind in a pestle and mortar. ‘Y’ead though is y’own problem, might teach y’t’not be like this.’ She snorted. ‘If only either of us believed that. I were young once, too.’

Hundreds of these bundles hung from racks in the witch’s parlour, the ceiling lost in a sea of earthy green shades, more herbs sat powdered in hundreds of labelled jars on shelves around the walls, glittering in light that poured through the unshuttered window. Through a doorway opposite came the clattering of Mr Varlo in the kitchen making breakfast, whistling as he worked, and in one corner sat a small shrine to Thorec, god of healing and renewal. Trust in your abilities was key, but a little help never hurt.

Hunched over, watching the witch through bleary eyes, Aina nodded mutely. The noise was cutting right through her, especially that man’s damnable warbling.

‘Now, lass, tell me, if only t’sate m’curiosity. Why?’

‘Whuh-?’ Aina croaked, took a sip of the tea, then tried again. ‘Why what?’

‘Why d’y’keep doin’ this? Lettin’im mess y’around like this? Gods know ‘e’s ‘andsome-’ The kitchen noise stopped for a moment before quickly resuming. ‘-but tha’s no’ all y’need in life, an’ from what I’ve ‘eard about th’lad ‘e’s not goin’ t’give it t’y’.’

Why indeed? Companionship? The fun of it?

Shoulders hunched, arm pushing down, the scrape of stone against stone as Agata ground her herbs was an unbearable cacophony to Aina. Seeing her face, the witch’s eyebrows rose but she carried on about her business.

‘I don’t know...’ It was a terrible answer, though not entirely false. Sometimes one refrained from examining one’s actions for fear of the truths they would reveal. Better to live in ignorance and just “not know”.

Agata, typically, was not fooled for a moment.

‘Yes y’do. An’ better y’stop before y’catch a bab in y’belly, or somethin’ itchy for that ma’er.’

A grimace summed up Aina’s thoughts on the matter. Now wouldn’t that complicate things, a bastard child to a man who barely spoke to her.

‘Y’know I’m right.’ The witch brandished her pestle pointedly at her patient.

‘Yes, Madame Varlo,’ Aina muttered.

‘Louder.’

‘Yes, Madame Varlo.’

‘Good.’ Hands planted on the hips of a grubby wrap-around apron. ‘Now act like it. Y’r a smart girl, y’like y’r books. Should lend y’one about birthin’ or crotchrot, one wi’ th’detailed illustrations.’

Another grimace.

‘Then drink y’r tea and keep y’r britches up around th’mage.’

‘Yes Madame Varlo...’

A half hour later she was sat once again in the tavern, head thumping but stomach settled, with a hearty bowl of stew before her, surrounded by the living dead that was now the two Scavenger teams from Seacrow. Goose was snoozing upright, eyes closed and arms folded, and Grouse was lying, hair spread about, face in a sticky pool of ale on the table. It appeared she had been there since the previous night. Finch and Robin were picking glumly at the plate of eggs between them, Gannet was carefully sipping at a pint of watered-down beer, and Stork was still noisily puking into a bucket. Only Scops seemed none the worse for wear, but as Aina had never seen her touch a drop of alcohol fair was fair.

After not too long Alvard emerged, his clothes in uncharacteristic disarray and normally-neat hair a scruffy mess. He sat down next to Gannet and when his dark-rimmed eyes met hers he nodded politely and went about ordering some food. Thus had ever been the state of things before so why would they be different now.

The Scavengers were gathered out of necessity, awaiting the presence of their ship’s Commander who, either uncaringly or gleefully, had ordered the booze-soaked lot of them out of their rooms for a morning meeting.

‘Ye gods, what a sorry bunch you are,’ the man in question gruffly declared when he strode into the tavern. There was a faint twitch to his beard; he was enjoying this.

There was a dull shuffle of activity around the table as eight people groggily tugged their forelocks in salute – even Goose had instinctually awoken at the arrival of his superior officer. Grouse, however, remained unmoving.

‘Is she dead?’ asked the Commander, pointing at her recumbent form.

A swift kick to the shin from Alvard jerked the woman awake with such a startle that she pitched backwards off of the bench to lie sprawling on the floor. A faint groan from down below confirmed that Grouse was indeed still amongst the living, if perhaps regretfully so. A moment later she scrambled back onto the bench, mutely grabbing the bucket from Stork.

‘Now that you are all here,’ Ulstea began over the gagging squawk of fresh vomiting, ‘We have a matter to discuss.’ The Scavengers shuffled a bit more upright in an effort to look like they were capable of paying attention. ‘With the death of seaman Ordnal there’s an opening amongst the Scavenger teams. Normally on the death of a sailor I would have the quartermaster just grab a new one from the lubberly lot clamouring to get a spot, but seeing as this is your special business I will make it your special responsibility to find a replacement. Subject to my discretion, of course.’

He looked about the grim array of faces and shook his head before leaving them to their sorrows. There was then a long silence punctuated only by hurl-and-splatter until Goose rumbled a hoarse ‘In af’ernoon’. Most of them returned to bed, only Grouse remaining in place, head back on the table, bucket clutched under one arm.

Carefully, Aina prised the foul-smelling vessel away, threw the slops, and replaced it, making sure to give her face a quick wipe with a damp cloth and tie her hair back. Just a few years older than her, Grouse had always been kind, as true a friend as any could be counted amongst a fighting crew.

Sitting back with her stew, Aina pulled a face at the resemblance to the bucket's contents and, driven forth by a rumbling in her stomach, began to eat.