An almighty gale was blowing in off the open ocean to the north-west, mostly blocked by the shielding mountain but still powerful enough to be felt as it visited the knot of cold figures down in the bay, tugging playfully at loose hair and clothing, and twanging musically through the taut rigging of Seacrow tied to the wharf, bringing with it a scent that threatened salt and stone.

Ulstea had turned out in his most imposing finery, the richly-furnished tricorn and fine oilskin cloak both hold-overs from the old days, his sword affixed at his left hip as always. His face was stern and unreadable as he cast his gaze across the two recruits, Brother Ole unabashed as the previous night but Jenta now seeming nervous and vulnerable under this implacable scrutiny.

‘So why did you decide to come with us, hey?’ he demanded of the priest. ‘What made Otter an unsuitable posting?’

Ole shrugged. ‘Didn’t like the smell.’

‘What?’

‘The smell. Commander likes his lyefish. Whole ship stinks of it.’

Ulstea was agog at such a mundane and pernickety explanation, and the Scavengers likewise broke discipline to stare at the priest. Such things were his prerogative, however, and by ancient law there was not a person alive who could presume to command a representative of the Pantheon. Fortunately for history, the rule also worked both ways.

‘And why come aboard my ship?’

‘It gives me a use,’ the priest admitted. ‘A purpose that is uniquely suited to the gifts of my god.’

A quiet nod showed the Commander was happy enough with this explanation.

‘What about you, girl? What drives you to sea?’

‘Nothin' so profound, commander sir,’ Jenta explained. ‘Prospects’re limited ‘ere, ‘specially since Th’End, so th'best I got would be t’marry Atel f’r’is flock of sheeps.’ That defiance was back. ‘This seems lots better.’

‘Lots more dangerous too,’ Ulstea pointed out.

‘Nothin’ worth doing i'n’t.’

‘Quite.’ The Commander’s beard twitched and he turned to the Scavengers. ‘I shall get Lars to put her on the roll and issue kit but it is up to you mob to name her and square her away.’ He turned to clomp up the gangplank onto his ship. ‘Brother Ole, follow me and I shall appoint you quarters.’

The tradition of naming the Scavengers after birds had started with Goose, whose moniker had been in place since the old days, an allusion to his grey “plumage” and cantankerous facade. When the rest of them had formed around him, they quickly adopted their own names based on traits seen by the other members. Sparrows were the helpers of Frona, goddess of knowledge, and so Aina had earned that name from her hunt for books and the like. Scops was small and owlish, Gannet had a penchant for gastronomy, and Stork was unusually tall. Grouse had hair the colour of her namesake and Finch habitually wore yellow waistcoats the colour of a goldfinch. Robin, however, had earned her name by being unexpectedly aggressive. Hawk, Lunn devour his soul, had owed his name to good eyes.

Names were carefully considered and with a new name they could slip into their new lives, their roles, separating their sense of self from the incredible danger they faced. True names were reserved when appealing to the person, not the Scavenger.

‘Any contributions t' th’ naming o’this one?’ Goose asked the group.

‘Tern?’ offered up Stork.

‘Gull?’ Robin suggested, forcing Aina to grimace, remembering the bird in Viocoumen that had caused her and Grouse such a fright. Its mocking laughter still echoed in her head. It was a firm negative from both of them.

‘Albatross?’ Alvard shrugged.

‘Better not.’ Goose shook his head.

‘Puffin,’ Aina put forward. ‘The buggers somehow get themselves up sheer cliffsides, so why not suchlike for this one?’

‘Ooh, I like that one,’ Sera nodded. ‘I second Puffin.’

Goose made a show of thoughtfulness, scratching his stubbled chin and staring at the scudding clouds above.

‘Aye, that might work,’ he said. ‘Any opposed?’

‘Still like Tern...’ Stork muttered, only to be soundly ignored by everyone.

‘We have it then,’ Goose announced. ‘Puffin it is!’ He rounded on the girl in question. ‘What say you to yur new name, Puffin?’

‘Aye, sir!’ she replied enthusiastically, sea-blue eyes shining.

‘Good!’ he clapped her on the shoulder, making her stumble slightly. ‘Whenever we are about Scavenger business you will only be referred to by this name and likewise you shall only refer to us by ours, savvy?’

‘Aye, sir!’

‘Good!’

There was a silence as Goose took in the milling Scavengers, the looming ship with its bored audience of idle sailors, and the rough beauty of the island around them.

‘Sir?’ Puffin ventured.

‘Hmm?’

‘What now?’

‘What now?’ Goose repeated. ‘Can someone tell our newest bird what it is we do ashore!’

‘We train!’ Finch piped.

‘We drink!’ Grouse intoned.

‘And we forget for a time the world ever ended!’ the ex-marine rounded off the list, prompting a ragged cheer from the sailors, who were instantly shouted away from the rails by Maxten. ‘Come on you lubbarly lot, let’s put our newest recruit to th’ test.’

A chorus of unenthusiastic groans emitted from the Scavengers as Goose set off at a jog through the town, more for the sport of complaining than any real ill feeling. It was only through the man’s constant drills that they had been able to mesh as a team, hone their skills and instincts, and by extension have managed to survive for so long.