"Wait, you gave those lenses away?"

Vincent felt it was fortunate that scotch wasn't a drink Commodore Nottle drank in volume. Because he only it it in small sips, a couple of quick coughs was all it took for the man to clear his airways.

"Afraid I had to, under the circumstances," Vincent replied. His childhood — in another one of those strange behaviours he had a hard time explaining after he was cast out — had reinforced the idea that drinking poison as recreation was bad for your health.

Of course, the stress of life was bad for your health. Vincent wouldn't begrudge a man a piece of flotsam in inhospitable skies.

"Do you know how much the artisans in the Vol Ayre Academies charge for lenses like those? That cargo might have been as valuable as your ship," Ezekiel Nottle grumbled, whetting his throat with another sip of scotch.

"The Hood, or the Ravens' Child?" Vincent asked.

"Either," the commodore said, with a shake of his head.

"How much would it have cost the Admiralty to admit to the Mercant Marine, the Crown, and the Emperor, that it had an outpost on the far side of the Shardwall, that they were using to spy on Olenica?" Vincent asked. "Your instructions, and by consequence mine, were primarily to ensure the cargo didn't fall into the hands of the Olencian navy."

"The ship did fall into the hands of the Olencian navy," the commodore replied.

"I doctored the logbooks and charts. As long as the navy gets their hands on Captain Preston before the Olencians do — and I like your odds on that count — there's nothing to confirm the presence of an island hidden by the sun. The navy should have enough time to evacuate and clean the island before the Olencians come looking."

"We have to abandon that outpost?"

"To do otherwise would be to assume Olencia's intelligence branchis stupid. And as our instructors were so fond of saying," Vincent began, stopping to let Nottle finish the thought.

"Never assume your enemy is stupid. But the Olencian Navy doesn't have an intelligence branch," Nottle said.

"You're right, their navy don't. It's attached to their academia, the 'Olentz'. Which frustrates both naval and magistrate intelligence to no end, since Olencia's spy service is even harder to penetrate than ours. You need military credentials, and then a career in academia to become a part of it."

"Why do you know that, Vincent?"

"I was in the war games program longer than you."

"I do remember the College Admiral being very fond of you," Nottle reflected. "So, in a few weeks the Olencians will know we were spying on them, but will have nothing to prove it. And you say the pirates that crippled the Sunward Matilda came from Drummond's Spite?"

"They have a..." Vincent stopped, and thought for a moment. "Let's call it a state-sponsored, unlicensed privateer fleet."

"You mean the Merchant Marine is funding pirates," Nottle said.

"Isn't that what I said?"

"We'll have to come down hard on them. If this went as poorly as it could have, it would have started a war," Nottle said. He frowned, and put his fingers under his chin. "I worry some in the Admiralty are hoping for exactly that."

"Well, if you need to come down on Drummond's Spite harder than you'd be able to normally, you'll have a pretext soon," Vincent said. "The island's about to have a breakout in Aventillian boysenberries. Someone over there has been smuggling them uncooked. Apparently just before I left, their who supply was bought up, and a careless ship dumped the whole lot while they were in flight. Spread eleven crates full of ripe berries all across the island."

"That was careless of some captain," Nottle agreed. "And we're treaty-bound to ensure the damn berries don't spread. Absolutely ruins the ecology of an island."

"Quite right. Though I have it on good authority the captain who 'accidentally' dropped the lot was careful enough to clean his ship before he touched down on another island," Vincent said. "And on a completely unrelated note, please don't enquire too closely about line fourteen on my expense report."

Vincent paused, considering what else to tell the commodore. "Also, I suspect the locals have been playing fast and loose with debt-repayment programs. The local constabulary might be helpful when it comes time to find embarrassing paperwork."

"Looks like my course for the next couple of months has been set," Commodore Nottle leaned back, and took another sip of scotch. He didn't look unhappy when he spoke. "And you're sure the Olencians have nothing but suspicions about this island?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Vincent could see a small group of people coming towards them. Two sets of feathers adorned two hats in the group; the cloud-grey of the whiskeyjack, and the raven's black. With them, the white and gold of Olenican navy officers.

"Even their suspicions will be slow to take flight, so long as you're unsurprised and gracious when we meet the Czarina and Whiskeyjack's Keeper for lunch," Vincent said. "Which appears to be happening now."

Nottle rose to his feet, and snatched his hat from the table. He put it on, smoothed out his coat, and waited in a pose halfway to being statuesque, with one leg flared out and his left hand resting against the pommel of his rapier.

When the foursome approached, it was to Tai'ik that Nottle chose to speak to first. "Lady of the furthest harbour. It is a pleasure, as always."

Of all the surprises Vincent had witnessed since this job had first started, this was possibly the most profound. Diplomats the skies over had trouble understanding the hierarchies and customs of the Wayfarers. Hearing Nottle manage the proper greeting a wayfarer captain owed the Keeper of the Roost, unprompted, felt like something had changed in the skies.

And in response, Tai'ik took off her hat. She held it in two hands, against her chest, and let the breeze take her grey hair back. "Commodore, what you've given us, it's..."

Nottle took off his own hat quickly, tucked it under his arm, and gave the keeper a short bow. "Not my gift, though I have the privilege of being able to offer it. And rest assured, if there is a string attached to this gift, it is only for a receptive ear," Nottle said. He paused, looking thoughtful for a moment. "Though, if you're willing, we'd like to hear the story if one of your captains finds what you're looking for."

"I don't think the clans have ever received such a weighty gift un looked for. This is a story I will tell. And should we find the stars beyond the thin air, I would be happy to tell you the story," Tai'ik replied, and gestured to the table Vincent had been sitting at. "Please, guests of the Roost, let me offer some proper hospitality."

"So, Captain Locklear. We meet again," Czarina Octavia Olen said. Her tone was nearly as mysterious as her half-smile, and both reminded Vincent of a cat having found her favourite mouse to hunt. "You're surprisingly true to your word, for a disreputable scoundrel."

"Even a scoundrel needs a reputation for consistency," Vincent replied, standing behind his chair. Military courtesy, an ingrained habit he was loath to relinquish, had him waiting for the Keeper of the Roost to take her seat, before he would take his. Mercy, across from him, was doing the same. As were both Nottle, and Captain Oal.

And so was the Czarina, a fact that brought a certain amount of shock from both Captain Oal, and Whiskeyjack's Storykeeper. "My dear," the old woman said. "There's only one member of any royal family here."

"As far as I know, the Wayfarers have no hereditary ranks. Only titles that come from responsibilities. Out here, I am the lowest ranked member at this table," Olivia said, and gripped the back of her chair as if she intended to hang on to it even if she was thrown off the dock.

Bemused, but beaming, Tai'ik sat down and folded her hands on the table. The others sat down, reaching for the cups left on the table. "Commodore. Nottle, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Czarina?" Nottle asked, as he poured himself another glass of scotch.

"Am I really expected to believe the Admiralty, and the Volante Crown, have no expectations of a quid-pro-quo for that gift?" Octavia asked. "Those lenses are a kingly gift. And kings are not given gifts, so much as they're plied with bounty for favours."

"The Admiralty's official position, is we hope Clan Whiskeyjack remains a receptive friend, as the years wind on," Commodore Nottle said smoothly, turning from the Czarina to Tai'ik as he spoke. "Not a lesson I needed. A single day here had me wondering if any place in the sky is as hospitable."

"And the crown?" Octavia asked mildly.

No, Vincent noticed, not mildly. Though she still sat at ease, as if doing little more than making small talk while drinking tea, her gaze was just a little too focused, and her movements a little too rehearsed, for her to be anything less than keenly interested in Nottle's answer.

So Vincent countered by removing what Octavia expected. "I can't imagine the crown could be allowed to be seen giving gifts. It might invite unwarranted suspicion."

"Quite right, Vincent. Quite right," Nottle said.

Octavia turned his way with a raised eyebrow, but a smile just a little too wide to be anything but genuine. "So, Captain Locklear, you should be happy to know the Sunward Matilda made it to port. We had to hand her off to the fourth fleet in Ardene in order to avoid losing sight of you. Though we noticed a few irregularities. The captain's cabin seemed to be missing a desk."

Surprise hit Vincent like a slap to the face. "That's odd. I remember sitting at that desk to review the captain's logs and charts. And I was still pulling the lenses out of the Matilda when your ship showed up. Whenever it went missing, it had to have happened after I left."

"Are you accusing the Czarina, or myself, of theft?" Captain Oal asked.

"No. There was a hole in the cabin. The local pirates were probably firing chain-shot. Then, I imagine when you towed the Matilda, you did it by the bow. At that point, a hard tug dropped it into the open sky," Vincent explained. "Shame about that desk, it was a beautiful piece of woodwork."

"That does seem more likely than having you steal it right under our noses. Even with our ship on fire," Captain Oal conceded.

"Your ship caught fire?" Commodore Nottle asked.

"My crew still swears no one did anything stupid," Captain Oal explained. "Apparently the aft running sail just caught fire on its own damn accord."

Mercy leaned back in her seat, and titled her hat down a little. But Vincent could see the grin on her face, even as her hand tried to hide it. It was a gesture Nottle also noticed, as did the Czarina.

"Something funny, Lieutenant Larkin?" The Czarina asked.

"Probably remembering having to drill marines on why lookouts should be posted on the hull and the lift bag, when in the far skies," Nottle interjected. He turned to Captain Oal, and tapped his finger on the table. "But missing that kind of thing happens when you're sailing with a third-rate captain."

"Second-rate. The Octavia's a second-rate ship of the line," Octavia insisted.

"In Olenica," Nottle added, with a smug smile.

"Keeper," Vincent said, looking at Tai'ik. "While we wait for lunch, would you favour us with one of the stories of earlier searches for the stars? Under the circumstances, it seems rather appropriate. And you'll rarely find a more receptive audience from the inner isles."

"I would be happy to, Wayfarer of the Ravens' Child," Tai'ik said, and began to tell a story of an expedition, nearly a century ago, of a ship named Tailchaser, fitted with two lift balloons full of air, that travelled so far into the thin air that the propellers couldn't bite the air to push the ship, and the sky turned as dark as it did when ecipsed by a storm.

Mercy listened with her familiar reverence, hands folded on the table. Nottle was leaning forward, one arm resting, and frowned in the parts he found strange. Captain Oal's attention seemed to wander at times, though he remained polite.

But Czarina Octavia Olen hung on the old woman's story like she clung to the last ship escaping a deserted island. Another surprise, Vincent admitted. A surprise, but not an unwelcome one.

The skies seemed a little less inhospitable, since the last time he left the Roost.