The shipyard of Whiskeyjack's Roost hung in the sky like a kite at the end of a chain, a hundred miles up.

Standing on the weatherworn deck of the Roost, Vincent Locklear stared up at the island of Idlewind below them. As the island spun, it flung the Roost with it, like swinging a bucket of water on a rope. The artificial pull of the Roost's imitation gravity wasn't quite perfect, it always felt like standing on a slight slope.

Nevertheless, the Roost was one the marvels of the skies; the only Skyharbour in the Endless Blue. The Pride of the Wayfarer Clans, a feat that dared the nations of the great isles to imitate it, and a boon to any traveller of the far skies.

It was a marvel that Vincent's guest didn't seem to appreciate.

"It's unnatural," Commodore Ezekiel Nottle said. The commodore was glaring up at Idlewind, his derision all the more convincing as he stood in his formal navy blues: clothes and hat dyed the nearly black blue hue of a gathering storm, replete with gold trim and silver buttons that gleamed in the light.

"If you stay long enough, it becomes second nature," Vincent replied. The skies around the Roost could be an unnerving sight for anyone accustomed to the comforting pull of solid ground. "And if anything, the pull you're feeling here is at least as strong as it is back in Volante."

"Why couldn't these vagabond build a port on the ground, like a civilized nation?" Commodore Nottle asked, finally turning his gaze from the sky as he waved his arms about. The gesture, and the voiced contempt, caught the attention of a few of the dockyard workers, who stopped what they were doing to listen.

Vincent flinched, as if he was the subject of the commodore's contempt. Nottle was a Volantian noble by birth, who paid for his commission through his family's wealth. Everything about the man, from his mannerism and accent to the shine of his silver buttons stung Vincent like salt being rubbed into a partially healed wound.

Men and women who spoke and acted like Commodore Nottle had stripped Vincent of his commission cast Vincent out of Volante's navy.

Vincent took a slow breath, to school his response. It wasn't wholly successful. "Rather suspect no one but these 'vagabonds' could have conceived of a Skyharbor. And it has its advantages."

Vincent pointed to a ship at the other end of the wharf. A small Wayfarer skiff, barely forty feet long, tied to a white canvas balloon just as long as the ship. The pilot at the wheel was waving to a small crew of dock workers standing at the edge of the wharf. At that signal, one of the workers swung a sledgehammer, smashing it into a wooden peg as large as he was. It knocked the peg down, and the wooden arms holding the ship in place swung to the side.

The ship plummeted, the deck dropped out of view, and before Vincent could do more than blink, so did the ship's lift balloon. He stepped to the edge of the wharf, leaned over the rails, and pointed down at the ship now flying through the open skies below, making sure Nottle was able to track the departing skiff. "A ship can be at speed in seconds, once it's launched," Vincent said.

"It has its uses. I can see as much," the commodore said. He waved his hand dismissively, and tucked his bicorne hat under his arm. But his eyes were wide, and he was nodding thoughtfully to himself.

Vincent knew the commodore's words for the lie they were. Nottle, like most of the admiralty, had no appreciation for the advantages of a sky-bound shipyard. Of every port under the sun, the Roost would be the hardest to seize in an open conflict. Controlling the air above was impossible, since these yards were already in the open sky. The guns on the docks had the same range as any approaching vessel, and dozens of their own ships could be put into action in minutes.

Vincent, unlike Nottle, had been invited to take part in the Admirality's war games, before he had been cast out.

For his own sake, Vincent turned and pointed back at the ship they were standing near, hoping to redirect the commodore's attention. "I'm surprised to see you come all this way, just to deliver that dome. I didn't expect a Merchant Marine job to be taken up by one of Volante's biggest warships. You've become the talk of the Roost."

Nottle didn't respond for a moment, as both of them stared at the glass dome being lowered by a team of workers. The dome was two storeys tall, segmented by a brass frame so it resembled a spider's web being pulled by the wind.

"I've noticed I've made a bit of a stir around here." The commodore scowled and glanced around, as if afraid of being overheard. "My crew have been hosted at three different feasts since we arrived. I've nearly emptied my personal stores of Osperis Scotch to thank various captains and harbour masters. Too much longer and I'll have to make the trip home sober."

Vincent smiled at that, a faint zephyr of pride blowing through his frosty opinion of the Admiralty. Whatever he might think of the people who cast him out, Volante's officer court valued civility to a degree that could shame kings.

"Nonetheless, I think I might keep the Interdiction here for a couple of weeks," Nottle mused, in a tone as light as someone mulling over his choices for lunch. "It's a good chance for the crew to practice sailing in the far skies. We're rarely beyond the pull of Volante, or another great isle."

The commodore's off handed announcement prompted a nervous tick in the back of Vincent's thoughts. Nottle's ship, the Interdiction, was a 'first rate ship of the line', one of the largest ships in the skies. It had at least eight hundred sailors crewing it, possibly as many marines, a hundred cannons, and more blasting powder than most mining firms would use in a year. Commodore Nottle's ship was utterly incapable of going — or staying — anywhere lightly.

"So, Mister Locklear," Commodore Nottle said, in that deliberately nonchalant way that made Vincent think of a cat playing wth its food. Vincent cringed at the insult of not being addressed as a Captain, and wasn't entirely prepared for the commodore's next question. "How is your ship progressing?"

Vincent's gaze was pulled by the question towards his new vessel. The glass dome was about to be riveted to a metal ship unlike any other in the sky. The gull was gleaming grey steel rather than wood, a hundred feet long from the glass dome at the bow, to the four massive propellers at its stern. Vincent smiled in pride, and admitted, "you brought me the last part. The Ravens' Child will be ready to sail in a few hours."

"That is fortunate," Commodore Nottle said, and Vincent could almost hear the trap he was now caught in snapping shut. "My own particular needs may just align with your availability. Tell me, have you been chartered yet? Has anyone willingly paid to board that absurd tin can you'll be sailing in?"

"You have a job for me?' Vincent asked, feeling a wariness so profound he had to force his hands away from his weapons. The Commodore and his warship did nothing idly, and the reason he was so far from the skies of Volante might just be this job offer.

And it might not be an offer, so much as the kind of request that could not be refused.

"I'd like to think of it less as gainful employment, and more as returning a favour. For delivering that dome for your ship."

"Favours don't feed crew or buy fuel. And if I know you from a deck beam, you've already charged the Merchant Marine quite a lot to handle this delivery for them," Vincent retorted.

Nottle frowned, and ran his fingers through his beard. "When did you get so pedestrian, Vincent?"

"When the Admiralty stopped covering my bills," Vincent retorted. "Now, I won't say I'm against taking the job. But that might change if I don't like what I hear."

Out of the corner of Vincent's eye, he could see someone moving through the distant crowds. Careful to avoid drawing close, the woman had her hat partially tilted to cover her face. But from the cascading plumage of raven feathers in her hat, to the coal-black coat, and the scar that cut across her lip and down to her chin, Vincent would recognize the woman in any crowd.

Mercy Larkin. His first officer, second oldest friend, and — asides from the colour of the sky — the greatest single constant of his life.

Vincent grinned, and turning his back to Mercy, held up his hand in a signal telling her to keep her distance. To help keep the commodore from noticing, Vincent moved to keep Nottle's attention. "So, care to tell me what this job is about, or are you going to stand around and insult my ship until the sight of Idlewind makes you vomit?"

Unable to help himself, Nottle looked up at Idlewind again, and shuddered. "I won't ask for a fixed price in advance, but I insist you agree to the job," the commodore said. "The fewer people told about this, the better. We can negotiate your enumeration in good faith after you agree."

That was not an offer Vincent would have accepted from a captain of the Merchant Marine. Or, frankly, from most anyone he knew. But from a commodore in his old service, he was willing to take the risk. He extended his hand to Nottle. "We have an accord."

Nottle smiled a rather more genuine than anything Vincent had ever seen on the commodore. It resembled, if anything, the relief of a man finally putting down a heavy load. "A Merchant Marine sloop, the Sunward Matilda, went missing a few days ago," he said, as he shook Vincent's hand. "She missed her expected check-in at Drummond's Spite. I was sent to find her, but there is a possibility her course has lead her into skies close to Olencia."

Vincent nodded, understanding. "You can't take the Interdiction that close to Olencia. Not without starting a war."

"My ship is the Interdiction, not the Inconspicuous," Commodore Nottle admitted.

"This Sunward Matilda, your missing Merchant Marine vessel, who or what is she carrying that they'd ask you to find her?" Vincent asked, musing aloud more than expecting an answer from the commodore. "Smuggling arms for corsairs picking off Olenican traders? Perhaps the cargo is an investment made by the Monarchy? What am I sailing into, Nottle?"

"Let me put it this way," the commodore said, leaning in as if his next words were the only ones he didn't want to be overheard. "The Admiralty would be relieved to hear this job was being handled by someone who understood the need for delicacy. Particularly the need to ensure the purpose and destination of this ship isn't revealed to Olencia."

Vincent took a step towards the commodore, deliberately standing just a little too close. "You need to stop finding polite ways of avoiding an answer, Nottle. You're compromising the mission before I've even left the shipyard."

"I bloody well know that!" Nottle shouted. He stomped his foot and spun about as if he were looking for something to hit. "The Admiralty didnt deign to inform me. Just that the cargo must be retrieved, as well as the charts and officer logs."

Nottle's revelation was a shock, silencing Vincent's budding anger. To leave someone as important as the commodore in the dark was deeply unsettling. Against his better judgement, he abandoned his inquiry. "It wouldn't be the first time I took an assignment while the Admiralty left me blindfolded."

"For both our sakes, I hope this mission goes better than your last assignment," Commodore Nottle remarked, his tone glib and his mouth twisting into the familiarly arrogant noble sneer. Loudly, the commodore added, "The Admiralty is still sullen that your punishment was so light. There are admirals who wanted you put to a firing squad."

With a quick turn of his gaze — while keeping his head still — Vincent looked to see Mercy dip her hat a little lower, covering everything but the angry twist of her lips. More concerning, however, was the hand now resting on her pistol.

Commodore Nottle was looking Mercy's way, and with a sweep of his hat, gave her a short bow. "I see Lieutenant Larkin still hasn't left you for fairer winds. Poor girl," the commodore said, in that same slightly-too-loud tone that suggested he was trying to be overheard.

Nottle leaned towards Vincent, and quietly said, "There are also admirals who mean you well. They should be pleased to hear you are handling this situation for us, Captain Locklear."

It occurred to Vincent that no matter how little he might like Commodore Nottle, it wasn't nepotism that put him in command of one of Volante's mightiest weapons.