Mercy leaned against the rails with one leg crossed, trying to look as inconspicuous as she could manage. Which, even she was willing to admit, was a tall order.

Anyone wearing a pistol and a cutlass stood out. Wearing weapons wasn't prohibited on the docks of the Roost, but it was far from common. The scar on her face seemed to attract eyes, only to make them turn away when she looked at them in turn. And among the Wayfarers of the Whiskeyjack clan, who called the Roost home, the raven feathers in her hat were a source of both ire and awe.

Among the Wayfarers, only a clan's Storykeeper wore the feathers of the bird the clan was named for. And the Wayfarers believed the raven was a cursed totem.

So being inconspicuous was uniquely challenging for Mercy at the moment. And as she watched her captain and friend speak with one of the most powerful men in Volante, she realized she had been made.

"For both our sakes, I hope this mission goes better than your last assignment," the commodore said, and Mercy flinched as she remembered those last days Vincent had spent in the Volante Navy. He had done an impossible, terrible thing, and the least important impact of his actions was to save Volante from a diplomatic incident that could have started a war. His reward; stripped of his commission and cast out of the navy.

And what the commodore said next left her seeing red, and had her reaching for her pistol. "The Admiralty is still sullen that your punishment was so light. There are admirals that wanted you put to a firing squad."

Once she did that, Commodore Nottle turned directly to her. His eyes lingered on the hand now wrapped around her pistol's handle, and his mouth stretched into a mirthful smile. But strangely, inscrutably, he nodded to her before he turned away.

As if he approved of her anger.

The commodore leaned forward and said something to Vincent she couldn't hear, stood up straight again and asked, "so, Captain Locklear, shall we haggle like a couple of Calmoori spice traders during a drought? Or can we come to a reasonable accommodation like officers and gentlemen?"

Vincent grinned, and set his left wrist against the handle of his sword. Mercy knew that grin, from every other time he had ever begun to act on a plan. She almost pitied the commodore. "I'm fond of spice merchants. They're refreshingly direct in their motivations," Vincent said, "First, I'll take half of what you made from the Merchant Marine for bringing me that window."

Mercy frowned at that. Whatever Nottle had made ferrying them the glass viewport for their new ship, it wouldn't be near what he ought to be able to get for this job. And judging from Commodore Nottle's expression, he appeared to agree with her. "That's a pauper's offer. I didn't know you were that desperate for work."

"That's an advance. I expect to be paid in Bankerloft Drachmas before I leave. I may need it in Drummond's spite, or to pay off someone who has information on the Sunward Matilda," Vincent said, and Mercy smiled in relief. "Now, from the Admiralty, I'd like forty-thousand drachmas. A promissory note is fine, to be paid upon reporting the job is as complete as it can reasonably be. I'm not becoming a grain ferry just because the Admiralty didn't like the news I brought."

"Forty thousand?" Commodore Nottle gasped and sputtered. "Might as well plunder the royal treasury. No officer is paid that much in a year."

"You're hiring a ship, and ships are expensive. You just don't notice because you have underlings who fuss over insignificant details like food, ammunition, sails, fuel, engine maintenance, crew wages, repairs, and Mercy's hat collection," Vincent replied, his grin widening as he wove the Commodore into his trap. Nottle, despite his savviness and long experience, had no head for the more mercantile aspects of running a ship. Which was dangerous when negotiating against Vincent, who seemed to know quite a bit about everything.

There was a reason for that. It was another story Mercy would likely never tell.

"Well, I imagine you wouldn't be trying to rob the Admiralty blind," Commodore Nottle said. He seemed reluctant to speak, as if he knew it was putting himself deeper into a trap.

"It's a low offer, frankly," Vincent said. Mercy tilted her hat down a little more to hide her smirk. Forty thousand drachmas was about a third of what it had cost to build their ship in the first place. "I could burn through all of that in a protracted firefight. And I'm offering the Admiralty excellent terms because there's something else I want."

Mercy tilted her hat back, and leaned forward. Even the Commodore seemed surprised. "What else?" Nottle asked.

"I want naval intelligence reports on piracy. And not the flowered-up versions you charge the Merchant Marine a fortune for. I want the ones the Admirals are given every couple of months, the ones with estimations of both goods and ships lost." Vincent said, his smile almost predatory as his trap snapped shut.

Commodore Nottle swallowed hard, and the look he gave Vincent would probably have cowed a lesser man. "That is a prize not every commodore in the Navy is given."

"I'm willing to accept the reports as a bonus for a favourable outcome. I have a job coming up where I'd like to be sure to avoid any form of trouble," Vincent admitted.

"I can agree to that. Two thousand drachmas now, Forty thousand Bankerloft drachmas upon completion, with a single year of intelligence reports if you keep the Sunward Matilda and her cargo from anyone else's hands." Commodore Nottle extended his hand.

Vincent shook it. "I accept those terms. My ship will set off in a few hours."

"Once that ridiculous window is installed, I imagine," Nottle replied, shaking his head. The motion drew his gaze back up to Idlewind, which made him shudder and jerk his head down to look at the deck.

Mercy smiled, enjoying his discomfort. But with the deal was settled, she decided to join them. She stepped past the Commodore, and stopped beside Vincent. "Even the wayfarers who don't live here find that sight unnerving, Commodore. You're actually doing better than most."

"Ah, Lieutenant Larkin," Nottle said, just as he took his bicorne hat and set it on his head. "The Admiralty was saddened to see you follow this scoundrel out of the navy. I can only hope your loyalty is deserved."

"I can only hope the Admiralty learned something about loyalty from my departure, Commodore," Mercy replied.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Vincent smile at her, and nod his head.

"Well said," the commodore murmured. He coughed, to clear his throat, and said, "I'll have your advance delivered within the hour. Happy hunting, Locklear. Mercy, lovely to see you." And with a tilt of his hat, he spun on his heel and marched away.

Mercy watched the commodore depart for a few seconds, before she turned to Vincent and slugged him in the shoulder. Despite the effort she put into it, he barely flinched, and his gaze was focused on something well out of sight. "You idiot. You've just tangled up with the navy again. Those blood-sucking parasites in the Admiralty will shove us into the lion's mouth the moment they gain something from it."

"True," Vincent agreed, but he wasn't fully engaged in the conversation. He was staring a the dome as the workers began riveting it to their new ship's hull. "But we need those reports. You know why."

Mercy nodded, and her thoughts went back to days spent sailing in an unnatural storm, and the things she learned after.

"I'll help the dock hands test the rivets, to make sure the seal on the window is secure. Why don't you go find Anita and Leslie? Make sure they're ready to leave soon, so that we can get this job over with," Vincent said. He chuckled, and added 'Leslie might appreciate having a job lined up so soon. He's been fretting over our finances a fair bit for the last few weeks."

"What finances?" Mercy asked, but she was already starting to walk away. "We're flat broke."

Vincent waved her off with an indignant swish of his hand. Mercy made for the end of the dockyard, thinking as she went about where she would find the others.

Her musings were interrupted by the sight of an older woman. Short, withered, hair the colour of pale ash, she stood in the middle of the walkway like an old tree after a storm. The woman had her hat tilted forward, to keep the sun from her eyes, and the plumage of grey feathers looked stunningly similar to the wing of a bird about to take flight.

Only one woman alive was allowed to wear those feathers. Tai'ik of the Far Faring Whiskeyjack, Storykeeper of their clan.

"Ah, Mercy," the old woman said, tapping her walking stick on the deck. "I was rather hoping to find you."

"Keeper," Mercy said, reverence in her tone. A Wayfarer clan's keeper was a position of extraordinary responsibility, as important in many ways as a captain of a ship. Seeing the old woman made Mercy distinctly aware of the raven feathers in her own hat. Aware, and uncomfortable.

Tai'ik pointed her stick at Mercy, gesturing to her head. "Don't you touch that hat, young lady," she snapped.

Mercy hadn't realized her hand was on the brim of her hat, let alone that she had taken it halfway off her head. She let go of it, and forced her hands down to her sides. "I just-"

"Either you don't think of yourself as a Keeper, or you don't think of your crew and ship as a clan," the old woman said.

"A bit of each," Mercy admitted, as she began to look at a truth she had been avoiding. "Perhaps a lot of both."

"Best you get over that in a hurry," Tai'ik said. The woman sighed, shook her head, and took off her own hat to examine it for a moment. "A Storykeeper carries the pride and purpose of the entire clan with her. You are not to be cowed by the imagined disapproval of one old woman."

"Sorry, ma'am," Mercy said. "I just don't know my purpose some days."

"Seems more like your clan's purpose you're not sure of."

"No," Mercy disagreed. "That I'm sure of."

"Then stand proud, and let them see those feathers. If your story is as strong as you claim, it will carry you through."

Mercy nodded. "Aye," she said. "And you said you were hoping to find me?"

"I was. There's a captain in my clan who was hoping to procure something from Vol Ayre, if you were heading that way in the near future," Tai'ik said. She frowned for a moment, as if she was unsure of how to ask.

"What is it?" Mercy asked.

"You might think it's trivial," Tai'ik said. "But this captain would like to procure a custom spyglass lens. Something big enough to help him look for the stars."

"The stars?" Mercy asked.

"I know, most folk under the sky, even many among the clans, believe they're a myth. But one of the stories I carry is that beyond the far skies, where the air is too thin to breathe, the blue of the sky dulls and sharp eyes can see distant specks of light," Tai'ik admitted. "It's been a dream of ours to change how we tell that story, from a legend to a triumphant discovery. One of the things this captain asked for were special lenses, to build a powerful spyglass."

"I see," Mercy said.

"Just if you happen to pass over Volante soon," Tai'ik said.

"I'll run it by the captain," Mercy promised.

"Ah, yes. Your captain," Tai'ik said. Mercy was surprised to hear the tone of disapproval in the old woman's voice. "Much like a Keeper, there are things he holds close. But where you and I hold stories, he holds secrets."

"That bothers you?" Mercy asked.

"It does. Reminds me entirely too much of the Monastery," Tai'ik admitted.

Mercy nearly gasped when she heard that. The Monastery was a cloistered institution that operated throughout the nations, recording history and old technology. They provided medicine and refuge to anyone they could. They also kept much of the history of the skies, and the secrets of old technology from long ago, to themselves.

And Mercy's captain had been raised among them. Eager to cover up her surprise, she asked, "any idea where I can find the rest of my crew? Anita and Leslie, I believe you've met them."

"I believe Leslie put himself in the boxing tourney. The final match started a couple of minutes ago," Tai'ik said.

"And Anita will be watching," Mercy concluded. The tipped her hat to the old woman, and moved to pass. "Thank you, Keeper. I'll ask about those lenses when we pass near Volante."

"Good to see you again, Mercy. And it's good to see you've found your wings," Tai'ik replied, with a short nod. Mercy turned away and walked through the dockyards, aiming for the way out and towards one of the theatres.

The dockyard crowds were sparser than usual. A handful of workers laboured on moored ships where there were usually dozens. Even the crews of the rescue ships, small skiffs meant to chase anyone who toppled off the side, were so sparse they could only staff a single vessel. Mercy thought it was strange, until she began to hear the thunderous roar coming from the arena up ahead.

Mercy walked through an open door to a swell of screaming cheers. A crowd of hundreds had thrown itself to its feet, tossing food and hats into the air. The chanting began to coalesce into a name, though not one she recognized.

"Evantes! Evantes! Evantes!" the hundreds of Wayfarers were shouting.

In the ring, the combatants were in the furthest corners apart, at the very edge of the square drawn in the dirt. In one corner, clearly the home crowd favourite, a lean young man was sporting several brand new red spots on his shoulders and chest, bleeding from one eyebrow, and soaked in sweat. He was being attended by a pair of older men, and one very nervous looking young woman.

In the other corner, standing alone, was someone who looked less like a man, and more like a statue of one. Calm, his breathing steady and slow, his neatly coiffed hair barely mussed, the dark-skinned man waited with a mountain's patience.

Mercy grinned, not at all surprised to see Leslie Madrigan in the ring.

It wasn't until Mercy was halfway up stands, that she could hear a mote of discord in the chanting. A counter-note to the support for the hometown hero, a woman who's clothes were a dozen different shades of grease stain was on her feet, her hands in the air. "Make this quick, Leslie! No one charged for admission, so don't feel like these fools need their money's worth!"

Mercy smiled at the sight. The last member of her crew. Their ship's engineer, Anita Hoffman.

"How many rounds have I missed?" Mercy asked as she stopped beside Anita, having no trouble finding an empty seat next to her. The loyalists of the Roost were polite, but they still gave the woman a fair berth. As if cheering for the wrong side might be infectious.

"Just one. The boy down there has a lot of heart, but Leslie is going to work him over like I overran that cargo skiff we had to haul back to Freeman's Hold," Anita explained.

"So six minutes before the boy's engine catches fire and torches fourteen crates of Olencian silk? Let's hope it doesn't end that badly," Mercy replied, as she settled down to watch.

"Relax, lieutenant," Anita said, pointing down at the ring. "It would take a miracle for that poor boy to beat Leslie."