Well done, Mercy.

There were few constants in Vincent's life. The sky was blue and unforgiving. Pirates drank rum. Mass had gravity. And Mercy Larkin could be counted on in a pinch.

Somewhere beneath their ships, well out of not only sight but well beyond any direction most people who lived on one of the great islands would ever think to look, his lieutenant was holding the largest of Volante's spyglass lenses, and focused all the sunlight passing through it into a pin-sized point somewhere on the Olencian warship's hull.

Like using a magnifying glass on a sunny day to light a piece of paper on fire.

Smoke ribboned away from the warship's gun deck, and small tendrils of fire clung to the sails. Black smoke pooled into small spheres, in the strange way things behaved far from the gravity of the great isles, before the wind ripped the smoke bubbles apart.

"Sodden bilge-scum," Captain Oal cursed. "Corporal Bevlatch, get back aboard and sound the alarm! Have someone cut the sail loose and get a bucket brigade to start using our water stores. I'll be right behind you."

The corporal saluted, and ran as well as he could manage in the weak pull, haphazardly running across the deck and back to the gangplank.

Vincent very deliberately stepped backwards, his hands still in the air. "If your water stores are inadequate, captain, best sail your ship directly into the closest dark clouds you can find. And move your powder to the bow end of the lower decks, away from the engine where you usually keep it."

"How do you know where we keep our gunpowder?" Captain Oal asked.

"That's where everyone keeps it. Engine's the only thing on a ship that will reliably stop a cannonball," Vincent said.

"I'll keep your advice in mind," Captain Oal said, and without waiting for the Czaria, followed Corporal Blevatch back towards the ship.

Octavia reached down to the pistol at her waist, drew it, and pointed it at Vincent. "This doesn't change the fact that you're under arrest."

"Czarina, leave it. We need to go," Captain Oal said.

There was a time when having a gun pointed at him would faze Vincent. But like anything, one got used to it after a time. Vincent looked her in the eyes, and frowned. "Czarina, if you wish to make further enquiries about my business or this contract, I'll wait for you at Whiskeyjack's Roost for another week."

Vincent took a step forward, his hands still in the air. "Now, we both know you can't shoot me."

"Why not? You're resisting arrest," Octavia replied, though there was no confidence in her words. The gun in her hands was less held in her grip, and more rested in a hand that only barely held it, like someone's fading strength clinging to a rail.

"To execute someone during a negotiation, in front of your mentor captain and his crew, would ruin your reputation in the Olencian court. And it risks a diplomatic incident with both Volante, and the Wayfarers," Vincent explained, letting his voice fall softer with each step closer that he took to her. By the time he finished, he was close enough that none of the nearby marines or Captain Oal would risk supporting her efforts to have him detained, for fear of aiming at the Czarina.

"Do you have an alternative?" The Czarina asked.

Her gaze faltered, even if her pistol didn't turn away. She hesitated, biting her lip, teetering on the edge of a decision. A gentle push, or even a breeze, could decide which way she tilted. And to Vincent's own surprise, he gave her that push. "Come to the Roost," Vincent offered. "If I'm offering you lies, it won't survive a casual talk with the captains of Clan Whiskeyjack. I'd be ostracized from the Roost, blacklisted in Olencia, and hunted down by my old navy."

Octavia's eyes were cold and hard, as she studied him. Cold and hard and unreadable beyond that, like trying to glean what was behind a stone wall. Vincent was reminded, rather forcefully, that this was a woman raised to potentially become an empress. Eventually, though, she carefully pushed the hammer of her pistol back, and holstered it. "I expect lunch, when I arrive," she said.

"You'll have it. And if I can add a bit of something to smooth things over?" Vincent asked. He turned and gestured to his left, to the telescope still on the stand. "A gift."

Octavia raised an eyebrow and frowned at him, but her suspicion was belied by how quietly she spoke."Flattery to a princess?"

"No," Vincent said. "Gratitude. To a woman who gave credence to a Wayfarer myth."

Vincent wasn't prepared for how much he meant it. As much embarrassed as he was keen to take his ship and flee, he stepped back and turned to his ship. It wasn't until he turned to the gangplank leading to his ship, and seeing Leslie waving his arm, gesturing for him to hurry, that Vincent turned away.

He gave one last glance back as he crossed to the Child. Octavia was standing by the telescope. She had one hand on its widest part, near the lens, and was staring out at his ship. Perhaps at him.

"Hey, cap, is the lieutenant still out there?" Leslie asked, startling Vincent out of a paralyzing swirl of emotions he could make no sense of. He turned around, relieved to have something to focus on, and sprinted to the other side of his ship. He looked over the rails and down the side, to see the cargo bay door was still open.

"Not yet. Untie us from the Matilda, Mister Madrigan," Vincent ordered. "And have Miss Hoffman prep for a long run at full speed, with power to spare for unexpected manoeuvres."

"Aye, sir," Leslie answered, as Vincent pulled himself over the railing and walked down the side of the ship. A quick glance in the cargo bay, seeing the crate for the largest spyglass lens empty, confirmed Mercy's absence. He grabbed one of the anchoring ropes from a shelf near the cargo door, as well as a canister off the nearby wall, and walked back out.

He stopped at the ship's keel, fully upside down compared to standing on the deck. He could see some of the wisps of smoke from the burning Olencian warship, the undersides of both the warship and the Matilda. And on the Matilda's far side, Mercy floating towards him with a wide bundle of rope wound around a ball of distorted light.

Vincent tied one end of the rope around his waist, and the other to one of the anchoring points along the Child's hull. Once he was tied off, Vincent fixed his eyes on Mercy's drifting form, steadied himself, and jumped.

Panic sucker punched him, leaving him clutching at the canister in his hands and hugging it to his chest, gasping and heaving air. He clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, took deep breaths to try and calm himself, and touched the rope he was tied to.

The reminder that he was still anchored to his ship helped. Vincent managed to calm down enough that he could try and predict his drift, to ensure he would actually reach Mercy. His thoughts, focusing on calculations, let him return to his childhood for a moment, his classrooms. And for a moment, he could forget he was in free-float in the far skies. "Straight drift, wind's nominal. Aimed a little high, and a little left. Pass at fourteen feet a second, twenty second squeeze to match her velocity."

He turned the canister in his hands and pointed it in front of him, then tucked it against his chest. "Twenty second squeeze," he said to himself, gripping the handle.

Pressurized foam spat out from the end of the nozzle in long, thin line that stretched faster as the spray slowed him down. Mercy drew close, seemingly to slow as he first stopped his momentum, and then kept pace.

Vincent flailed for and clutched one of the ropes tied around the large spyglass lens, panting in relief. Three breaths in, and he felt a pat on his shoulder as Mercy climbed over him, and began to pull herself back to the child with the rope Vincent was tied to.

He wound the rope around his hands, and hung on as Mercy reached the Child, and began to reel him back in. Each tug felt like someone was loosening a vice over Vincent's chest, and his relief grew with each yard closer he drew to his ship, until he was smiling by the time his boots could cling to the hull again.

"You've never really taken to free-float," Mercy remarked, as she took the lens by the other end, nearly eight feet away. "Only time I've ever seen you enjoy it is inside."

"I might be the only wayfarer in the sky who prefers the ground," Vincent said. Mercy pulled, and began to lead them across the hull towards the cargo bay door. The walked off the hull, onto the cargo bay door, and guided the spyglass into the cargo bay.

Vincent left Mercy to the task, while he shut the cargo bay door and put the rope away. As she started to pull the glass to a stop above its crate, she turned back to him and added, "there are a lot of things among the Wayfarers, Vincent of Clan Ravens' Child, for which you are the only."

Mercy didn't use his last name. Vincent knew the omission was deliberate; both a reminder of where he came from, and where he was now.

"Only," Mercy added. "But you are not alone."

A reminder, of their shared history. Of their shared stories. "Thank you, keeper," Vincent said.

Mercy tipped her hat, and the raven feathers shimmered in the orange light.

Vincent turned to the speaking tubes. "Mister Madrigan."

"Yes, captain?" came the response through the tube.

"Cargo's secure, doors are closed. Get us in motion, I'm on my way to the top deck," Vincent ordered.

Mercy gave another small wave as he opened the starwell door, and said, "I'll be up once the cargo's secure, sir. But it'll take a lot longer if you try any fancy flying."

"No corkscrew spins or tumbling. Got it," Vincent agreed, waving goodbye before he went up the stairs.

The wind hit him hard as soon as he opened the top hatch, and he had to brace his feet in order to push the heavy door open. The wind was wet, almost rain, as it washed across the deck and speckled on his coat. He shut the door, clipped himself in, and made his way aft.

Leslie wasn't at the helm. The wheel was locked in place, but Vincent's gunner was at the rails, looking through a spyglass at the Olencian warship.

No, Vincent corrected himself, as he joined Leslie at the back of the ship. Not at the warship. A half-dozen white balls were descending from the skies above the Olenican ship, engines trailing white steam, and smoke nearly as black as the banners that waved behind them.

"The fire Mercy set must have drawn them. I think they hid in the clouds after we scared them off, and they're looking at that warship as if she were a crippled freighter," Leslie said, folding up his spyglass and giving a quick glance to the tarp covering the Banshee. "I wouldn't worry for the Octavia normally, but that angle of attack is exactly in their blind spot, above the ship's balloon. Rather doubt they have their lookouts posted, with everyone trying to put that fire out."

"I'd rather not add to the Czarina's interest in us by showing off the Banshee," Vincent remarked. "Better signal them."

"I can do one better," Leslie said, He snapped his fingers, and turned to a nearby storage trunk. When he opened it, he drew out over a dozen arm-length tubes, capped on one end, with a fuse on the other end. Each of the tubes was connected to a pole about seven feet long.

"Mister Madrigan, I don't remember you buying stick rockets," Vincent remarked.

"I know how you feel about them, which means I knew the answer already. So I skipped the part where I asked your permission," Leslie explained, as he set one of them against the rails.

"Those idiot things are useless."

"Like I said, cap. I knew what you'd say if I asked, so I skipped that part."

"We're not going to stop those rafts with your little rockets, especially at this range."

"We don't need to. But they'll veer away from the explosions, and they'll warn the Olenicans," Leslie countered.

"Fair," Vincent conceded, and he reached into his coat to take out his lighter.

Leslie handed him three of the rockets. Vincent set one against the rails, like Leslie, and aimed them roughly at the lead ship. Leslie was already lightning the fuse on the first, the wick burning away with a quiet hiss. Vincent managed to light his own, readjusted his sights, and waited.

Leslie's rocket flashed, spat black smoke, and threw itself into the sky. Grey smoke trailed behind it in an arrow-straight line for almost a second, before it started to turn in a wide spiral. It hissed and spun for a few more seconds, until it exploded in the air between the Olencians, and the descending pirates.

"See? Uselessly inaccurate," Vincent said, just before his own rocket went off. The second one did little better, spiralling in a wide arc and exploding in the open air.

They fired another two each, all of them ineffective. But even without looking through a spyglass, Vincent could see the Olenican marines climbing their lift balloon, finally seeing the descending pirates.

"They did their job," Leslie said.

The Olencian warship began to move. Not as nimble as the Child, or even as much as Vincent's old sloop, the ship was still impressively quick. The descending pirates were forced to turn to pursue, their speed only barely letting them keep pace with the much larger Octavia.

"They still haven't dealt with the fire yet," Leslie mused.

That, Vincent realized, might be deliberate. A minute into the pursuit, the Octavia turned to their left, carrying the smoke with them. But a few seconds later, the ship's starboard sails opened, the port side propellers stopped, and the ship began a hard and quick turn.

"Using their own smoke as a screen," Leslie said. "That's clever. I imagine Captain Romero's keen to impress his patron."

"I suspect the Czarina wanted to do more than run from the pirates," Vincent said. "Nobles tend to be enamoured with the sight of cannon fire."

"Speaking of suspicions, I don't that a bit of cannon fire is all the Czarina wanted," Leslie said. "The way she talked about irons and shackles had me worried we wouldn't see you again. I've heard stories of the pleasure palaces for the Emperor's mistresses, which has to have some truth to it, given the hundreds of children the man has."

Vincent coughed, and looked at Leslie wide-eyed. "What are you on about?"

"I'll hear that two, Leslie," Mercy said from behind them.

"Oh, our dashing airship captain just impressed a princess. Barely a five minute conversation in, and Vincent has her talking about clapping him in irons and taking him to a comfortable part of the palace," Leslie explained, laughing between every few words.

Mercy put a finger on her chin, and mused theatrically. "That's not how the tales of disreputable captains meeting princesses usually go, is it?"

"It's an enlightened age we live in," Leslie agreed.

"Throw yourself off the sides," Vincent grumbled, stepping past them to the helm.

"Captain," Anita's voice rang through the speaking tube. "I need to cycle out the boiler water. Could use an extra set of hands for it."

"Anita, you're my favourite," Vincent said. He turned back as he walked. "Mercy, switch us back to the bridge controls. Full speed for another half-hour, then drop us down to cruising speed. Mister Madrigan, once you've cleaned up on the top deck, would you make us something warm? Stew, or soup, if you can manage it in this weak pull."

"Aye, cap. And once you're done, I'll go over table manners at court functions," Leslie replied. Mercy laughed, at least of enough that Vincent only stopped hearing it when he shut the hatch and started down the stairs.

When he reached the engine room, the heat was so strong his face broke into a sweat. He had to take off his coat and hang it using a pin, before he put on a set of heavy leather gloves and joined Anita. "Miss Hoffman, what's wrong with the boiler water?"

"The filter they installed for the water isn't fine enough," Anita said as she worked. "There's more particulate getting into the boiler than we should have in there. I can change it, but I need someone to keep the outflow pressure balanced so it doesn't trip the safety and spray steam in my face."

"Easy enough," Vincent said, sliding a pair of goggles over his eyes, and reaching for a wrench.

"Also, while you're here, tell me about this Olenican princess you're going to marry," Anita said, with a musical laugh.

Vincent didn't answer, and judging by how his engineer was humming a Calmoori waltz as she diverted the excess steam pressure, she probably didn't expect him to.

"Only," Vincent said to himself, recalling what Mercy said. He pushed on a lever, to slow the rate the pressure gauge was falling at. "But not alone."