Anita was still humming, even after two hours at her post.

Vincent could hear it through the speaking tube, even over the drone of the Child's engines. It sounded like a waltz, though sped up quite a bit, as Anita was keeping her tune in time with the churn of the pistons.

And Leslie still had a happy grin on his face, though he wasn't interested in explaining why. But whatever the motivation, it kept him focused on his task, so that the Child's only cannon had been checked-over three times since they had left Drummond's Spite.

"Mercy," Vincent called out, as he locked the wheel in place. He looked up, to see his lieutenant hanging upside down on the ballon's rigging, her feet pressed into the canvas as if she were standing on it. "Take over at the helm. I'd like to test-fire the Banshee once or twice."

There were several plumes of black smoke snaking out into the distance, and the occasional quiet roar of large guns. Still too distant, and too quiet, to tell much more about what was happening. Mercy pushed-off from her perch on the balloon, and floated down to the deck. She clipped-in, spun on the safety rails, and planted her feet so that her magnetic boots gripped the metal deck.

Once she swapped-in, Vincent took his clips in hand, and made his way aft. Normally recessed into the ship, the Child's only cannon was now raised up fully, its turntable now flush with the deck. It's twenty-two foot long barrel was painted white and blue, to camouflage its peculiar size. The rest was gleaming black steel, and Leslie already had the breach open.

Leslie was reassembling a set of gears off to the side, part of the turntable that the Banshee sat on. He kicked one last wheel into place, pulled a lever, and beat his chest triumphantly when it started to turn. "I've been itching to fire this bit of whitchcraft out for a while, Captain."

Witchcraft, Leslie called it. Because it was the Monastery that had furnished this weapon for them. An application of sciences unknown to anyone else under the sky, it meant that while every navy and pirate fleet was using muzzle-loading guns firing balls of iron, the Banshee fired seventeen pound shells, some of which exploded when they hit something.

"You remember your artillery school training?" Vincent asked, as he reached into the tool pouch at his thigh, and ran his fingers over both of the spy glasses inside. He felt the second one, the one he hadn't used since his last days in the navy, and pulled it out.

"Aye, cap," Leslie replied.

"Load solid shot," Vincent called out, quite a bit louder than he needed to. The way he had been trained. He unfolded the spyglass, but didn't look through it yet. The hard clang of banging metal to his right, the sight of a gun barrel, and for a moment, Vincent could almost see himself wearing his navy blues again. He scowled in disgust and waited for Leslie.

"Solid shot loaded, gun's hot," Leslie shouted. Like Vincent, quiet a bit louder than he needed to, as he had been trained.

"Our target, four o'clock level, island roughly two miles out, barefaced rock," Vincent said, and he put his spyglass to his eye. His second spyglass had a series of markings on the outer lens, lines in increments accompanied by numbers arranged in increasingly complex patterns. "Aim for centre mass."

"Confirm target, barefaced island, four o'clock level," Leslie answered. "Centre mass, sights on."

"Adjust three notches left for ship speed, one notch up for island drift."

"Three left, one right," Leslie said. "Adjustments made."

"Fire." Vincent lowered the spyglass, and kept his eyes on the drifting island.

And the Banshee howled.

A second sun appeared at the edge of his sight, sudden and violent and bright. It seared the edge of his sight just as the gunshot's blast punched him in the chest, nearly knocking his boots off the deck. His ears cut out for a moment, only hearing about half of the thundercrack the gun made.

Vincent started to count the seconds in his head, even as Leslie started to laugh. "Blind me, captain. That gun has some kick. The monastery mechanics weren't kidding about the muzzle flash, I'm going to have to get in the habit of firing with my eyes closed."

Vincent held up his hand, partially to silence Leslie. But he also had his thumb tucked in, and a second later, tucked in a finger. Then another.

Two.

One.

Exactly as he tucked in his index finger, the shot they fired struck the island like a lightning bolt. A small cloud of dust erupted into the air, holding in a tiny mushroom shape for a moment until the wind stretched it out like toffee.

"Yes!" Vincent cheered, throwing his hands up into the air. He was halfway to jumping, before he reconsidered because of the difficulty he might have getting back down. Leslie clapped him on the shoulder, and they both started laughing as if they had just seen the funniest thing in the world.

"Damn the world, cap, that gun's a marvel," Leslie said, moving his mouth surprisingly widely for how quietly he was speaking.

"That island's three miles away, and we could write your name on it with this gun," Vincent explained, his voice oddly quiet in his own ears. He gestured excitedly, with both arms.

"Do we have time?" Leslie asked.

"No, you don't," Mercy said from behind Vincent. She stepped past him, and dangled a pair of earmuffs in front of Leslie. "There's a ship coming towards us. And would you two little boys quit shouting? I can't hear the wind or the propellers over the two of you sounding like you just realized birthday parties have cake."

"Birthdays come with cake?" Vincent asked, smiling a winning sort of smile. He had meant his glib response idly, hoping to make light of the moment. Leslie laughed, but Mercy's frowned deepened, and there was something in her eyes he wasn't expecting.

Sorrow.

"There are always layers to anything you say, captain," Mercy said. "Even when you think you're being glib. Makes me worry what would inspire that insipid comment."

Something cold passed through Vincent, even though the wind was warm. He fixed Mercy with a hard stare, and his lieutenant flushed and nodded apologetically, with a quick glance towards Leslie.

"You think he never had a proper birthday cake? I'll remedy that," Leslie offered.

Vincent had force his face to avoid showing how relieved he felt. "I'll take you up on that, Mister Madrigan. Something to celebrate our first job, I think. Mercy, were you saying something about an approaching ship?"

"I was. Eleven o'clock low, it turned towards away from us as soon as you fired that test shot," Mercy said, pointing to the left of the bow. Vincent marched to the side of the ship and unfurled  his spyglass.

It was easy to spy the ship Mercy was pointing at. A slip; small ship perhaps a dozen feet long, with a bottom deck that was almost all engine. Slips were meant for fast sprints, often used by larger ships as lifeboats or escape vessels.

"Mister Madrigan, we aren't flying colours. That should be remedied. Volante's colours would be appropriate," Vincent said, as he stuffed his spyglass back in his pouch. "Mercy, signal them. Tell them we're on assignment from the navy, and we're looking for the Sunward Matilda."

"Aye, cap," Mercy said, already turning to her task. Leslie acknowledged the order with a quick salute and used the rails to pull himself along the deck, lifting his feet so that he could glide.

Vincent returned to the wheel, and turned the ship to chase the fleeing slip. "Miss Hoffman," Vincent said, facing the nearby speaking tube. "Prep for regular use of the main propellers at full speed, with intermittent use of the peripherals."

"Aye, cap," Anita said. There was a short pause, before she added, "did someone say something about cake?"

"It's hard to shovel fuel when you're standing so far from the furnace," Vincent replied. As he spoke, he took a lever to the far right, and slowly pushed it down until it was parallel with the deck. "All ahead full, Miss Hoffman."

Flying always felt a little strange in the weak pull of the far skies. The push of the propellers didn't rock the boat in the same way, you ended up sliding in your magnetic boots as the ship tried to leave you behind. And too much headwind could leave you dangling in the air, as the wind caught your clothing and treated you like a kite in the wind.

Even a slow, plodding barge could do that to a sailor. And the Child was not a slow ship.

The surge in speed yanked at Vincent's coat, pulling the tails out less like a jacket and more like a cape. His eyes watered, forcing him to slip on a pair of googles from his tool pouch. He had to lean back, and let himself rest against his anchoring clips, because it was becoming harder to keep himself upright against the wind. But his hands were steady on the wheel as they pursued the fleeing slip.

Mercy had climbed halfway up the rigging, and had drawn her cutlass to use the sun's reflection to signal the other ship. Which, Vincent understood, made it easier to send a clear signal, but also looked like you were waving weapons around.

It was a sentiment the crew they pursued seemed to share. Vincent grinned, smiled, and finally laughed as he read the other ship's response. "Choke on your own pustules, pirate scum."

"I might take that personally, captain," Mercy shouted from the bow. "Reckon I don't dress flamboyantly enough for piracy."

"As if piracy were ever profitable enough to afford my ship," Vincent agreed. "Let's try a different tactic. Tell them to turn off their engine, or we'll do it for them."

"Aye, cap. Though I think that'll only inspire them to fly faster," Mercy warned.

"Fair," Vincent agreed, and he turned the wheel to his right. The ship turned, just a little, so that their quarry was beginning to pass on their left side. Vincent unfurled his spyglass and examined the fleeing slip. "Mister Madrigan, the prow of that ship appears to have an ornamental figurehead on it. Some tacky carving of a scantily dressed woman. It's a such a bad cliche it hurts my eyes."

"Does that mean I can use the explosive shells?"

Vincent paused before answering. "No. Mercy, have they increased their speed?"

"They have, cap."

"Tell them I'm going to decapitate their masthead, and my second shot will go through their engine block. Mister Madrigan, do you need me to spot for you?"

"I'll be fine, captain," Leslie answered.

"When you have the shot, take it," Vincent ordered.

He barely finished his sentence before the Banshee howled. Like last time, the flash was like a second sun appeared in the horizon behind him, and force of the displaced air nearly shoved him out of his boots' grip on the deck. Even Mercy, at the other end of the ship, felt obliged to put a hand on her hat to keep it in place. Vincent had just enough time to recover and look at their quarry, before the prow of the ship shattered like a sliver being hit by a hammer.

"I'm getting a message," Mercy announced. "Cutting engines. Will surrender."

"Good." Vincent eased off the propeller's speed, and turned the Child back to pursue the now idling slip. "Reducing to cruising speed, Miss Hoffman."

True to their word, the now prowless slip listed, drifting in a slow corkscrew spin, its propellers twirling idly as the blades caught the breeze. The Child devoured the distance in minutes, until Vincent began to turn their ship to come alongside.

Several people were already waiting on the top deck, with a long plank of wood in their hands. Leslie moved to the side of the ship, and stretched his hands out just as they began to lower the plank down to him. He caught it, and used the hooks on the bottom of the wood to hold it against the rails.

Mercy, in the meantime, jumped over the rails and walked down the side of the Child with several ropes in her hands, tying them to rigging points along the hull. She secured one, then leapt across the narrow chasm between the two ships, and tied the rope to a rigging point on the slip.

Vincent set his long clip on the rail, and stepped up onto the plank. He matched his steps with the metal sheets attached to his improvised walkway, and stepped along until he was halfway across. Then he waited.

The gesture was known in the skies as 'Navigating the Narrows', where the captains of two ships would meet in the air between their vessels to negotiate. It was principally a naval custom, but unless the crew of the Sunward Matilda was new to sailing, it was a custom they should recognize.

Sure enough, a neatly-dressed woman stepped up to the plank, dusted off her coat, and crossed the distance towards him. "This is an odd place to accept our surrender," she said, in a voice that carried easily over the wind. A voice used to giving orders. "And I'm afraid we don't have much in the way of valuables."

Vincent laughed. "I'm afraid that's not the kind of trouble you're in," he said, and extended his hand. "Captain Vincent Locklear, of the Ravens' Child. We were hired by the navy to check-in on you."

"The Ravens' Child? Doesn't sound like a navy ship," the woman replied, but she shook his hand. "Captain Ivalade Preston, formerly of the Sunward Matilda. Rather doubt there will be much left of that ship soon."

"How long ago did they catch up with you?" Vincent asked.

"About three hours. We only launched the Lady Light when they got a lucky shot in at the propeller base," Captain Preston said. "We fixed the sails and ran the ship at full speed, then evacuated. Hopefully those damn fools chase the ship right into the thin air."

"So they might have only just caught the ship," Vincent mused, looking over his shoulder at the long trails of smoke in the distance. "What were you carrying?"

Captain Preston crossed her arms, her brow furrowed, and she took a half-step backward. "You don't know?"

"I wasn't told. Neither was the commodore that hired me."

"Sounds exactly like the navy. I wasn't told, either. The crates are sealed, and I was told I wouldn't be paid if they were opened before delivery. I wasn't even given a destination for this job. Just to travel towards the sun for six days, and someone from the navy would take it off our hands."

Vincent frowned, and stared in that direction without really looking, his thoughts trying to recall his charts. "There's nothing out there. You end up on the far end of Olencia, almost into thin air."

"Don't I know it. Now, Captain Locklear, am I free to go? I'd rather put more distance between us and those pirates."

Vincent nodded, and gestured to the other captain's ship. "Can't fault you for self-preservation. You may want to aim for Olencia, and appeal to the closest consulate for assistance. Those pirates came from Drummond's Spite, after all."

"No. I was told that this job could not be revealed to any Olencian authority," Captain Preston admitted. "I'm going to run for the Shardwall, and hope I arrive at a friendlier trading post soon."

Vincent nodded. "Sure you don't want your ship back? I'm heading that way now."

"I don't like your odds. Even if you have the strangest ship I've ever seen," Captain Preston said, as she turned around. She took a few careful steps. "But if you do manage to salvage my ship, let me bid for it first. I'd rather not see her become some deadgrass runner for a smuggling cabal out of Freehold."

"Hope you find nothing but fair weather and fairer friends, captain."

"I'll even forgive you for breaking my bow ornament, Captain Locklear. Fair skies to you," Captain Preston said, as she left.

Vincent leaned over to call out to Mercy, but she had already begun to untie them from the other ship. Instead, he walked back to his ship, and pushed the plank off the rails. "Mercy, once you're done, trim the sails in. I'd rather not put a hole through them. And then, raise the Burning Ensign. We're going pirate hunting."