The wind was cold, this far from the great isles. Vincent could feel it in every breath, even if it didn't sink through his coat, or bite much at his neck through his scarf. Cold, like breathing the runoff from one of the glacial drifts that occasionally formed in the distant black skies. It was an easy thing to ignore, as long as you had something to do.

But when there was nothing left but the wait, as he stood in the middle of the Sunward Matilda's deck, watching a warship slow as it came alongside them, the cold was hard to ignore.

"You nervous, captain?" Leslie asked, with a pointed glance down at Vincent's hands. His left hand was on his sword, fingers on the scabbard, with his thumb on the guard, ready to push it apart and begin to draw. His right was halfway under his coat, resting on the now empty holster of his pistol.

Vincent's gun, like Leslie's, was tied to a nearby railing with a bit of string. When he had commanded a military ship, he would have expected the ship's marines to disarm anyone they encountered on a situation like this, but only the guns. Swords and knives were unlikely to be useful against a dozen flintlocks.

"Might be. A lot of this plan depends on how reasonable the ship captain is," Vincent admitted. "I rather doubt we can claim the Matilda as salvage, but the charter and the risk of a diplomatic incident should be enough to let us keep the lenses, and keep us out of prison."

"That's a lot of uncertainty, captain," Leslie noted.

"And compound that with the fact that we're outnumbered about a hundred to one, standing at point-blank range of a forty gun broadside that will all be loaded with canister shot," Vincent noted.

"Not helping, captain."

"You can go back to the ship, and lock yourself inside with Anita," Vincent offered. "Under the circumstances, I'd prefer it. It's easy to be forgotten from inside prison, and quite a bit harder if people from outside are petitioning the authorities on your behalf."

"Not a chance, captain," Leslie said, cracking his neck. The sound was remarkably similar to the sound the Banshee's turntable made when it started. "No one's left to face the enemy alone."

"Just remember they aren't the enemy yet," Vincent reminded him, as gratitude helped ward off the cold. "But thanks."

The Olenican ship made her final turn, coming alongside and matching the Matilda's drift. This close, the warship was a formidable sight. As tall as a four storey building, longer than most city blocks, two decks of guns, the ire of nearly a hundred gunners, were all now pointing at him and the ship he stood on.

A dozen grey-clad marines went over the sides first. Two of them went over with rope, to secure their ship to the Matilda, while the other ten approached with their weapons pointed at Vincent and Leslie.

Vincent raised his hands, as he looked from face to face, trying to identify the squad's officer. It only took a moment, and as the marines approached he gave the sergeant a raised eyebrow and a disappointed frown. "Keep a dozen feet back, and kindly point your guns the deck. Asides from that, I'm quite content to wait for your captain."

"I am Sergeant Reginald Opesia, of the Olencian Imperial Marines. By the authority of the Empire of Olencia, the two of you are under arrest for piracy, and illegal scavenging. You and your ship are to surrender immediately."

Vincent grinned, knowing how unexpected his response would be. "Sergeant, I'm under charter to search for and recover this ship, by request of the Volante navy. These are free skies, and if they aren't, I will see your navy charged with aiding and abetting piracy in this region. We had a dozen rafts and skiffs back there openly flying black, and you and your very pretty yacht have apparently left them unmolested. Now bring an actual officer and let your betters sort this out."

Vincent knew how his tone and tenor sounded in the military. The sergeant stood up straighter, and his arm twitched at his side as he had to suppress the reflex to salute. "You have a charter? You'll surrender it, now."

"Coat pocket, left side," Vincent replied. "Do you want me to, or are you worried I'm stupid enough to imagine a single hidden pistol would do anything other than get me killed?"

"Go ahead," The sergeant said.

Vincent drew Nottle's charter out of his pocket, and handed it to the sergeant. The sergeant unfolded it, but turned his head to a soldier on his left. "Corporal Bevlatch, search them both. They can keep their swords for the moment. But if you find a gun or a throwing knife, clap them in irons."

"Think I ought to put the big one in irons anyway," The corporal said. But the other marines spread out, weapons at the ready, while the Blevatch stepped up to Vincent and proceeded to pat him down. "Never seen that style of harness before," she said.

"It's a Wayfarer design," Vincent admitted.

"But that sword of yours. I don't see a lot of rapiers outside of the officer corps. Unless that's a dueling foil and you're actually an idiot."

"The emblem on the cross guard is the last ship I commanded."

"A thief's cowl?" Corporal Bevlatch asked.

"A war sloop called the Hood."

"Ah," Was all the corporal said in reply, but there was a measure of respect that hadn't been there before. She moved on to Leslie, leaving Vincent with the sergeant still reading his charter.

"So you were asked to look for this vessel?" the sergeant asked, tapping his foot on the deck for emphasis. The move nearly pulled him into the air, and he had to pull on his harness clip to keep his feet on the deck.

"Well, that's grounds enough to not have you arrested, for the moment," the sergeant said. He turned and waved to the ship. A circular wave, one that Vincent recognized as a general statement of 'it's safe, you can let the important people come down now'.

Which happened a moment later, as the warship's gangplank smashed down on the Matilda's deck hard, buckling the ship and forcing everyone except Vincent and Leslie to grab the rails to keep themselves attached to the deck.

The sergeant, seeing Vincent keep his footing, scowled at him and tilted his head, inviting an explanation. "Stronger magnets in my boots. The Wayfarers prefer their gear that way."

"I'll remember that," The sergeant replied, stepping to one side of the gangplank just as another contingent of marines started down. Leading them was a man wearing the familiar white with gold trim of the Olencian officer corps, white feathering in his large bicorne hat.

"Sergeant Opesia, why aren't these two in irons?" the officer asked, as he stepped off the gangplank, his clip in his left hand, carefully moving from one rail to the next. And unlike the other soldiers around him, he didn't have to look down to move his foot from one metal plate to the next.

This was a man familiar with low gravity. Not quite as much as Mercy, but enough that it showed him as an officer with a history sailing in the far skies.

"Captain Oal, they have a charter. It's signed by a 'Commodore Ezekiel Nottle', Volante Navy," Sergeant Opesia said, handing his captain Vincent's documents.

"So why isn't this commodore here himself?" Captain Oal asked, as he looked over the document.

"The commodore commands the Interdiction," Vincent explained. "He felt bringing a first-rate ship of the line would be an indelicate answer to the navy's dilemma. He sent me to enquire about the fate of this ship, and to retrieve it and its cargo if I could."

"And who in the dead air at the end of everything are you?" Captain Oal asked.

"Captain Vincent Locklear, of the Ravens' Child," Vincent answered, and he extended his hand.

Captain Oal looked at the extended hand for a moment, then shook it. "Captain Romero Oal, of the Czarina Octavia. Ravens' Child, that sounds like a Wayfarer ship."

Vincent looked over at his vessel, and an odd feeling passed through him. A certain comfort, a contentment, that made his response feel like the last piece of a puzzle fitting in place. "It is. I'm technically the smallest Wayfarer clan in the sky."

"But you're former navy? I imagine that's why this Commodore Nottle gave you the job."

"My last commission was a Volante sloop of war, the Hood," Vincent admitted.

"That would explain a lot, and it seems on the up and up, so far." Captain Oal read through the document. "It doesn't say what the Matilda's cargo is."

"It was meant to stay quiet."

"That's extremely suspicious."

"Agreed," Vincent said, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the Sunward's log books. He hoped he didn't look as nervous as he felt. "The Matilda's captain was given clear instructions to not open the crates. Her destination, though, as you can see, was Idlewind. Specially, Whiskeyjack's Roost."

"Did you open this cargo?" Captain Oal asked.

"I did. It contained spyglass lenses." Vincent gestured behind him to where the telescope was still set up on the deck. "I've loaded most of them aboard my ship. I'm not sure I can get this ship to port on my own power."

"I'm going to want to inspect that cargo, including what you took aboard your ship."

"As a policing force, or a delegate?" Vincent asked.

"A delegate would suffice," Captain Oal admitted.

"I can agree to that."

"Though the puzzling question is," Captain Oal frowned, and looked at the telescope again. "Why is the navy sending spyglass lenses to the Wayfarers at the Roost?"

And here was the critical moment, where Vincent's lie would either be buried beneath truth, or exposed. "The Navy's hoping to improve relations, particularly to berth and repair warships occasionally. They're sending spyglass lenses to accomodate an odd Wayfarer myth about being able to see something called 'stars' in the far skies, well into where the air is too thin to breathe."

"Odd," Captain Oal said, and Vincent wanted to cheer in delight. He had him. "But everything else about this check-out. If you'll show me this cargo, Captain Locklear, we can make arrangements to have the Matilda taken to Ysevar, and sold back to its captain. The Navy will want a portion, of course, I think seventy percent after the costs of berth and repairs have been accounted would be reasonable."

"Very reasonable," Vincent said. It wasn't the best deal he could have managed, but the key bit was Captain Oal wouldn't take the costs of repairs directly from his portion. It was a reasonable offer, made from one captain to another, and Vincent was not about to spit on civility. Especially in the far skies.

Also, since they might be on their way without incident.

Vincent extended his hand again. Captain Oal was about to shake it, when a call from back on the warship made him turn his head.

A woman stood at the other end of the gangplank. Dressed similarly, in an Olencian officer's white with gold trim, there was a certain fussy polish to her uniform that wasn't present in Captain Oal's. The buttons on her overcoat were actually gold, rather than brass. She wore an officer's insignia on the front of her coat as well as on the shoulder, and her sword's scabbard glittered in the light.

"Is that?" Vincent asked, suddenly worried.

"What is it?" Leslie asked.

"There's an old Olencian navy custom about their warships. Each ship has a patron member of the royal family, whom the ship is named for," Vincent explained to Leslie. "I'm surprised you don't know this."

"I glossed over a lot about Olencian royalty after I found out there are over two hundred various princes and princesses."

"True. And it's expected that the ship's patron be familiar with her ship's service history, and to serve on it from time to time," Vincent finished explaining.

"So the woman up there, that's..." Leslie trained off.

"Indeed. That's the princess this ship is named for. Her Royal Highness Czarina Octavia Olen," Captain Oal said, with a small sigh that sounded both resigned and exasperated.

"That could complicate things," Vincent said to himself, as the winds got a little colder.