The five days to Drummond's spite passed in a haze of work, as their crew of four alternated between tasks and sleep. The facilities on this ship were far and away better than what Vincent had enjoyed on his last ship, and even as captain of his old Volantian sloop of war, The Hood. He was still warm, still rested, and his crew could enjoy hot meals between shifts.

It had thoroughly ruined him to what sailing used to be.

Vincent took one hand off the wheel, and leaned over to one of the the speaking tubes. "Mercy, we're about a half-hour out. Tuck in the sails, would you?"

"Aye, cap," Mercy called out, her voice fading as she spoke, as if she were already heading to her task.

"Cap, their harbour master is signalling us. We've been offered a berth at dock twenty-two," Leslie said.

"That's good, thank you Leslie," Vincent replied, as he scanned the land below.

There wasn't a whole lot to see on Drummond's Spite. Not that it wasn't a pretty sight, with hints of autumn in the idyllic, leafy foliage that swallowed the land between the scattered settlements. But the entire island was only eleven miles across, and from the hight the Ravens' Child was descending from, the shape of trees and farmsteads stuck out on the circular horizon of the entire isle.

With an island this small, it's pull would be so weak that people would have to hide in their homes during a powerful storm, or risk being pulled off the ground and into the sky.

It also meant that Vincent decided to run the descent to the harbour nose first, rather than let the island's pull bring them to the ground. "Anita," he called out to engineering. "Give me half-cruising speed, and prep for use of the swivel propellers to rotate the ship."

"Will do, skipper," Anita replied. "Hey, dibs on shore leave once we touch down. Been itching to see some place other than the Roost for a while now."

"Really?" Vincent blinked in surprise, but didn't let himself think about Anita's motivations. "We're not exactly here for sightseeing. But I don't mind the company."

Vincent turned his attention back to the ground he was now pushing the ship straight towards. He eased off the propellers slightly, and steered them into a straight shot down to the docks.

"Hey, cap, you don't think we're heading in a little fast? And a little too head-on like?" Leslie asked.

Vincent smirked, and turned one hand over to the controls for the swivel propellers. "You're clipped in, right Leslie?"

Ahead, Drummond's Spite began to devour the horizon as the Ravens' Child flew towards it. Vincent could begin to make out individual trees in the forest, or tell what kind of shingles were used to make the roof of a house. Still, he kept the engines running and the ship facing forward, plunging down to the ground.

From the harbour, a frantic series of blinking lights shone from a large mirror, as someone used the sun to signal him. "Slow down." Was the message, and Vincent wasn't sure if it was a threat or a plea. Either way, he ignored it, one hand on the propeller controls, and the other holding the ships course steady.

When Vincent could begin to make out the leaves on the trees, and the clothes on the people in the street, he flicked the four levers near his hand, and turned to the speaking tube. "All hands, prep for tilt. Eighty degree rise on the bow. Starting..."

Vincent flicked one more switch. "Now."

The propellers on the sides of the ship twisted about, and came to life with a howl. The island plummeted down towards the bottom of Vincent's window, as the ship's bow rose up. Seconds later, Vincent swung the propellers to face the island, and slowed their descent as they came down the last few yards.

A few more seconds, and the docks came into view again, with a dozen hands scrambling about on the wharf. Vincent felt the ship press against the docking pads, and cut the propellers off as the Child settled into place.

Vincent patted the ship's wheel. "Nicely done, new girl. Nicely done."

He sighed in satisfaction, and stared out the window for a moment. It was, after all, the maiden voyage of his ship, and she had performed without so much as a loose seam on her lift balloon. It deserved a moment, and he waited before he called out to engineering. "Anita, we've touched down. Put us down to idle, and get dressed. Wear a pistol under your coat, just in case. Drummond's Spite isn't known has a pirate haven, but only because the pirates pay for good press."

"Will do, cap. Meet you at the top deck," Anita said.

Vincent left the wheel, and walked across the hall, finally doing it without having to clip-in from one rail to another. At the end of the hall, he opened his cabin door, and changed his boots.

Lodestone boots were moderately expensive. Wearing down their treads needlessly was an indulgence a sensible sailor didn't waste money on. He left his harness on, though, and belted on his sword and pistol. 

As he set his sword belt on, his necklace slipped out from under his shirt and tapped one of the buttons on his coat. He grabbed it quickly, and began to stuff it back under his shirt again. He had spent some time keeping the necklace's ornament out of sight. Even when he was alone, he felt uncomfortable putting it into view.

It was a black cube, each size was the size of his thumbprint, with a small blinking light on the bottom. Less an ornament, and more of a device, the cube was a miniature of the cargo he had agreed to carry for the Monastery, and proof of their trust in him.

It had been given to him by a dying man in a broken ship, cast adrift in a broken sky.

Vincent tucked it back under his shirt, left his cabin, and made his way up to the top deck. True to her word, Anita was already waiting at the side, helping a pair of dockhands set up a ramp. She was humming happily as she worked, and didn't wait from him before she scampered across the ramp and onto Drummond's Spite.

Vincent waved to Mercy, and marched over to speak to her. She climbed down from the tether chains, and hung upside down just above his head. "Anita asked to go ashore. We'll be making our enquires, should be back in a few hours. Keep an eye out, in case trouble comes looking for any of us."

"Should I keep the armoury key on hand?"

Vincent was about to say no, but something prodded at his worries, a nervous inkling that he couldn't rationally explain. But he also wasn't about to dismiss out of hand. "Do it, just in case. I trust Drummond's spite like I'd trust a Calmoori grain barge to ride the Shardwall."

"Will do," Mercy said. She looked out at Drummond's Spite, and scowled. "Fire off a flare if you get in a tight spot. I won't rely on the local constabulary to actually solve a problem we run into out there."

"Got it. Keep the ship safe," Vincent said. He turned away and followed after Anita, who was already halfway down the wharf. He was surprised to see she had a paper fan in her hand, which she had tilted into the wind to help keep her anchored.

He jogged to catch up, which wasn't hard as Anita had stopped at a nearby stall. Vincent could see the ripe fruit, small blue boisonberries native to Aventila. A delicacy in their raw form, since the plant the berries grew from were voracious and could ruin another island's ecosystem. Enforcing an embargo on the ripe fruit was one of the few things the navies of Volante, Olenica, Calmoori and the Wayfarers acted in concert on.

"Hey cap, I remember impounding a ship full of these," Anita remarked as he caught up. She pointed at the berries, with a grin on her face. "Back on the Hood, you caught that sloop with a hull painted white, riding the cloud cover towards one of the farm islands in the Core."

Vincent laughed as he recalled the day. "Small sloop, but they packed it full. One of the largest hauls of those berries anyone's ever seen. The Merchant Marine Guild has hated me ever since."

"Well, you did throw the whole crew onto their lifeboats, and then torched their ship," Anita said, and she was laughing as she recounted the story. The merchant at the counter, however, looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Merchant Marine complains when they have to ransom back their ships. Actually torching one made you some lifelong enemies."

Vincent turned to the merchant and pointed a finger at him. "That ship burned for almost two days. And in the end, I was reprimanded for being too lenient on the merchants. Keep that in mind, just in case you misplace any of those berries."

The merchant gulped, but didn't respond as Vincent walked away. Anita walked up ahead, and took a look at another stall, selling hats. She examined a few, and asked the merchant at the stall, "how much?"

"Depends on the hat, dearie," the woman replied. She tapped the top of the one in Anita's hands. "That one is six talons."

"So a little less than a Bankerloft Drachma," Anita said. She held the hat for just a moment longer, as her fingers started to clench the brim and bend it. Before the merchant could object, Anita dropped the hat back on its stand, and pointed at the seams. "Who did the stitching for this one?"

"The smallest hands we could find," the woman said coyly, and Vincent instinctively put his hand out, to keep it close to Anita's pistol.

"That's a sixth the price it would be in Vol Ayre, and the stitching is nearly as fine as any hat maker," Anita remarked, with deceptive blandness. Deceptive, because for anyone who knew Anita Hoffman, blandness was dangerous. It was the point where her anger had swallowed up her cheerful quirkiness.

"Miss Hoffman," Vincent said, softly but firmly. "We have a mission."

"Of course," Anita said, and she ran her finger over the hat one last time. "Another time, perhaps."

They made it three steps away before Anita began to curse under her breath, "It's a sixth the price because they don't pay the children who come down with the hatter shakes to make her wares for her," said, her voice hoarse from trying to contain her anger.

Vincent nodded. "Erethism. Mercury poisoning. Unlikely that they'd provide child labour with the equipment needed to make felt safely."

Anita turned around and walked backward to talk to him. "I'd burn this place to the ground if I could," Anita said.

Vincent flinched, catching sight of something just ahead. Anita turned and stopped in front of a line of people with manacles on their wrists. Nearly a dozen, with ragged clothes, all of whom stank from long exertions without the chance to bathe. Their skin looked unnaturally brown, like leather, and was scaling. And every one of them had eyes that looked like they were slightly too large for their sockets.

Following them were several heavy-set thugs with dirty overcoats and badly-beaten hats.

Anita stopped, her hands clenched into fists. Her arms quivered with how tightly those hands were clenched, and her eyes were wet with tears. "Press gangs," Anita muttered, and one of her hands went for her pistol.

Vincent set his left hand on the butt of her weapon, and put his other hand on Anita's shoulder. "That's not a fight we can win. And losing that fight would just make it worse for them."

She looked like she might try to start that fight anyway, but after a moment she pulled away and hung her head. "Sorry, captain. I should have stayed on the ship."

"Seeing all of this." Vincent said, gesturing around at the market. "It all cuts a little too close, doesn't it?"

Anita nodded. "If it weren't for my parents, I could be one of those kids with the hatter shakes, dying to pad that woman's pockets. Spit into the wind, captain, what is the difference between this place and any other Corsair isle? Cut away the excess finery from being a trading post of the great isles, this could be the island I was raised on, the one my parents are still stuck on."

"Anita-"

"It's okay, Captain," Anita said. She took a deep breath, and smiled. But her eyes wouldn't meet his. "Just thinking my last hope for finding my parents died when you were cast out of the navy."

******

The rest of the walk to the nearby Port Authority Office passed in turbulent, trepidatious silence.

With each step, Vincent worried that his silence was only digging Anita's despair deeper, helping to confirm the fear voiced. And it wasn't wrong of her to worry. Her parents had, by all accounts, been pressed into service when their ship had been taken as a prize by a Corsair.

Pirates like those often used small islands in the far skies as hideaways, and it was entirely possible to spend a lifetime searching fruitlessly. Even if you had a ship.

Whatever hope Anita still might have of finding her parents was something Vincent didn't want to crush, but he had nothing more than platitudes to offer. And he despised empty words.

He was only relieved of this concern when he stepped up to a dilapidated wooden building. Little more than a shanty shack with a fresh coat of paint, the door groaned as it opened. And by the look of the reception office, Vincent suspected getting the clerk at the desk to work might sound remarkably similar.

The clerk was a reedy little woman, who looked up from her books with an expression of profound displeasure. "You have business here?" she asked, and pushed her heavy glasses back up her nose.

"I do," Vincent replied. He stepped into the room, and looked down at her desk. "I've been asked to track down a ship, missed her rendezvous. Ship's name is the Sunward Matilda, Volante Merchant Marine."

"That's nice. Now would be a good time to prove you're working for the navy," the woman said, though her eyes lingered on the hill of his sword. "Admittedly, you have the bearing of an officer. All nice and clean, like you have underlings dust your boots before you step into a building."

Vincent was both irritated and amused by the woman's surprisingly blunt mannerisms, and her well-sharpened tongue. He reached into his coat pocket and put a piece of parchment down in front of her. "Captain Vincent Locklear of the Ravens' Child. The request is from Commodore Nottle, of the Interdiction."

The woman glanced through the document, and nodded. "It looks legitimate, and the personal seal is right. I've never heard of the Ravens' Child, though. She sounds like a Wayfarer ship."

"On her maiden voyage," Vincent admitted. He had to pull a little harder than he should have, to take it out of the woman's hands. "Now, about the Sunward Matilda?"

"Now now, you've proven that you have a reason to access this information. But I'm afraid that this is a small outpost, and we're quite poorly staffed, with a great deal of work to do," the woman said. She gestured around, to the mound of books laid out around her desk. "Too much work for a poor old woman to mange all on her own, especially what she's paid for this lonely outpost."

Beside him, Anita scoffed incredulously. "Someone's fishing for a bribe."

"Now now, bribe is such an ugly word."

"Call four logs tied to a balloon a ship, it's still a raft," Anita scoffed indignantly.

"Nevertheless, it's an expected supplement to my meagre salary. Especially in such a remote outpost," the woman replied, and held out her hand. "And for having to explain that, ten drachmas should be a suitable price. I'll include accepting your imagined apology for free."

"Five," Vincent countered.

"Seven and a half," the woman said, splitting the difference.

"The price is four now," Vincent said, and he set his hand down on the counter. "Ingrid Stafford, I can see your name written on six different pages, and the ink isn't quite dry on this one yet." Vincent tapped the page, and continued. "Before you protest, remember that I have to write a report about all of this, and it will be seen by the Admiralty. I might spend an entire page complaining about how reluctant this office was to help me on this assignment."

The woman gaped at him, but didn't respond.

"Now, neither of us want that, writer cramps and all. So how about you accept three drachmas, and get to work telling me everything I want to know," Vincent finished, and he reached into his pocket and set three heavy coins on the table.

"You said four."

"I had to explain the situation to you. That cost one. But I will include accepting your imagined apology for free," Vincent added.

"Three drachmas," the woman said, and she snatched the coins off the table. She stood up, turned around, and fished out a heavy book off the nearby shelf. She set down on the table, flipped through a few pages, and started tracing along the list with her finger. "Here we go. She took berth five days ago. Hired eight dockhands to help load supplies, spent nineteen hours at port. Left with the sunward winds a little over ninety hours ago."

"Ninety hours ago? We set sail just before that ship arrived here," Anita noted. "We just missed her."