I perceived my attacker to be moving much like a man underwater. The priests of Throm tell us that when we die, our spirits go on an epic journey before they reach the World After. There is a maze, a trial, a loved one serving as a guide, and a fountain of black wine that one must drink to pass on. I was ready to embark. May the next world be kinder than this place of pain and fragile flesh.

I was nearly ready, when in a fraction of the second before my assailant could kill me, another sword point erupted out from his belly. He coughed up bloody spittle that dappled my face. Our eyes locked in the utmost mortification.

"Pete," he cried one last time before falling to his knees.

On the other end of that sword was my Hawk, Thomas Baker, and from his narrow-eyed sneer, I could tell he was pissed. Tossing his knot of dreadlocks over his shoulder, he moved the dying man aside.

"There's my bloody shadow," he muttered. He pressed his boot between the dead man's shoulder blades as he ripped out his sword, spraying blood across our shins. "I've told you a hundred times. Keep close; don't die. It's simple, Clikk."

An adept crewman with some savvy of piloting, Baker had taught me everything I knew about piracy. He was the third tallest brute on our ship, a good friend to have amongst pirates, especially for a scrawny creature like myself. He stayed swarthy, no matter how much sun he got, and he never wore his flight cap, but instead let the wind toss his dreadlocks.

All across the deck, our victims dropped their weapons and fell to their knees in surrender. We'd cut down enough of them. I stared at the man who had nearly been my demise. He lay just a few feet from his friend. Seeing them, I could not help but feel my heart swell with pity.

"Where were you?" asked Baker, sliding a red, silk scarf down the length of his blade. "I had to put on my own gear."

"Gods forbid."

"See what I've done in my grief." Opening his flight jacket, he showed me that instead of buckling the leather ends of his holsters, he had knotted them up.

"Sorry," I said. "Jasper and Pierce grabbed me, had a bit of fun."

"Trying to replace me already? I see how it is. You won't be a Fledgling much longer. Don't need me holding you back." He cracked a smile and tousled my flight cap askew. I liked it when he smiled, even when he vexed me. Baker's most distinguishing feature was a silver fang that glistened in the sun.

"Prig." I knocked his arm and fixed my cap.

"What's wrong with you, Clikk? Life flash before your eyes?"

"Them two were friends," I said, ticking my head to indicate the fallen. "Maybe even brothers by the looks of them."

Baker folded his arms, glancing between the two. "Could have been us," he returned bluntly. "Get back in your skin, Fledgling. They're dead. We're alive. That's all you need to think about."

He navigated through the crowd to get closer to the quarterdeck, where the two captains were engaged in a duel. No man alive could best our captain with a sword, but he certainly enjoyed letting them try. One feint and a pirouette later, Dirk had his blade pressed against the other captain's neck.

This was the part where he'd cut his throat, the part I didn't need to see. I could stand the sight of blood, guts, and brains, but something about the slitting of a man's throat made my whole body cringe.

I found an open water cask, dipped my cupped hands, and drank, rubbing the soot and gunpowder from my eyes.

Then came a sputtering cry. Dirk shoved their man overboard. Even though I didn't watch, the sound turned my stomach, and I could envision his neck opening up in the sky and spilling a trail of radiant, red blood.

I barely paid any mind to the rest of the raid. My job was done, so once we latched our ship to theirs with gangplanks and ropes, I hopped the rails and went about taking inventory with the rest of the Fledglings.

When we finished loading their cargo, we pulled in our planks and untied our lines. Their ship drifted out into the open sky. Our gunners used mounted artillery to put a leak in their balloon. The punctured envelope hissed, slowly deflating. A cold sweat formed along the edge of my scalp.

They would find a way to land. Probably. That hope went to Hell when their balloon caught fire. The blazing framework of their ship sank into a sea of black clouds.

"Could have been us," said No-Nose Ned as he caught me staring over the rail. "Had I not pitched when I did."

I nodded and used my crowbar to open a crate.

Like theirs, ours was a hydrogen ship. This highly combustible agent could result in a horrific end if the balloon's element came into contact with oxygen. Most airships used hydrogen, as it was cheaper and lighter than helium.

"Any Skye?" asked Ned.

I peered under the crate's lid and frowned. "Sorry, friend."

"Wine? Ale? Anything?"

"Only water, if you can stand to drink it."

"I'd sooner drink my own piss," he grumbled.

I went on organizing our new cargo. Another day, another ship of ruined lives. I tried not to think about it. Most days, I just did my work. I ate my rations, maintained the ship, or shadowed my Hawk in his duties.

As the Wastrel picked up speed and hurled us into the ever-blue horizon, Baker came toward me and stole my cap.

"Sing me a song, Clikk."

"Sod off."

I tried for my cap. Baker laughed and sang, "I wish all the oysters were pretty, young girls. I'd pry their lips open and fill 'em with pearls."

"The only oysters up here are the ones on the wall of the privy."

"Help me out here! You know I'm rubbish with lyrics." He went on smiling, his silver fang glinting like a spike of pale fire. "I expect you to have a song for me by nightfall," he said, returning my cap.

I hoisted a crate of vinegar bottles on top of another and sighed.

"What?" he said. He poked me in the side. "You got something to say? Speak up, Fledgling."

"It's nothing. Just... ain't nothing funny in opening a woman against her will."

Baker's humor evaporated. He stared at me, his eyes burrowing into my flesh. My pulse quickened. Did he see through the façade? I tilted my head down, pulled my scarf up over my nose, and rubbed my hands together, pretending to be chilled by the wind.

"I didn't mean nothing by it," he said.

"No, I know."

"I'd be the first man here to enforce the eighth article." He muttered something under his breath, something to the effect of, "Such crimes hit too close to home for me."

This statement intrigued me, especially coming from him. The first thing I ever learned about Baker was that his mother had been a whore and had raised him in a room she shared with three other prostitutes. Everyone on the ship knew it. He shared details of being a whoreson as if he enjoyed the disquiet it caused in his friends.

Generally, I made an effort not to discuss women with him. Most of the crew only talked about women in two contexts: as the shrews they'd abandoned or as the harlots they pined for. To be fair, I had all this time misrepresented my own opinions to match their standard of chauvinism. Who's to say my brothers of the Wastrel had not done the same? Perhaps they only offered half of every story. A boy could, after all, spit at his mother while loving her all the same. And while these men might mock a woman to tears, they would come to her aid if some ruffian gave her a clout.

Amidst the stolen cargo, I discovered a small luggage trunk filled with old, shoddy clothing. Laid on top was a book, which I took up and dusted. The Ratcatcher of Locwyn it was called. It would be lunchtime soon, and now I had something to read. I tucked the book into my jacket and carried it down to the mess.

The Ratcatcher of Locwyn turned out to be an autobiography chronicling the story of an orphan. The poor lad had been born to a ruined woman, who died of a fever when he was seven. He made his home on the streets of Locwyn, earning a living catching rats and turning out delicious pies. I read the first chapter aloud to Baker. He said he wished I hadn't, or that I had at least chosen a time when he wasn't shoving his face with ground pork.

I continued to read after our lunch hour was over. By the end of the book, which I skimmed while neglecting my other duties, the boy had built an empire that employed and supported a group of almost a hundred children, all catching rats, all baking pies, all making a fortune that eventually afforded them lodgings with a proper kitchen. They had their own little hole in the wall, frequented by the citizens of Locwyn. As their business grew, their quality of meat improved, luring new patrons and eventually investors.

The moral of his tale was that any urchin in the slums could make decent work for himself without resorting to thievery. All he needed was some ingenuity and a willingness to work hard. The novel's propagandist agenda left me unable to accept this orphan ever existed. Nobody got rich selling rat-meat pies.

The book offended me on a personal level. After Mr. Greyson died, I tried to live an honest life. A thief had killed him, after all. I should have rather loathed thieves. But despite my unique skills, knowledge, and musical talent, none of it had been enough to keep me fed and safe from the violence of the streets. By the time I met Mikhail, I was quite close to starving to death.

Fifteen years old and too frail to pass, I was scooped up from the streets by a fetching young thief named Mikhail. He made me his girl and taught me everything I needed to know to survive.

First, I learned the art of pickpocketing, practicing on our fellow thieves, and later joining them as they worked the early morning markets. From there, I graduated to burglary. When I turned sixteen, I had to assist with mercenary work. At first, this involved only a bit of skull-knocking, but then the day came when I had to carry out my first assassination.

My target was not a good man, but how many of us can claim to live without sin? He was a fence with an unsavory fetish for young boys. My boss wanted him dead for cheating us on our goods. So one day, as I passed the old bastard on a crowded street, I drove a dagger in his back. And I ran, my heart in my throat, until I reached Lake Street and slipped beneath some scaffolding. There I vomited into the water, trembling and thinking I would pass out every time I tried to stand.

In the end, the stabbing did not kill the man. My boss had to finish the job himself, and he told me I'd be spared future mercenary work since I was "just a girl, after all."

I found I did not care forbrutality without cause, and eventually I left that world behind me. Aftermonths scraping by on my music without success, I got into the habit ofdrowning my sorrows in ale at the Bird and Cloud, a ramshackle tavern in theAixenport slums. This was where I met Captain Dirk and came to call myself asky pirate of the ship the Wastrel.