in his seat and looked at her. ‘I’m beginning to think that, after many months, I’ve finally found a navigator who actually knows what they’re doing,’ he said.
‘We’re few and far between, Cap’n.’
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. Don’t get shot again. You’re useful.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, with a quirky little grin.
Frey settled back to watching. He’d begun to think that Jez was a lucky find. In the few days she’d been on board, she’d shown herself to be far more efficient and reliable than he’d expected. Competence was by no means a prerequisite to joining the crew of the Ketty Jay, but Jez was head and shoulders above the other navigators Frey had worked with. He suspected that she was accustomed to better crews than Frey’s mob, but their slapdash technique didn’t seem to bother her. And she was good at what she did. She’d brought them in from Marklin’s Reach with pinpoint accuracy, with only a featureless sea of cloud and a few mountain peaks to plot their position by. Frey had dropped down through the cloud and found himself dead in the middle of the pass they’d selected for their ambush.
She was a smart one. He only hoped she wasn’t too smart.
Perhaps the others hadn’t noticed, but Jez knew something was wrong with this job. He kept catching a glimpse of the question in her eyes. She’d open her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again and look away.
She feels it too, Frey thought. Instinct.
Instinct. Perhaps. Or perhaps she sensed that her captain intended to rip them off good and proper.
He tried to feel bad, but he really couldn’t manage it. After all, you couldn’t be robbed of what you never had. Quail had promised him fifty thousand ducats, not them. Granted, he’d always maintained a system of fair shares for his crew, dividing the booty according to pre-arranged percentages, but these were exceptional circumstances. By which he meant an exceptional amount of money. Too much to share.
It was just this one time, he promised himself. Because after this, he’d never need to work again.
He’d informed the crew that Quail had given them the tip-off in exchange for one thing. There was a chest on board that he wanted. They were to bring it to him. Everything else was theirs for the taking.
Frey had obtained a full description of the chest, and he knew it would be locked tight. Quail had also assured him there were plenty more pickings besides. The crew could loot to their hearts’ content, and everyone would be happy. They didn’t need to know what was inside the chest. They didn’t need to know about the arrangement between Frey and Quail.
But Jez kept giving him that look.
‘I hear something,’ Crake said suddenly.
Frey listened. He was right: a low throb, accompanied by the higher whines of smaller engines. Hard to make out how many.
‘Jez,’ Frey murmured. ‘Ready on the electroheliograph.’
‘Cap’n,’ she said, reaching over to the switch.
‘This is the one, isn’t it?’ Crake asked, squinting through the windglass, trying to catch a glimpse.
‘This is the one,’ Frey said.
The Ace of Skulls slid into the pass, cruising majestically between two broken peaks. Long, blunt-faced and curve-bellied, she had stubs for wings and a tail assembly like an enormous fin. Thrusters pushed her along as she glided through the air, buoyed up with huge tanks of aerium gas. Decals on her flanks displayed her name, printed across a fan of cards. She was a heavy, no-nonsense craft, without frills, solid. Nothing about her gave away the value of the cargo within.
Buzzing alongside, dwarfed in size, were four Swordwings. Frey recognised them by their distinctive conical, down-slanting muzzles and aerodynamic shape. They were fast fighter craft. Nothing exceptional in their design, but in the hands of a good pilot they could be deadly.
‘It’s not exactly minimum escort,’ Crake murmured.
Frey made a
‘We’re few and far between, Cap’n.’
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. Don’t get shot again. You’re useful.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, with a quirky little grin.
Frey settled back to watching. He’d begun to think that Jez was a lucky find. In the few days she’d been on board, she’d shown herself to be far more efficient and reliable than he’d expected. Competence was by no means a prerequisite to joining the crew of the Ketty Jay, but Jez was head and shoulders above the other navigators Frey had worked with. He suspected that she was accustomed to better crews than Frey’s mob, but their slapdash technique didn’t seem to bother her. And she was good at what she did. She’d brought them in from Marklin’s Reach with pinpoint accuracy, with only a featureless sea of cloud and a few mountain peaks to plot their position by. Frey had dropped down through the cloud and found himself dead in the middle of the pass they’d selected for their ambush.
She was a smart one. He only hoped she wasn’t too smart.
Perhaps the others hadn’t noticed, but Jez knew something was wrong with this job. He kept catching a glimpse of the question in her eyes. She’d open her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again and look away.
She feels it too, Frey thought. Instinct.
Instinct. Perhaps. Or perhaps she sensed that her captain intended to rip them off good and proper.
He tried to feel bad, but he really couldn’t manage it. After all, you couldn’t be robbed of what you never had. Quail had promised him fifty thousand ducats, not them. Granted, he’d always maintained a system of fair shares for his crew, dividing the booty according to pre-arranged percentages, but these were exceptional circumstances. By which he meant an exceptional amount of money. Too much to share.
It was just this one time, he promised himself. Because after this, he’d never need to work again.
He’d informed the crew that Quail had given them the tip-off in exchange for one thing. There was a chest on board that he wanted. They were to bring it to him. Everything else was theirs for the taking.
Frey had obtained a full description of the chest, and he knew it would be locked tight. Quail had also assured him there were plenty more pickings besides. The crew could loot to their hearts’ content, and everyone would be happy. They didn’t need to know what was inside the chest. They didn’t need to know about the arrangement between Frey and Quail.
But Jez kept giving him that look.
‘I hear something,’ Crake said suddenly.
Frey listened. He was right: a low throb, accompanied by the higher whines of smaller engines. Hard to make out how many.
‘Jez,’ Frey murmured. ‘Ready on the electroheliograph.’
‘Cap’n,’ she said, reaching over to the switch.
‘This is the one, isn’t it?’ Crake asked, squinting through the windglass, trying to catch a glimpse.
‘This is the one,’ Frey said.
The Ace of Skulls slid into the pass, cruising majestically between two broken peaks. Long, blunt-faced and curve-bellied, she had stubs for wings and a tail assembly like an enormous fin. Thrusters pushed her along as she glided through the air, buoyed up with huge tanks of aerium gas. Decals on her flanks displayed her name, printed across a fan of cards. She was a heavy, no-nonsense craft, without frills, solid. Nothing about her gave away the value of the cargo within.
Buzzing alongside, dwarfed in size, were four Swordwings. Frey recognised them by their distinctive conical, down-slanting muzzles and aerodynamic shape. They were fast fighter craft. Nothing exceptional in their design, but in the hands of a good pilot they could be deadly.
‘It’s not exactly minimum escort,’ Crake murmured.
Frey made a
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