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me why a slip of a girl like yourself, and one such as he’ – he indicated Fontagu – ‘would take such a risk as to come to a place like this at night?’
    ‘Are you Lord Verris?’
    The tall man blinked. ‘I am he indeed. And at your service.’
    ‘Then I need your help,’ said Tab. ‘Quentaris needs your help … ’
    __________________________
    ** Indeed, a whole new vocabulary had sprung up this last year: uppermost meant the topmost sections of the masts, including the crow's nests or lookouts; uppity meant someone who thought they were too good for plain folk, and should be a sky sailor; uptime meant the duration of one's stay amongst the sails and rigging; and uptowner had come to mean those sailors and officers who lived permanently aloft like the former roofies, rarely coming down, except in death; even the adjective uppish had come to mean something quite fine, or splendid.
     



THE CLASH
     
    Verris left the Sailors’ Guild headquarters with a spring in his step and misgivings in his heart.
    Thinking back on his conversation with Captain Bellgard, he hoped that he hadn't been duped by the girl. For sure, she had risked much in coming to see him, and had already lost her job at the guild for trying to convince the magicians. But if he had read her wrong, then he and his crew were about to become a permanent part of the Sailors’ Guild – a submissive part, one that had to take orders.
    On the other hand, if he were right, he would soon be head of a semi-independent yet-to-be-named new guild. Navies were good at keeping their ships afloat – a full-time job in itself. It was a bit much to expect them to be specialists in two areas at the same time.
    Hence the need for a corps of marines. And a Marine Commander. Once, long ago, the marines had been the navy's fighting force, going where the navy could not always go: on sea and on land.
    He found Borges and told him about the deal he had struck with Captain Bellgard.
    Borges stared at him, aghast. ‘And what was wrong with our old guild?’
    ‘And which one would that be?’ asked Verris merrily.
    ‘The Thieves’ Guild!’
    ‘Ah, that one. Well, let me ask you, Borges, when was the last time we had good pickings and lots of work?’
    Borges stroked his beard, glowering. ‘You know damn well. It was before we stepped foot in this accursed city!’
    ‘But why? We could ply our trade here, could we not?’
    Borges stared at Verris like he was mad. ‘And go where?’ he demanded. ‘We're trapped in this rat cage like everybody else, with no boltholes, and no escape! If we knocked over a big job, the City Watch would track us down in a minute.’
    ‘Exactly my point,’ said Verris. ‘There's no future in it, unless we want to become petty crooks, and that's not my style. So we're branching out.’
    Borges gave him a helpless look. ‘But why this?’
    ‘Because we're good at it.’
    ‘The Venerable Lightfingers won't like it. Some people are happy with the old ways.’
    Verris shrugged nonchalantly. ‘He can have the Thieves’ Guild all to himself. Him and the other beg gars.’ Verris rested a hand on Borges’ shoulder. ‘The rest of us will do very nicely as marines.’
    Borges sighed resignedly. ‘If you say so.’
    Verris looked up at the straining sails. Taut ropes hummed and cross-spars creaked, and the wind whistled through the rigging. They were making good speed.
    Orders had been issued to tack towards a dense cloud bank on the eastern horizon, but only because Verris had pushed the matter and because Captain Bellgard was enjoying the thought that soon he would have a lord at his beck and call, though he hadn't quite decided whether to make the former Prince of Thieves a petty officer, or something even more subservient.
    Bellgard was no fool. He had seized the chance with both hands. He had heard the story of the girl with bad dreams and did not credit it for a second, but Quentaris was undeniably undermanned, especially by