“A darker form of magic exists, which should not be mentioned, and certainly should not be practiced. It is a dirty, savage art, which draws its power from the dubious charity of demons. Those weak-minded fools who would practice this art will always get their just recompense, for a demon always collects its dues.”

-’True Accounts of Magicke’, published 112 B.U

In the following hours, Taira was able to improve her spell’s effect perhaps a little, but certainly not enough to pluck a salvage runner out of the air. She was resolved to practice throughout the night, but Stephan forced her to take sleep, lest she remain unable to cast her magic properly when it was actually needed.

He found it more difficult to follow his own advice, however, and stayed up tossing for most of the night.

They set off in the morning to intercept the Intrepid, and despite Taira’s encouragement from the day before, Stephan’s head was full of doubts and fears.

He and Taira both found themselves in the rec room, all nerves, while they waited. It would be several hours until they met with the warship.

“Chin up, Lordling,” said Yin, who sat nearby, whistling atonally to herself. She seemed even cheerier than usual. “You’ll be fine out there. Just find me after we board. Stay behind me, and I’ll make sure you won’t get your head blown off. You have a Najun to arrange, after all.”

Stephan grunted something in response but felt no more reassured. The rocking and rumbling of the ship were starting to make him queasy.

Quintilla drew into the room with quick, long strides. She stopped near the door, hand on the frame, and looked over the room’s occupants.

“Tee, come with me,” she said. “You and Kazzul will have to come to an agreement on how to move forward with the plan.”

Taira slowly stood and cast a desperate glance towards Stephan, but he could do nothing to help. It was too far gone at this point—if she couldn’t get a handle on her spell in the moment of their need, there was little to be said of their success.

*****

Kazzul flipped a switch to turn on the autopilot, the ship remaining on its present course. Its systems groaned, and the panel before him blinked sporadically. He pressed another few buttons, flipped the switch off, then back on again. The ship settled contentedly, and remained on its way, as its darker subconscious grumbled against his interference.

He spun in his chair to face the two women in his cockpit, the captain and her sister.

“Could I just have this moment to make my official protest against this plan?” Kazzul asked. “Because it is one of the worst I have ever heard, and that says a lot, coming from the captain who can empty six rounds before sparing a thought towards who she’s even firing at.”

“Easy, now,” Quintilla said with a slight frown. “Tee is capable. She’ll do what I asked of her.”

“This ship requires a very particular mind to run it, Captain. Namely, mine. She needs a gentle touch, constant attention. She is a fickle lady. You know yourself what unholy carvings the Spider set into her.”

“You overstate the importance of these unholy carvings, as you put it. It was simply a more economical way of warding the ship. Besides, what does that have to do with our present situation?”

“Overstate? Captain, you mistake my role here. As much as you’d like to believe otherwise, the ship is cursed. Whatever the Spider did to it, perhaps by accident, gave it a life of its own. When she is quiet, it is because I am handling her tempestuous nature.”

To illustrate, Kazzul turned in his chair and slammed his fist down on the control panel, pressing several buttons in the process. The ship’s hull gave a deep groan, which became an ear-splitting screech. Taira covered her ears, and Quintilla glanced around at the walls.

Bloody, twisted runes began to stain every surface, the rusty red color growing stronger. Upon pressing a few more buttons and pulling down a lever, the noise quickly dropped off and the runes faded away.

Quintilla cleared her throat. “Regardless. What does that have to do with our plan to assault the warship?”

“Like I said, the Tits Up must be piloted in a proper way. Now, sending her full on at a warship, dropping her through a portal—which will likely, if not tear her violently in half, at least shave some bits off the sides—and tugging her to and fro in the process, does that sound proper to you? She will rebel against us, mark my words, Captain. If we are not careful, she will kill us just as assuredly as the Intrepid.”

“Then I will trust your expertise to keep the ship as placid as we need it for the battle to come.”

Kazzul sighed. She was hopeless. Utterly bone-headed. If he had been spoiled for choice, he might have left the crew and sought out another.

As it stood, however, he was trapped with these people, and with this fickle lady to commandeer. He had no choice but to see himself out of it alive.

“Please, Captain, listen to me. Let me offer an alternative.”

Quintilla raised her hand. “Give it a rest, Kazzul. The plan has been made. Now, you and Taira will speak, until you are of one mind on this. Understood?”

Kazzul opened his mouth to protest.

“Understood?”

Kazzul slowly nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

Though he knew it was only a delusion, he could almost hear the ship chuckling in derision at the folly of its charges.

*****

Quintilla entered her cabin and shut the door. Her being buzzed with vitality. It was long since she had felt truly anxious before taking a prize. These days, there was only excitement, a sense that she was clawing herself a hair closer to her goal.

Kurko was already in the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He read from a newspaper in his lap and seemed perfectly at peace.

“Excited?” Quintilla asked.

“I suppose,” Kurko rumbled. “This job is more dangerous than any before it. You know that, don’t you?” He fixed her with a severe gaze, before turning back to his reading material.

“I know. It’ll pay better, too. What, you saying you’re scared?”

“No. You’ll carry us through. You always do.”

Quintilla got out a more comfortable change of clothes from one of her drawers. She got undressed in front of the giant, stripping down to the skin—he was not the type of man to gawk.

Kurko kept his gaze pointedly turned away from her while she got changed, seemingly very occupied by his newspaper.

“It will be some story, won’t it?” he said. “Us taking down a Concordian warship.”

“It’ll be an outrage,” Quintilla said with a grin so wide it hurt her cheeks. “If I’m lucky, Captain Rand might blow a fuse.”

Once she was properly dressed in her boarding attire and had strapped on her pistol belt, she poured herself a thick-rimmed glass of whiskey.

“Care for some?” Quintilla asked, thrusting the bottle in Kurko’s direction as she brought the glass to her lips.

Kurko, not a man of mortal pleasures, looked like he was about to decline. Finally, he shrugged. “I’ll have a drink. If we die today, I’ll regret not indulging myself.”

Quintilla drained her glass, filled it up again, and handed it to Kurko. He held the glass between thumb and forefinger, laughably minuscule in his grip, and swept the whiskey in one go.

“Better?” she asked.

“Better,” Kurko said with a smile. He set the newspaper aside and stood. “I am ready to kill some Concordians.”

When he made to leave the room, Quintilla stopped him with a hand to his stomach. With a small gesture, she asked him to lean down, which he did awkwardly. She got on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. A cold rush went over her lips, refreshing and with a certain vital energy.

Kurko grunted something unintelligible and blew a large plume of condensation out of flared nostrils. Beneath his cold countenance, Quintilla thought she might be able to discern a blush.

She didn’t mean much by the kiss, of course. It was only teasing. If anything, familiar with his dogged loyalty, she figured it might inspire a little extra bravery on this day.

“There you go, big guy,” she said, and clapped his chest. “Up and at ‘em.”