“Come to the taffrail,” whispered Fitz. More loudly, he said, “Keep her steady, helm. I shall give you a new course presently.”

Man and puppet moved to the rail at the stern, to stand near the great lantern that was the essential beacon for the following ship. Hereward leaned on the rail and looked back at the Strongarm again. In the light of the two moons the bomb vessel was a pallid, ghostly ship, the great mortar giving it an odd silhouette.

Fitz, careless of the roll and pitch of the ship, leaped to the rail. Gripping Hereward’s arm, he leaned over and looked intently at the stern below.

“Stern windows shut—we shall not be overheard,” whispered Fitz.

“What is it you wish to say?” asked Hereward.

“Elements of our plan may need re-appraisal,” said Fitz. “Fury is no easy dupe and once the Sea Gate falls, its nature will be evident. Though she must spare me to navigate our return to open water, I fear she may well attempt to slay you in a fit of pique. I will then be forced into action, which would be unfortunate as we may well need the pirates to carry the day.”

“I trust you would be ‘forced into action’ before she killed me . . . or started eating me alive,” said Hereward.

Fitz did not deign to answer this sally. They both knew Hereward’s safety was of almost paramount concern to the puppet.

“Perchance we should give the captain a morsel of knowledge,” said Fitz. “What do you counsel?”

Hereward looked down at the deck and thought of Fury at her board below, carving off a more literal morsel.

“She is a most uncommon woman, even for a pirate,” he said slowly.

“She is that,” said Fitz. “On many counts. You recall the iron ring, the three-times tap she did on our first meeting below? That is a grounding action against some minor forms of esoteric attack. She used it as a ward against ill-saying, which is the practice of a number of sects. I would think she was a priestess once, or at least a novice, in her youth.”

“Of what god?” asked Hereward. “A listed entity? That might serve us very ill.”

“Most probably some benign and harmless godlet,” said Fitz. “Else she could not have been wrested from its service to the rowing benches of the Nagolon. But there is something about her that goes against this supposition . . . it would be prudent to confirm which entity she served.”

“If you wish to ask, I have no objection . . .” Hereward began. Then he stopped and looked at the puppet, favouring his long-time comrade with a scowl.

“I have to take many more star sights,” said Fitz. He jumped down from the rail and turned to face the bow. “Not to mention instruct the helmsman on numerous small points of sail. I think it would be in our interest to grant Captain Fury some further knowledge of our destination, and also endeavour to discover which godlet held the indenture of her youth. We have some three or four hours before we will reach the entrance to the gorge.”

“I am not sure—” said Hereward.

“Surely that is time enough for such a conversation,” interrupted Fitz. “Truly, I have never known you so reluctant to seek private discourse with a woman of distinction.”

“A woman who feasts upon human flesh,” protested Hereward as he followed Fitz.

“She merely does not waste foodstuffs,” said Fitz. “I think it commendable. You have yourself partaken of—”

“Yes, yes, I remember!” said Hereward. “Take your star sight! I will go below and speak to Fury.”

The helmsman looked back as Hereward spoke, and he realized he was no longer whispering.

“Captain Fury, I mean. I will speak with you anon, Mister . . . Farolio!”

Captain Fury was seated at her table when Hereward entered, following a cautious knock. But she was not eating and there were no recognizable human portions upon the platter in front of her. It held only a dark glass bottle and a small silver cup, the kind used in birthing rights or baptismal ceremonies. Fury drank from it, flicking her wrist to send the entire contents down her throat in one gulp. Even from a few paces distant, Hereward could smell the sharp odour of strong spirits.

“Arrack,” said Fury. “I have a taste for it at times, though it does not serve me as well as once it did. You wish to speak to me? Then sit.”

Hereward sat cautiously, as far away as he dared without giving offence, and angled his chair so as to allow a clean draw of the main gauche from his right hip. Fury appeared less than sober, if not exactly drunk, and Hereward was very wary of the trouble that might come from the admixture of a pirate with cannibalistic tendencies and a powerfully spirituous drink.

“I am not drunk,” said Fury. “It would take three bottles of this stuff to send me away, and a better glass to sup it with. I am merely wetting down my powder before we storm the fortress.”

“Why?” asked Hereward. He did not move any closer.

“I am cursed,” said Fury. She poured herself another tot. “Did you suppose ‘Fury’ is my birth name?”

Hereward shook his head slowly.

“Perhaps I am blessed,” continued the woman. She smiled her small, toothy smile again, and drank. “You will see when the fighting starts. Your puppet knows, doesn’t it? Those blue eyes . . . it will be safe enough, but you’d best keep your distance. It’s the tall men and the well-favoured that she must either bed or slay, and it’s all I can do to point her towards the foe . . . “

“Who is she?” asked Hereward. It took some effort to keep his voice calm and level. At the same time he let his hand slowly fall to his side, fingers trailing across the hilt of his parrying dagger.

“What I become,” said Fury. “A fury indeed, when battle is begun.”

She made a sign with her hand, her fingers making a claw. Her nails had grown, Hereward saw, but not to full talons. Not yet. More discoloured patches—spots—had also appeared on her face, making it obvious the permanent one near her eye was not a powder-burn at all.

“You were a sister of Chelkios, the Leoparde,” stated Hereward. He did not have Fitz’s exhaustive knowledge of cross-dimensional entities, but Chelkios was one of the more prominent deities of the old Kvarnish Empire. Most importantly from his point of view, at least in the longer term, it was not proscribed.

“I was taken from Her by slavers when I was but a novice, a silly little thing who disobeyed the rules and left the temple,” said Fury. She took another drink. “A true sister controls the temper of the beast. I must manage with rum, for the most part, and the occasional . . .”

She set her cup down, stood up and held her hand out to Hereward and said, “Distraction.”

Hereward also stood, but did not immediately take her hand. Two powerful instincts warred against each other, a sensuous thrill that coursed through his whole body versus a panicked sense of self-preservation that emanated from a more rational reckoning of threat and chance.

“Bed or slay, she has no middle course,” said Fury. Her hand trembled and the nails on her fingers grew longer and began to curve.

“There are matters pertaining to our task that you must hear,” said Hereward, but as he spoke all his caution fell away and he took her hand to draw her close. “You should know that the Sea Gate is now in fact a wall . . .”

He paused as cool hands found their way under his shirt, muscles tensing in anticipation of those sharp nails upon his skin. But Fury’s fingers were soft pads now, and quick, and Hereward’s own hands were launched upon a similar voyage of discovery.

“A wall,” gulped Hereward. “Built two hundred years ago by the surviving Scholar-Pirates . . . to . . . to keep in something they had originally summoned to aid them . . . the treasure is there . . . but it is guarded . . .”

“Later,” crooned Fury, close to his ear, as she drew him back through the curtain to her private lair. “Tell me later . . .”