There was no hope of catching the rioters without abandoning our own wounded men. I ordered the fyrd to pull back to the Petrel. At the foot of the gangplank the Awndyn unit had formed a barricade. They leveled pikes above a shield wall. Some fyrd regrouped there, but in equal numbers those who spied the gold were unlinking their shields and deserting to join the looters. Archers on the Petrel’s fore-and rear-castles sent sporadic volleys down at the pirates crossing the quay, who had no choice but to run through the hail of arrows to the Pavonine.

Thieves poured up the Pavonine’s gangways carrying their prizes or dragging their wounded friends. I flew over the Stramash and Cuculine, puzzled; their decks were on the same level as the water. They had been scuttled; they sat empty and perfectly upright, their keels on the sea bed. Their main decks were swamped with lapping waves, from which their castles projected like four square islands.

The crews of all three ships were at work unfurling and setting the Pavonine’s sails. Others, yelling, waved their friends aboard. Poleaxes and spears looked like metal hackles standing up on the ship’s back.

I glided above Pavonine’s deck and saw Tirrick, and Cinna. Tirrick had Cinna Bawtere at rapier point, forcing him to steer the ship. Cinna clung to the wheel, shaking visibly, his porcine face set in a grimace. Tirrick, however, smiled rapaciously. He shouted, “Climb aboard! We’ll sink the Petrel, then pack provisions and sail for Awndyn! I’ll be the next Serein and fatty will be the next Mist!”

Cinna glanced up at me and scowled. He had a length of chain around his middle, worn by fearful sailors so if they fell overboard their suffering would have a quick end.

I shouted, “Cinna, don’t you dare leave!”

He told me to go and do something unspeakable with a goat.

Sailors on the harbor cast Pavonine’s mooring ropes loose and swarmed up. The ship grated along the quayside with looters still chucking bags onto the deck and catching lines to haul themselves up.

Those left behind turned their attention to the Petrel. Small groups of rebels gathered out of range on the villa verandas; they began to coalesce, ready to attack the Petrel’s gangway in a desperate bid to hijack her. I thought of Rayne; I would not let anyone hurt the Doctor. She was my adviser, Lightning’s confidante and devoted friend. Lightning would be even more shattered than he already is, if anything happened to Rayne.

I have seen Mist die and Serein badly wounded. I have left Lightning faltering his way through the outskirts of town. The only books to escape the firestorm are in my pocket. I don’t know how many Trisians have succumbed but their houses, their shops and the harbor are despoiled. Cinna was sailing off with their belongings, surrounded by pirates and protected by Tirrick. The remnants of Gio’s men were completely beyond control. Our forces were disheartened and either retreating or deserting.

I needed everyone in the riot to listen to me, to stop and look up so I could shatter the hysteria that gripped them. I must attract their attention with a gesture more powerful than Gio’s last stand. But how? None of my battlefield horn signals mean anything now. I couldn’t drop rocks accurately onto Pavonine from above the archers’ range.

I shouted, swooped acrobatically and landed on the main street, but although the rebels heard me they paid no attention and simply ran away. What was I to do-pursue them one by one? Infuriated by our failure, realizing that we were stranded, I felt my scolopendium clock running down. A cold shiver washed over me; the long muscles twitched in my arms. Oh god, not now. If Tarragon surfaced she could soon put an end to the Pavonine, but that wouldn’t stop the fighting on land that second by second was becoming bloodier. I needed Tarragon, her car or a congregation of Tine, a sea krait…A sea krait! Did I dare speak to the kraits? I thought: I can use the Shift to stop the sacking of Capharnaum!

I flew to Petrel and landed on the half-deck. Rayne had transformed the main area below me into a field hospital, and she was extremely busy. Wounded men were being brought in and laid on camp beds between the masts and hatchways. Rayne bent over one, whose blood pooled in the brown stretcher. Her assistant struggled with the breastplate strap, having to pull tighter in order to release it through the buckle. Rayne said, “No! Tha’ sucking wound-ignore the res’.” She slipped a gauze pad under the edge of his armor and pressed on a jagged gash in his ribs. The soldier struggled. Rayne grasped his hand firmly and he lay still. Then his hand relaxed out of hers.

I watched as I retrieved my envelope of cat from my cabin, and I saw it all. Rayne looked into his eyes as he died. She often did that with the mortals for whom, no matter how hard she tried, she could not prevent death. She wants to glimpse the change as their eyes set. I once thought her obsession was compassion, now I think it’s just her insatiable curiosity. She wants to see what they’re seeing, she wants to know all that they suddenly know. It’s understandable because people are always inquisitive about what they can’t do. Or maybe, and although it’s morbid I wouldn’t rule it out, Rayne is fond of being the last thing a man sees as he quits the world. One day her curious face might fill my field of vision, through a bloodred filter.

I ducked into Ata’s office; the bottle of brandy stood on her table. Through the stern windows I saw the Pavonine, nearly stationary against an onshore breeze. Her sailors swarmed on the high aft castle, adjusting some timbers-the long beam of a trebuchet. I said aloud, “Bloody fuck, not another catapult.” It could even be the one we saw being dragged along the Remige Road. It had two large wooden treadmills set upright on either side. A sailor crawled into each wheel and walked them around; others on the outside pushed to winch the arm back. It was so long it overhung the poop deck steps. Another pair of men lowered a ball into the sling. Tirrick gave a shout, the arm kicked up to one side of the mizzenmast, and the stone flew through the air.

It overshot Petrel and crashed into the roof of one of the harbor villas. Cinna’s sailors busily set about winding a windlass to decrease the trebuchet’s throw. Shit, if we ever needed Lightning’s professional opinion it was now.

I dashed out of the cabin and called to Rayne, “They’re taking potshots at us! Move down below-and stay there till I bring reinforcements. Don’t abandon ship unless they hole the hull. If you must go to land, ask the officer of the Awndyn Fyrd lamai to give you some cover.”

I heard Rayne ordering that her patients be taken to the living deck; I did not have much time. I tipped a fistful of cat out of the envelope. It ran like fine sugar between my fingers as I sifted it into the brandy glass. I tapped my hand on top to knock the powder out of the damp lines on my palm. Then I uncorked the brandy and sloshed it in. The crystals eddied and spun. I drank it down right to the dregs of undissolved powder where the brandy had not penetrated between the dry grains. I put the glass down with a click.

That was a massive overdose. Through the windows broadsword fighters battled at the junction of the boulevard. Pikes held the gangplank secure but only one line of fyrd remained behind them.

The metal clashes muted suddenly, as if at a distance; the bustle of the surgery shrank to background. My own breaths boomed loud and blood pressure rumbled in my ears. It is coming on.

Pavonine turned her slender stern to me and the flat towers of her soot-spotted sails. Her reflection vanished. The image of the quay wall and houses ripped away. The sea moved, silver but featureless. It wasn’t reflecting; it should be mirroring the sky.