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 experienced fighters. If he won this bet, he would have two hundred extra hands on deck, plus an even larger number of small-time crooks who would probably feel comfortable working under Verris.

And if he lost, well, they would have another guild on Quentaris but a fighting force just the same. Of course, he would have to put up with Verris as some kind of equal, but really he quite liked the man. He would never admit it, but he had a grudging respect for the man who stole from the rich and, just as often, gave half of it to the poor.

Bellgard scowled at himself. He must be getting soft.

Verris and Borges looked out over the portside battle ments. Verris mused that he would be much happier when they drew close to the cloud bank, for in truth he needed Tolrush to attack. And with that thought in mind, he had marshalled his forces.

Overhead, within easy reach of his signal, was a clog – a small wooden cabin attached by rope to a crane high above, one of several upside machines used to swing sky sailors quickly from one mast or spar to another, in case of emergency. Verris had managed to commandeer three such cranes. With these, his combined fighting force of roughly three hundred men and women could be swiftly deployed to any point on Quentaris’ perimeter.

Bellgard had found out, of course, and had grumbled and harrumphed a lot, but even he saw the wisdom of it. Fighters need to be where the fighting is thickest, and quick smart too.

‘You think they'll fight, if it comes to it?’ said Borges gloomily. For him, no cloud ever had a silver lining. There was nothing at the end of the rainbow except grief. And if bad things could happen, they would.

Verris laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, man. I'm sure there'll be half a dozen disasters, enough to please even you.’

Verris produced a spyglass and scanned the horizon. Still nothing. He looked ahead towards the cloud bank. They were making good time. If Tolrush was anywhere about they would surely try to stop them before they could vanish into what amounted to thick fog.

An hour later, there was still nothing. In another hour they would be into the clouds. Verris frowned. He wasn't sure how long he could hold together his followers, only some two hundred of which were actually his. The others were a motley collection of petty thieves, muggers and highwaymen short on work; he had convinced them to leave the Venerable Lightfingers’ guild and join his well-paid cause.

Only action could turn such a mixed group into a cohesive fighting force.

‘What's that?’ said Borges.

Verris pressed the spyglass hard against his eye. ‘Where -?’

Borges pointed from aft to port. ‘Now will you look at that,’ he said.

Behind them and a thousand feet above, a dark menacing shape bulged silently from a high cloud. It was long and narrow, and at the front two huge grappling arms opened and closed like pole-cutters. Verris whistled thinly through his teeth as he studied it through the spyglass.

‘It's seen a lot of action, by the look of it,’ he said.

As it slid fully into view, Borges paled. It looked like some demon ship or, as he said afterwards, a ship of the dead.

High overhead, lookouts in one of the several crow's nests began tolling a warning bell. The alarm spread. People rushed from indoors and scanned the sky, shading their eyes. The alarm had only been sounded three times before, twice when the city had been under attack by aerial creatures, and another time when a grim mountain-top castle had opened fire on them with ten-inch cannons. As terrifying as these were, there were few casualties and little damage, though the cannon balls and grapeshot – totally unknown weapons to Quentarans – had ruined the great canvas sails which afterwards had to be carefully patched up.

Despite these earlier false alarms, word quickly spread that this time was different.

‘No doubt about it,’ said Verris. ‘It's Tolrush all right.’ He handed the spyglass to Borges who took it reluctantly but put it to his eye. After a moment, he said, ‘She'll not make much headway with those sails. They're full of holes!’

‘Take a look at the propellers.’ Borges did so. The propellers were a blur of motion. Verris went on: ‘She's making ten knots, or I'm no sailor. So we've less than an hour till she comes alongside and tries to board us.’

‘You guessed right,’ said Borges.

‘The girl guessed right. Or saw rightly, whichever it is. Thanks to her we have a chance.’

Borges lifted his eyes upside and cursed. ‘If our people were up there we'd be travelling a darn sight faster.’

‘We might,’ Verris agreed, ‘but then we'd have no one to repel boarders. Quickly now, spread the word. Leave only a skeletal squad to the starboard. They'll swing to our leeward.’