Kalam closed his eyes. They had sailed four days now without an escort, the tradewinds pushing them along at a steady six knots. The sailors had run up every sheet of canvas they possessed and the ship sang a chorus of ominous creaks and groans, but the two pirate galleys could still sail circles around Ragstopper.

And the madman wants to attack.

‘Did you say attack?’ the treasurer whispered, his eyes wide. ‘I forbid it!’

The captain blinked owlishly at the man. ‘Why, sir,’ he said in a calm voice, ‘I looked into my tin mirror, did I not? It’s lost its polish, on my word so it has. Between yesterday and today. I plan to take advantage of that.’

Since the voyage began, Kalam had managed to stay in his cabin for the most part, electing to emerge on deck only at the quietest hour, late in the last watch before dawn. Eating with the crew in the galley had also reduced the number of encounters with either Salk Elan or the treasurer. This night, however, the captain had insisted on his joining them at dinner. The appearance of the pirates at midday had made the assassin curious about how the captain would deal with the threat, so he had agreed.

It was clear that Salk Elan and the treasurer had established a truce of sorts as things never went beyond the occasional sardonic swipe. The exaggerated airs of civil discourse made their efforts at self-control obvious.

But it was the captain who was the true mystery aboard the Ragstopper. Kalam had heard enough talk in the galley and between the First and Second Mates to gauge that the man was viewed with both respect and some kind of twisted affection. In the manner that you’d view a touchy dog. Pat once and the tail wags, pat twice and lose a hand. He shifted roles with random alacrity, dismissive of propriety. He revealed a sense of humour that yanked taut comprehension. Too long in his company – especially when wine was the drink of choice – and the assassin’s head ached with the effort of following the captain’s wending ways. What was worse, Kalam sensed a thread of cool purpose within the scattered weave, as if the captain spoke two languages at once, one robust and divergent, the other silken with secrets. I’d swear the bastard’s trying to tell me something. Something vital. He’d heard of a certain sorcery, from one of the less common warrens, that could lay a glamour upon a person’s mind, a kind of mental block that the victim – in absolute, tortured awareness – could circle round but never manage to penetrate. All, now I’m venturing into the absurd. Paranoia’s the assassin’s bedmate, and no rest comes in that clamouring serpent’s nest. Would that I could speak with Quick Ben now—

‘—sleep with your eyes open, man?’

Kalam started, frowned at the captain.