As one, the marines sat back. All eyes were on him now.

The lieutenant scowled. ‘Now how likely is that?’

Another marine, a grizzled veteran, barked out, ‘Your sergeant? Let’s hear some names, stranger.’

‘Whiskeyjack. Other sergeants? Not many left. Antsy. Tormin.’

‘You’re Corporal Kalam, ain’t you?’

The assassin studied the man. ‘Who are you?’

‘Nobody, sir, and been that way a long time.’ He turned to his lieutenant and nodded.

‘Can we count on you?’ she asked Kalam.

‘Not up front, but I’ll be close by.’

She looked around. ‘The treasurer’s got an Imperial Writ – we’re shackled to it, Corporal.’

‘I don’t think the treasurer trusts you, should it come down to making a choice between him and the captain.’

She made a face, as if tasting something bad. ‘This attack’s madness, but it’s sharp madness.’

Kalam nodded, waited.

‘I guess the treasurer’s got reason.’

‘If it comes to it,’ the assassin said, ‘leave the bodyguards to me.’ ‘Both of them?’

‘Aye.’

The veteran spoke up. ‘If we make the sharks sick in the gut with the treasurer, we’ll hang for it.’

‘Just be somewhere else when it happens – all of you.’

The lieutenant grinned. ‘I think we can manage that.’

‘Now,’ Kalam said, loud enough to be heard by every marine, ‘I’m just another one of those grease-faced civilians, right?’

‘We never figured this outlawing stuff was for real,’ a voice called out. ‘Not Dujek Onearm. No way.’

Hood, for all I know you may be right, soldier. But he hid his uncertainty with a half-salute before making his way back down the length of the deck.

Ragstopper reminded Kalam of a bear crashing through thickets as it barrelled along – lumbering, broad and solid in the spraying high seas – a spring bear, an hour out of the den, eyes red-rimmed with old sleep, miserable and gnawed with hunger deep in its belly. Somewhere ahead, two wolves slinking through the dark . . . they’re in for a surprise . . .

The captain was on the sterncastle, braced against the hand manning the tiller. His First Mate stood near him, one arm looped around the stern mast. Both were glaring ahead into the darkness, awaiting the first sighting of their quarry.

Kalam opened his mouth to speak, but a shout from the First Mate stopped him.

‘A point to port, Captain! Beating three-quarters! Hood’s breath, we’re right on top of her!’

The pirate vessel, a low, single-masted raider barely visible in the gloom, was less than a hundred paces away, on a tack that would cut directly in front of Ragstopper. The positioning was breathtakingly perfect.

‘All hands,’ the captain bellowed through the howl of the storm, ‘prepare to ram!’