We took our positions next to the standing man. It was pretty clear that some business was being concluded. The standing man gathered the papers on the desk, rolling them tight. Despite myself I couldn’t pass up a squint. They were drawings, white ink on a blue backing; complex diagrams full of scratchy lines and geometric shapes. ‘I can expect your word tomorrow, Captain? I cannot make you a better offer than this.’

‘Thank you, Mister Gar,’ the older man answered. ‘You’ll hear from us.’

When the man with the papers had left, the older man looked at us and said: ‘We lost a hundred acres of sail out by Trevenza Reach. Have you any idea of the cost of sail? No one makes it now, despite what you may have heard. The wholesalers – men like Gar – gather up scraps, measure the shapes, sew the lot back together into useful acreages. Then they sell it back to us – the poor beggars who owned it in the first place – at about ten times what we made on the original deal.’ A cautionary note entered his voice. ‘But we cannot function without sails, and a poor sail is worse than no sail at all, because it inspires false confidence. Gar has a reputation.’

‘So, unfortunately, do his prices,’ said the other seated man.

‘Was there trouble by Trevenza Reach?’ I asked.

Captain Rackamore looked at me with mild interest. ‘You’ve heard of the world?’

‘Read about it. It’s in one of the highest orbits, and it’s very eccentric. It must have swung out of the Congregation a long time ago – a collision or something, sending it out into the Empty.’

‘Right enough,’ Rackamore said. ‘No, there wasn’t trouble – not the kind you’re thinking of. We just ran into some debris, and it peppered our foresail pretty badly. Had to limp back on ions. No weapons, no pirates. Does that disappoint you?’

‘Debris still sounds pretty dangerous,’ Adrana said.

‘It can be,’ Rackamore said, nodding at my sister. ‘Speed is our principal ally, and if we carried more armour we’d be too slow to be economical. So we take that chance. But I wouldn’t overstate the danger: we’re much more likely to lose a sail than to take a direct hit on the hull.’

He was handsome, in a slightly too obvious way, like a picture of a prince in a children’s book. Square-jawed, piercing eyes, a distinguished nose. Fine cheekbones. Arched, aristocratic eyebrows. A cruel curl to his lips. His hair was long, but tied back neatly. He was tall, even in the chair, at least as long and thin as Vidin Quindar, but there was a refinement about him that wouldn’t have been out of place anywhere on Mazarile. The white of his shirt was spotless, the leather of his waistcoat polished up like a mirror, creaking as he leaned forward in his chair.