‘I told you somethin’ else, too, which is that she uses psychology. Bosa’s poison, and she poisons them around her. They ain’t all working for her because she’s got ’em hurt or terrified. She makes ’em love her, like a disease, and once that loyalty gets in their blood, they start seeing things Bosa’s way.’ But Prozor closed her eyes, held them like that for a few moments, then opened them in a slow and wary way, as if there was a chance that things might have improved while she had her eyes shut. But the bitter resignation on her expression said things were exactly as they were before. ‘Dwellin’ on what can or can’t be changed doesn’t get you far. You mention any of the particulars of your plan to her?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing about the Fang, or the Ghostie stuff.’

‘Good. Keep it that way, if I were you. You think you can out-sly Bosa, but you’re wrong. You give her even half a reason to guess that you’re setting a trap, she’ll see through you like you’re made of lookstone.’

‘It’s no good just being ready for her,’ I said.

‘Which we’re not.’

‘But we will be – soon. But even then, we can’t just keep sailing from bauble to bauble until Bosa sets her sights on Trusko. She had history with Rack, and she wanted new Bone Readers. There’s no reason in all the worlds that she’d ever pick this scummy ship as a target. You heard Gathing: what they found in that bauble won’t buy a new set of sails, let alone allow a cove to retire. So Bosa won’t come to us. Not unless we give her reason to.’

‘And you’ve got a plan for that, have you?’

‘The start of one. We’re going to feed misinformation to Trusko, to get him to do what we want. Adrana can do the same to Bosa. Spin her a story that makes the Queenie a target she wouldn’t be able to pass up.’

‘Retribution’s one thing,’ Prozor said. ‘Suicide’s another.’

‘We’ll be ready for her. We’ll have the Ghostie stuff.’ I knuckled the corridor wall. ‘This ship isn’t built for permanence, Proz, ’least not under her present captain. Trusko’s just barely holding it together. I ain’t waiting years and years on the off-chance, not when the Queenie could fall apart at any minute.’ I flexed my tin fingers, hearing the creak as the little hinges worked. ‘I’ve got the spur in me now and I want what’s rightfully mine.’