‘Not now,’ Cazaray replied, smiling at my enquiry. ‘It’s good that you’re keen, but we’re on ions, and that interferes with the equipment. Hirtshal’s going to run out the sails tomorrow, and we’ll travel quieter then.’ Cazaray gave a last look at Garval before closing the door. ‘The skull likes it that way.’

That evening the galley was full of smells and steam, the table crowded with cages of fruit, lidded tureens of cooked vegetables and various spiced meats, as well as tankards and metal-wired bottles, all held down with magnetism.

The lungstuff had a blu-ish haze, with the screens and displays flickering unwatched. The crew were rowdy when we arrived: Mattice finishing off the end of a story, something about another ship called the Murderess, and what had happened to her captain, a man called Rhinn, Trysil coughing because she’d been laughing too much, Cazaray trying to get a word in, Rackamore sitting back slightly like he was content just to observe, happy enough that his crew were happy. And they seemed to be, most of them. Prozor was still scowly whenever she caught either of us by the eye, Triglav still looked sad and worried, but that was just how his face was put together. There was one man we hadn’t seen before, though, and he was as serious-looking a cove as ever you’ll meet. This was Hirtshal. He was an older man with fine features, a moustache, a crescent of white hair growing thin on the scalp. When we were introduced to him, he nodded distantly, as if it wasn’t really worth his bother to remember our names, knowing we wouldn’t be sticking around.

‘Hirtshal,’ he said, before dragging his attention back to the tankard before him.

‘Hirtshal is our master of sail,’ Rackamore said, as if it was his job to fill in for the other man. ‘If there’s a person on this ship we all need to respect, this is the one. Without Prozor and Mattice we don’t open baubles; without Trysil we wouldn’t know what to take away with us. But without Hirtshal we don’t go home. Be nice to Hirtshal. Be especially nice to Hirtshal when he’s had a busy day.’

‘Were you always a master of sail?’ I asked, feeling it was expected of us to make conversation.

Hirtshal looked at me for longer than was comfortable.

‘No.’

‘You did something before?’ Adrana put in.

He took so long answering that one it was as if she’d asked him to multiply two long numbers in his head, and then find the cube root.

‘Yes.’

He drank from the tankard, sucking contemplatively on its spigot so that we were tempted to think there might be some continuation of his statement.

But that was it. His name, and a no, and a yes, and that was all we’d got from him.