‘A little,’ I said.

Triglav scratched behind one bendy ear and said: ‘When Mattice opens a door, Trysil can walk into a room full of million-year-old loot, give it no more than a glance, and tell instantly whether it’s worth our while. Trysil says time builds up in old things like steam in a kettle, needing to get out. Old things – properly old things – are bursting at the seams with time. And what she knows isn’t from books or museums. Talk to Trysil about the Eleventh Occupation, she’d give you a blank look. Ask her about the Council of Clouds or the Empire of the Ever Breaking Wave, then she’d hold you down and tell you a thousand stories, none of which you’ll ever find in the Hall of History.’

‘What’s the most valuable thing you’ve ever found in a bauble?’ I asked.

‘Found, or pulled out?’ Triglav asked.

‘There’s a difference?’ Adrana put in.

‘Tell her about the engine,’ Prozor said, as if she was cutting off a line of conversation she didn’t care for.

‘It was about the size of a tea urn, a bronze-green thing with all sorts of pipes all over it,’ Triglav said. ‘Not a monkey trinket. Tusker or Bug-Eye, perhaps. We didn’t even try to make it work.’

‘Did someone?’ I asked.

‘Yes, on a sphereworld called Prosperal, somewhere down in the mid-processionals. And they got a hole drilled through their world for their trouble – all the way out from the inside.’ Triglav bent his sad features into half a smile. It was like someone wearing clown make-up, trying to form the opposite expression to the one painted on. ‘The lesson there is it’s not our business to fiddle around with things. Provided we’ve found ’em, and been paid for ’em . . . that’s enough for me.’

‘I’d have thought you’d be more curious,’ Adrana said.

‘Curiosity’s for coves that don’t know when they’ve got a good thing,’ Triglav said, scratching under his jaw. ‘I’m happy with my lot. Plenty worse things than being a bald little ion engineer on a sunjammer, even one that’s never going to make anyone’s fortune.’

‘Good,’ said Prozor. ‘Because that’s what you’re stuck with.’

We were still talking about baubles and trinkets when Hirtshal came into the room. The master of sail had a way of ending any conversation without a word. He cocked his bearded chin at the window, not even bothering with a question.

‘Five minutes,’ Prozor said. ‘You want a ringside seat, Hirtshal?’

Hirtshal stood with his arms folded, his eyes all cold and flinty like nothing could have interested him less.

‘No.’