Vayra walked quickly and calmly, pretending that she was supposed to be here. She couldn’t draw attention to herself.

They walked to the end of the pier, where the gangway to the Harmony reached across to the dock. At the end, they found a pair of Redmarine sentries. Vayra squinted, trying to make out their faces in the dark. She hadn’t gotten to know the new marine additions to their crew well, but she had learned some of their names. These were…Mr. Kertogg and Mr. Tressdott?

“Who goes there?” Kertogg asked, cocking his musket. He was an elf with long brown hair—he kept it in a ponytail that spilled out from beneath his peaked hat.

“It’s me,” Vayra whispered. Tressdott held out a lantern, illuminating her face. She added, “And Glade’s here—or, I suppose you don’t know him. He’s an Order disciple.”

“Oh, Mediator Vayra!” Tressdott exclaimed. Tressdott was a dwarf with a thick braided beard, and his red coat had been modified to fit his diminutive stature, but his eyes glimmered with unflinching duty.

“Keep it down!” Kertogg snapped at Tressdott. “People are sleeping.”

“And…we’re not supposed to be here,” Vayra whispered. “We need to speak with Captain Pels.”

“He’s sleeping too,” Kertogg said.

“I’m sure we could wake him for the Mediator,” said Tressdott.

“The captain? He’ll be grouchy!”

“And so will Vayra,” Glade said. “The longer we are out in the open, the worse it will be for us. And you, by extension…”

“Alright, alright,” said Kertogg. “Follow us.”

They crept across the gangway and dropped onto the main deck, where a pair of sailors watched the deck—they wore simple reefer’s jackets and straw hats. They stepped aside without questioning the marines, then dipped their heads to Vayra and Glade.

She, Glade, and the marines walked to the quarterdeck and stopped right in front of the ship’s great cabin. In theory, she was supposed to be using the ship’s great cabin, but it didn’t seem proper—that was the captain’s quarters, and she wasn’t the captain. Instead, she had taken a corner of the officers’ quarters that wasn’t being used, which the crew had rigged up a curtain around to give her a morsel of privacy. She was supposed to have a meditation chamber. Or a cycling chamber. Or whatever they called it.

They stopped outside the great cabin, and Kertogg tapped softly on the door. A few seconds later, she heard a crash, then a grunt. Finally, Pels said, “Come in, come in.”

Kertogg opened the door slowly, then motioned for Vayra and Glade to enter.

“Ah, you two,” Pels said. “Do you need the adepts? They gave us four, if you’re looking for them. I put them with the officers—”

“Please, don’t tell them we’re here,” Vayra whispered. “We’re trying to get out. Without them noticing.”

“You didn’t piss them off, now, too, did you?” Pels asked. He stepped away from the door and into the great cabin. His yellow coat hung on the wall, but he still wore his shirt and cumberbund, and his pistol was tucked into it. When he noticed Vayra glancing at it, he pulled it out and set it on one of the cabin’s ornate dressers. “Sorry, habit.”

“We didn’t make anyone mad, I don’t think,” Vayra said. “Not yet. When they find my note—tomorrow morning, by the looks of it—they’ll be looking for me. I’d like to be gone before then. They crew will still be back early in the morning, right, if they were gone at all?”

“Now, hold on a second, missy,” Pels said. He walked to the stern, where the ship’s enormous round window looked out over the rippling harbour. The city lights reflected against the waves, along with the shimmering star and moonlight. “Where exactly are we going, and why?”

Vayra explained her plan to him as best as she could. Then, she added, “The Order doesn’t like Nathariel very much.”

“And it seems like it’s for a good reason. If he isn’t friendly, he could seriously hurt you. He could kill you. Why would you think he could help you?”

“He’s on our side, and he hates God-heirs,” Vayra told him. “King Tallerion said he was an ally.”

Pels pressed his fingers against his chin and exhaled softly.

“The Order will try to stop us,” she said.

“And you didn’t try to stop her?” Pels looked at Glade, then shook his head.

“I did my best to talk her out of it, but she would not listen,” Glade said. “If nothing else, I will help make sure nothing bad happens to her.” He paused, then said, “And now, it seems that bounty hunters know of her whereabouts. If one found her, more could reach her.”

Pels sighed. “Well, it’ll be more of an adventure than we’re having here, that much is certain…”

“We’ll need you to get rid of those Order adepts, though,” she said. “If you’d just, you know, send them on an errand before we leave…”

Like a disappointed father that had no other choice, he put his hands on his hips and groaned. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell them to go make themselves useful by grabbing us some extra rope—they don’t need to know that we already got our extras yesterday.”

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“And…could we get a bed for Glade, too?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Yes, yes, we’ll arrange that.” After a short pause, he turned around, then walked back to the hammock. “Am I the only one who has a horrible feeling about this?”

Vayra bit her lip. “What other choice do we have?”

After a few seconds, Pels said, “I don’t suppose we have much of a choice, the way you explain it, but I still don’t like it. Feels like we’re walking right into a trap.” He placed his hands down on the hammock and smoothed it out. “Now, I’d like to get a bit of rest before we set off tomorrow. Just be quiet, and stay in your quarters until we get moving. I’ll deal with the adepts for you—and I’ll make sure those marines keep their lips sealed.”

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The next morning, when all of the officers vacated their sleeping quarters, Vayra peered around the corner of the curtain. She didn’t spot anyone in the officers’ quarters, and the ship had started to rock faster than normal. They were moving again.

‘Good morning,’ said Phasoné, speaking inside Vayra’s head.

“Any idea if they’re still around? The Order folks?”

Vayra imagined the Goddess shrugging. ‘The only way to find out is by checking. But I don’t sense anyone with Fair Spirit Potential aboard, except for Glade.’

“Alright…” Vayra stretched. There wasn’t much room in her makeshift chamber—barely enough to string a hammock up across the corner—and her back was a little sore. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and strapped her boots on.

Stepping softly, she crept out of her chamber and walked out onto the Harmony’s main deck. She saw a man in a black coat, and for a moment, she ducked behind the stairs up to the quarterdeck. But it was just Glade.

“A little nervous?” he asked, walking towards her.

“Just didn’t want to get caught.” She stepped out into the sunlight, then ran up to the quarterdeck. She looked back. The city was now just a distant wooden cliff overlooking the harbour, and there was no way anyone would catch up.

Ahead, the Stream sloped up into the heavens, becoming them upwards. She tried to push away the last of her doubts.

“Got rid of the adepts like you asked,” came Pels’ voice. He stood at a table, between two navigators. On the table, a parchment map of the galaxy had been laid out—only two dimensions, with inked lines to represent the Stream and dots to represent star systems. “So, Muspellar, huh?”

“Muspellar,” she confirmed, walking over to the table. “Where…where is that?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Pels said sarcastically. He picked up a dry quill and tapped the map. The galaxy was divided up into two parts—three quarters of it marked the star systems and territory taken by Karmion: the Elderworlds. The rest, to the Galactic East, was Velaydian space, where they currently were. From North to South, a dotted line marked the border between the Elderworlds and Velaydia—the Line of Battle.

The world in question was along the Line of Battle, towards the south of the galaxy.

“It’s currently under Elderworld control,” Pels said, “Though it’s a contested world. A couple branches of the Stream connect to it, making it strategically important. Its resources—iron from the lava flats, and mineral rich hot-spring water—are just gravy.”

Vayra nodded.

Glade asked, “How long will it take?”

“For the Harmony?” He ran his finger along the map, from Thronehome to Muspellar. “A week and a half, perhaps.” The navigators nodded in agreement. Then, he looked back at Vayra, and said, “I don’t suppose you’ll be doing much training?”

‘You shouldn’t,’ Phasoné replied. ‘Not until we arrive.’

“There has to be something we can do…” Vayra said. “I’m not sitting around for a week and a half doing nothing.”

“Well, I’d tell you to help out the sailors and learn the ropes a little, but I don’t think there’s much your scrawny arms could do to help us yet.” Pels chuckled to himself, then laid a hand on his pistol. “You haven’t practiced much with firearms, have you?”

“I haven’t. I mean, I know how to pull the trigger and make it go boom, but loading it is a little…above my pay grade.”

“Then now’s your chance to learn! I’ll teach you a thing or two. Just give us an hour or so to get moving on the Stream.”

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Once the Harmony was sailing at top speed, racing down the Stream at nearly thirty-three teraknots, Pels was comfortable that they didn’t need his presence on the quarterdeck. He headed down to the main deck, then took the stairs to the gundeck.

He navigated between the gunners, who polished and cleaned the cannons, or made sure they were firmly roped in place so they wouldn’t slide around during intergalactic travel. At the end of the gun deck, he found the gunsmith helping Mr. Kertogg with the frizzen of his musket.

Pels approached the gunsmith, Mr. Taramir, and asked, “Busy?”

“Just a second, captain,” Mr. Taramir replied. He was a burly, swarthy man, with grease-stained fingers and a smudged uniform.

“I can wait,” Pels said.

Once the frizzen of the marine’s musket snapped properly, Taramir turned to Pels and asked, “How can I help, captain?”

“I just need a pistol,” he said.

“For you? Gonna dual-wield them?” A big grin crossed Taramir’s face. “I’ll grab on from the armoury right away—”

“Not for me,” Pels said. The marine stepped back, his expression dumbfounded—on any other ship, an exchange like this between a subordinate officer and a captain would never have been tolerated. But Pels was more than happy to tolerate it. At least this way, the crew trusted him. He placed a hand on Taramir’s shoulder. “For the Mediator. She’ll learn to shoot.”

Mr. Taramir led the way to the armoury, where he picked up a pistol and a satchel full of pre-wrapped paper cartridges. “You’ve been looking forward to this, haven’t you?”

“All the other officers already know how to shoot when they get their service pistol,” Pels lamented.

“Gotta get yourself a kid, then,” Mr. Taramir said. He handed Pels the pistol and cartridge pouch.

“Didn’t really work out.” With a sigh, he cocked the pistol, then pulled the trigger. It wasn’t loaded, but the flint still snapped forward and let out a burst of sparks when it struck the pan. “Not much time for that when I’m a navy captain, and all.”

“I get it, cap,” Taramir said. His face was still bright. “Teach well.”