I have never been so happy to part with so much money.

The day was glorious, clear and with a light breeze nudging us across the waves from the green blur that was Stranglethorn in the east. All in all, the kind of day for which sailors pray, but on that day I had eyes for nothing but my crew and my ship. I could finally say that in every sense of the words: my ship.

Despite the pale lavender-blue stained wood of which she was made, to my eyes she seemed to shine in the sunlight. The Maiden's Quarrel was the most distinctive vessel I've seen, even to this day. Originally a night elf caravel, hence the color of her woodwork and her low-slung build embellished with wide scrolling accents, she had been remodeled at least once in her history, and now had a sloping mast and sail rig of the style used in Quel'thalas, as well as a much sharper rebuilt prow than kaldorei vessels tend to have. Though smaller than most vessels that plied our trade, the Quarrel was damn near the fastest thing that sailed the South Seas, due both to her design and to the adaptations that had been added to her over the years. She was largely a mystery to me, though I had always thought the story of how that little ship came to be had to be a grand one.

I was about to learn exactly how grand.

Today, I gazed across her decks with all the pride and pleasure of a new parent, watching the crew milling around the cask of wine I'd ordered placed just aft of the mainmast. Four years now this ship had been my home, and this motley collection of humanoids my only family. Now, finally, I found myself a much poorer woman, but a much more satisfied one.

Standing at the starboard rail of the hurricane deck, I let my fingers trail across the wood of their own accord, absently smiling down at the crew below. Gouge and Grenka were perched on one of the cannons each with a mug of wine and the opposite arm around the other's waist. They were usually more reserved in public, but the festival atmosphere was catching. Turf, Clog and Lanki had all seated themselves on the conn deck below, leaving only the tips of Turf's horns visible from where I stood. Gizmit lounged against the cask, singing "I'd Hit Sally" loudly and off-key, seemingly oblivious to the lack of audience participation. My smile widened, and I glanced down at my hand, still caressing the rail.

"You're going to wear off the finish."

Grinning, Jane Raleigh ambled over to join me at the rail, idly swirling her glass of wine in one hand. Somewhat self-consciously, I folded my hands behind my back, lifting an eyebrow.

"This deck has weathered storms and entirely too much cannonfire. I doubt my well-manicured hands will make a lasting mark."

"Aye." She lounged against the rail, smirking. "But the storms and the cannons weren't taking to the finish like a lovestruck minstrel to his lady fair. This ship is a weird enough color without you making her blush, Ann."

I pursed my lips irritably. As first mate, as well as my closest friend aboard, Jane had certain prerogatives when it came to how she spoke to me, provided she didn't do it in front of the rest of the crew.

"So," she added more formally, "I gather your negotiations with the Baron went well, Captain Dawncrest?"

"Shh! It's going to be a surprise. I'm making a grand announcement and everything."

"Yeah, it's real mysterious. Because you let us drink on deck all the time, and it's not like everyone knew you've been planning to buy the Quarrel ever since you made Captain..."

"Damn it, wench, must you always steal my thunder?"

"Someone has to keep your boots on the deck." Grinning, she raised a hand defensively. "All right, all right, I'll shut up. Everyone deserves her moment. It's been long-awaited." The expression faded back to a smirk, and she turned to direct it out to sea.

I glanced back down at my relaxing crew, then frowned, taking a quick headcount. A visual search of the deck brought no results. "Where's the Professor?"

"Here, Captain!"

Raleigh started violently, swearing as she sloshed wine across her trousers. Right beside us, a balding gnome with a tremendous green handlebar mustache appeared over the rail as if by magic. On second look, I realized he had rigged himself a harness and was secured by lines to the rail itself not far from my feet.

"Professor Dimmerswitch." I tilted my head, examining him. "Dare I ask?"

"Just a little necessary maintenance, Captain," he said cheerfully. "Don't mind me, I'll be done here posthaste. Got a good head start as we were sailing out of the Cove."

"The one day you have a chance to relax on deck and you're working?" I shook my head. "I admire your ethic, but this is a celebration. Unless we're sinking, pack that away and have some wine."

"Can't do it, Captain!" He shook his head, frowning. "Someone's been playing hell with my equipment. It's taken me all morning to get the rapid rigging system worked out; every single one of the sparcaps was sprung, and she had no less than three bent springs and a cracked gear. And NOW I find that the thrusters are every last one of 'em clogged with seaweed."

"Those are emergency devices, Professor. We're hardly going to be chasing pirates barely out of sight of Booty Bay." I frowned, the import of his words suddenly registering. "How did all that happen, anyway? When we put in last night you said everything was shipshape."

"Everything was!" He gesticulated wildly with his spanner, causing himself to bob about in his harness. "I looked it all over myself before going ashore. This happened overnight, and none of it accidental. This much equipment does not spontaneously break at once. Not to mention that seaweed doesn't jam itself into six intake vents without so much as tangling in the rudder."

Raleigh scowled. "Sounds to me like someone's professional jealousy got the better of them."

"My thoughts exactly," I nodded to her. The Maiden's Quarrel was one of the more successful ships in the fleet, a fact which some of the more senior captains did not appreciate. Still, sabotaging another vessel under Blackwater colors was a serious affair. "I'll speak to Baron Revilgaz about keeping order in his port and among his personnel. And to Clog about keeping awake on watch, it seems. But, not at this moment. Pack up and come back aboard, please, I'm about to give a speech."

The Professor groaned dramatically. "Can't I just finish up here, Captain? I've just got two units left to de-clog."

"Now, Dimmerswitch."

"Aye, Captain," he sighed, tucking away his spanner and tugging himself over the rail.

"ON DECK!" I shouted, striding to the steps that led down to the conn. The three men positioned there immediately rose to their feet, Clog a trifle unsteadily. Lanki got up only so far as tucking his feet under himself before settling back into that habitual crouch that trolls tend to assume when not actually doing anything. On the main deck below, Gizmit broke off her singing, and the McCullerses hopped down from their perch, giving me their full attention.

I stood silently beside the wheel while everyone assembled on the deck below. Only Lanki and Raleigh remained on the conn with me, she lounging against the rail off to the side as was her habit. Simply for dramatic effect, I held quiet a moment longer before clearing my throat.

"My friends, I hope you enjoyed the wine, and am sure you've been curious as to the occasion. As you all well know, the Maiden's Quarrel has sailed under the flag of the Blackwater Raiders as far back as anyone knows of her, which admittedly is only a short span of years. She was purchased from a high elf shipbuilder by Baron Revilgaz himself, and has consistently acquitted herself well. That, I deem, is due mostly to the excellence of her crew."

I had to pause here for the chorus of cheers, which I'd been expecting. Raleigh rolled her eyes, but smiled as she did so.

The noise abated as I held up a hand for silence. "It's my great pleasure to report that as of last night and the discussion that passed between the Baron and myself, as well as the quantity of gold which subsequently changed hands, I am the sole owner of this ship."

This round of cheers was louder, and more gratifying as I hadn't been as sure of it. The crew thought well of me—obviously, as my position was an elected one—but sailors are a conservative folk by nature and leery of sudden changes in their circumstances. I waited till the cheers died off before continuing.

"I want to assure you all that nothing has changed as regards our duties. We remain part of the Blackwater fleet. Indeed, a clause of my contract with Revilgaz was an additional three years mandated under his colors, and honestly I've no plans to leave even after that point. This is what we all signed on for, and we are damn good at it."

"Laying it on a mite thick, aren't we," Raleigh muttered under cover of more cheering, but she continued to smile at me with good humor. I tipped her a wink.

"There will be one change, however!" Silence fell. Under its weight, I smiled down at my crew. "Terms of service in the Blackwater Raiders are different for a private vessel than one owned by the Baron. The main difference, and the main cause of his reluctance to sell me the ship, deals with the distribution of spoils: namely, that we now owe less of what we take to the Raiders." I had half expected to be interrupted again at this point, but the crew held quiet, expectant. I panned my gaze across their upturned faces for a moment, then turned and slowly paced across the deck for a few steps.

"It's no secret to most of you that I've been saving up for this since the day I took command. The Quarrel has been my goal all along...and with that achieved, my need for riches is much less urgent. I am fully cognizant that I've been blessed by the Light in the form of this crew; we'd not have done nearly as well as we have with just about any other collection of people."

"Fully what?" Gizmit piped up.

"Means she knows it," Turf rumbled. "Hush."

"With those things in mind," I continued, "I wish to announce that going forward, I shall contentedly hold my share of our earnings the same as it was under our previous arrangement. The surplus, all of it, will be divided among you."

I barely made it to the end of my sentence before being drowned out by the outcry. Gouge actually flung his hat into the air; Grenka immediately cuffed his exposed head, but she did it while grinning affectionately. This time, shouts of "Captain Dawncrest!" featured in the chorus of cheers. I let this continue for a minute or so, partly to let them work it out of their systems and partly—well, why not admit it?—out of my own love of adulation.

"Right," I called, holding up my hands again for quiet. "You've listened to enough of my yammering. It's a gorgeous day and that cask isn't going to drink itself. As you were."

I strolled up the curving stairs to the uppermost deck, savoring the ecstatic hubbub behind me. The Quarrel's kaldorei design positioned a raised poop deck, reached by sinuous stairs starboard and port, behind the conn deck on which the wheel stood, which itself was raised above the main deck. Originally this hurricane deck ("poop deck" was more technically correct but we'd all grown tired of Gizmit's sniggering) was empty and I assume had served some ceremonial purpose, but we had added weapon emplacements, as well as Professor Dimmerswitch's ingenious track-and-rail system which allowed them to be moved from one side to the other without coming loose from the deck.

"Masterfully handled, as always," Raleigh said, strolling up behind me. I nodded to her.

"Well, one does what one can."

"Pshaw!" Grinning, she waved away my reply. "Modesty doesn't suit you, Ann."

"No, it really doesn't, does it?"

With an answering grin, I leaned back against the rail beside her, allowing my gaze to wander. Across the ship, through the rigging (Gizmit had climbed up there with a tankard, somehow; the little goblin had always been as deft in the ropes as a monkey, though, so I made no comment), and across the open horizon.

"So what's next, then?"

"Next?" Glancing over at her, I shrugged. "I mean to let the crew have a day to relax, then back to business as usual. The Bloodsail Buccaneers can always do with a vigorous roughing up. We might even cross back to Ratchet and try the hunting among the Southsea band. As long as we stay south of Durotar, the night elves shouldn't bother us." Night elves had a tendency to chase the Quarrel, no doubt curious what one of their ships was doing heavily modified and under the Blackwater flag. My attempts to warn them off had backfired rather badly.

"Oh, don't give me that." Her tone made me look up in surprise; the humor was gone from her freckled face, replaced by an analytical expression. "I know you better, Ann. You'd sooner be caught on deck without your pants than without a plan. Always scheming something. So, you've just achieved your major goal in life. What's next?"

She held my gaze for a long moment. Jane was fairly attractive, for a human; the freckles were a bit off-putting, but she had hair an almost elven shade of red, which I'm told her race prides. She tended more toward "cute" than "pretty," though her smirking and sly manner of speech often spoiled the effect. I finally sighed, breaking from her eyes to stare at the distance.

"All right, fine. I see I'm not allowed to surprise anyone on this ship."

"Damn straight. Spill."

"Well..." Casually, I held up one hand and inspected my fingernails. They were, of course, flawless. "I intend, the next time we find a likely prospect, to take a ship."

"What? Actually take one?" She stood up straight, eyebrows climbing in surprise. "No more sinking and looting the wreckage? I mean, I know I wasn't so keen on your strategies at first, but they've made us wealthy and kept us safe. Taking a ship means boarding and going toe-to-toe with pirates...the Quarrel isn't built for that, and we frankly don't have the manpower."

"Yes, I am actually aware of all this," I said dryly. "I've been toying with ideas, and I have several workable strategies to compensate for our shortcomings."

"Heh." She sank back against the rail and eyed her empty glass. "Between your twisty tactics and the Professor's gadgets, I don't doubt you could pull it off. But why, Captain? The way we do things now works perfectly well. Are you planning to build your own fleet, is that it?"

"Not unless that's what you want," I replied, studying my other hand now. "I mean, you'd be welcome to sail under my colors, Jane, but I should think you'd also relish the chance to strike out on your own. The second ship's for you."

There was a tiny crash as her glass shattered on the deck. I eyed the mess disapprovingly before looking up to her face, and then had to blink in surprise. Raleigh had gone pale, making her freckles stand out sharply, and her eyes nearly bulged.

"Oh, come now, Jane, I think that's a bit more surprise than the announcement warrants. Much as I'd hate to lose you, don't think I'm unaware that you deserve it. You're a fine officer and one of the best sailors it's ever been my privilege to know. And you have seniority. You've been first mate on this ship longer than I've even been aboard, and though I appreciate you never making a point of it, my being made Captain must have been a disappointment. You're past due your own command, and it's the least I can do to help you get it."

She blinked at me, mouth still open. A flush suffused her rounded cheeks now in place of the pallor, but she still didn't seem up to speaking, so I carried on. "I waited till now for exactly that reason. While the Maiden's Quarrel was a ship of the fleet, any captured vessel belonged to the Baron. But now that I'm an independent contractor, whatever I take is mine to dispose how I please, and it pleases me to help a friend's career along. With our record, you should have no trouble assembling a crew in Booty Bay, and I'm sure Revilgaz will approve you for a command under his flag. I'm not the only captain who'd speak up for you if he didn't. So keep an eye out as we're raiding, and if you see a vessel you like the cut of, let me know."

I grinned at her. Jane shook her head slowly, as if coming out of a dream, but managed a smile back at me. "I... Captain—Ann, if I'd known...I mean, you could have mentioned this."

Shrugging off the hint of reproach, I clapped her on the back "Well, you know how much I like my dramatic moments."

"Aye, and you never let anyone know what's going on between those pointed ears for fear they'll find a way to head you off." She shook her head again, but squeezed my shoulder companionably. "That suspicious nature will be the death of you."

"Something has to," I replied lazily. "But this is our day; we can maunder about death some other time. Let's get you a new glass."

"Hey, Captain," Gizmit called from above, "ships ahoy."

I shaded my eyes, peering up at the goblin lookout. She had lost her drink and was staring aft. "We're two hours out from Blackwater Cove," I shouted back. "Ships are everywhere. Why are these significant?"

"Because they're following us!"

At that I straightened; below, several other crewmen set down glasses and looked up to follow the conversation. Lanki, the Gurubashi witchdoctor who served as our cook and surgeon, appeared on the upper deck, his strings of beads and trinkets rattling with his movements as always. As he ambled over to join us, frowning, Raleigh and I turned to gaze back toward the coast. Just as Gizmit had said, I could clearly see three ships in the distance, apparently aimed right for us.

"I wasn't sure at first," the goblin went on, "but they haven't changed course since they appeared, and they're too close now not to have seen us."

I couldn't make out details as yet; I couldn't even see the sails on one, but the other two were unmistakably moving our way. "Can you make out their colors?" Gizmit has freakishly keen eyesight, even without using a scope.

"Blackwater!" She grinned down at me. "I can do you one better, Cap. It's Silvergrin's ships, all three of 'em."

To my right, Lanki let out a deep snort, then closed his fist around a particular piece of mojo hanging from his neck and began to mumble. I tapped one forefinger against my lips in thought, while Raleigh narrowed her eyes at the pursuers. Commodore Skeevil Silvergrin was a goblin with a more unsavory reputation than most, but he got results. Unlike the majority who controlled multiple vessels, he had never broken up his fleet to increase his odds in hunting pirates and the Steamwheedle Cartel's rivals, but had leveraged the combined might of the Death and Taxes, the Dragonhawk and the Citadel to do Baron Revilgaz's most dangerous work, taking on entire pirate fleets and assaulting their bases. He wasn't well liked, and had personally insulted both myself and Raleigh, as well as Eshani, the former captain of the Maiden's Quarrel.

"Wonder what he wants," Raleigh muttered.

"I'm sure it has nothing to do with us. Mr. Turf!"

"Aye, Captain?" Turf's mighty head and shoulders appeared at the stairs, his black fur and horns glistening in the sun. Our helmsman, he was large and well-muscled even for a tauren.

"Take the wheel and nudge us gently to the south; I want to get out of the heading of those three ships. Silvergrin's been known to brush his armada entirely too close to other vessels. Compensating for something, I expect."

A flash of white teeth showed briefly in his face as Turf grinned. "Aye, Captain. South it is." He vanished back below the deck, and in moments the Quarrel eased to port.

"Should we put on more sail, Captain?" Frasier "Gouge" McCullers called from the main deck below. I raised my voice to answer.

"No, hold speed. Gizmit, let me know what they're doing when they get a bit closer."

"Will do, skipper!"

"Professor!"

"Yes, Captain? I mean, aye?" Dimmerswitch bounded up from the conn, where he'd been sitting at the mechanical console.

"What's the status of your repairs?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, Captain, no progress since we last spoke...I mean, you told me to stop and get a drink..."

"That's fine, I know I did." I smiled reassuringly at him. "Just want to be up to speed on the status of my ship."

"Aye, Captain," he said with obvious relief. "I got the auto-rig back in working condition, just a matter of switching out a few busted pieces. Straightened out four of the thruster vents, too; first two port and aft. I've still to fix the last two on each side."

"Understood." I nodded. "No rush, just keep me posted."

"Aye. You worried about having to get out of Silvergrin's way?"

I grimaced. "Better safe than sorry."

There is an art to having a gnomish inventor as a ship's engineer. One must give them the necessary validation and take full advantage of their skills, while also applying a constant brake to their enthusiasm. Fitzwilliam Dimmerswitch was Professor Emeritus of Applied Engineering at Gnomeregan University, so he claimed, and was undoubtedly brilliant, but I had to spend a great deal of time dissuading him from attempting things that would get us blown up or sunk. Still, those of his insights that had worked had made the Quarrel unlike anything else on the sea. Her weapons were entirely unique, and the two devices we were now discussing, the auto-rigging and thrusters, had made her faster and more nimble than any vessel I'd ever seen. The former enabled a limited amount of control over the sails and lines from his console; sailors working in the rigging still gave more thorough and precise results, but we could completely reef or furl sails in seconds, if necessary. As for the latter...well, I couldn't deny the thrusters' effectiveness, but I fervently hoped never to use them again.

These things were of immediate interest to me because Silvergrin had a reputation for, among other things, playing chicken against other ships which wandered too close to his fleet. To my knowledge he'd never actually rammed anybody, but I had spoken with other captains who'd complained about him swamping their decks in his wake. The course adjustment I had ordered should take us out of range of that, but one should never underestimate the madness or malice of a goblin.

Below, the enthusiasm of the celebration appeared to have faded. Gouge and Grenka, with the kind of unspoken agreement they tended to have, had begun cleaning up mugs and glasses, and stoppered the cask. Turf stood at the wheel, Gizmit keeping watch aloft, and Lanki was engaged in the rhythmic muttering I recognized as communing with the spirits. Or the loa. Whatever it was he did; I have managed to learn nothing about voodoo during my years at sea, and I'm perfectly content with that. Clog was still working on a mug of wine—separating a dwarf from a drink is no easy task—but he, too, was quiet now.

"They're changing course, Captain," Gizmit called. "Still coming right for us."

A tense silence fell where there had been cheering only minutes before.

"All right, then." I pitched my voice loud enough to carry across the deck without raising it beyond simple speech. "Doubtless Silvergrin has heard of my business with the Baron last night and intends to offer his conratulations. And by 'congratulations,' in his case, I mean 'insults.' All hands, stand by to be the bigger man. Nobody strain yourself."

Chuckles went up and I felt some of the stress leave the atmosphere. That was dashed to hell in moments when Lanki broke off his chanting and turned to me.

"Captain, de spirits whisper warnings t'me. Dem ships bringin' us trouble."

I hesitated. I am not an empathetic person; I believe "female intuition" is a concept invented by women who couldn't be bothered to read. Facts and logic are what I trust, and here I was presented with a stark dilemma. Vague and confusing as Lanki's warnings often were, they had never been wrong, and in fact had saved all our lives more than once. That I didn't understand the process didn't make it invalid, any more than it made the Professor's inventions ineffective. However, these were Blackwater ships. Silvergrin might be a mean, conniving bastard, but he was still a commodore of our fleet. That other Blackwater Raiders should threaten us was simply unthinkable.

Dead silence had fallen now. The crew watched me, several with ropes in their hands, awaiting orders. Raleigh clutched the rail in a white-knuckled grip. I turned to Lanki.

"Running trouble, or fighting trouble, you think?"

He scowled. "Wat I look like, da Gadgetzan Times? Trouble, Captain."

"All right..." Better to be prepared for the unthinkable than to be felled by the impossible. I raised my voice and barked, "All hands, lifelines! Grenka, open the weapons locker and make ready, but don't aim unless I order. Turf, Gizmit, Professor, stations."

A bustle of efficient activity erupted. Gouge and Clog began unwinding lifelines from their fastenings around the mainmast; once they'd secured themselves Gouge tossed one upward to Gizmit and the pair began bringing lines to each member of the crew. Grenka vanished into the forecastle where the weapons were stored, preparing the rifles as ordered. Professor Dimmerswitch rushed to man his mechanical console on the conn; Turf and Gizmit were already at their posts, the order serving only to notify them to remain there until further notice. In moments, Angus "Clog" McAree stumped up onto the hurricane deck, three lines clutched in his iron-gray fists; after handing these over with a salute, he headed back to the main deck, and Lanki, Raleigh and I fastened the ropes about our waists.

Behind us, the three ships grew steadily larger as they approached, swinging slightly north of our heading before they compensated for our changed course. Raleigh descended to the main deck to supervise preparations, though Lanki remained beside me, glaring at our pursuers and muttering again. I adopted a casual pose against the starboard rail, facing opposite, just in case someone from the chasing fleet had a spyglass aimed at me. Never let your opponent see you anything but calm and in control.

With that piece of my father's advice in mind, I have always taken pains to look my best at all times. Other sailors laugh at such things, but I consider it to be one of the secrets of my success. On this day I was no less put together than usual, my shirt and trousers clean and well-cut, boots freshly shined. I would be a recognizable figure to anyone perusing our decks: the well-fitting, knee-length coat of royal blue and my feathered hat were both personal trademarks. Confidence is everything: when in doubt, strike a pose.

"Lifelines secure, Captain!"

"Rifles ready, Captain. At your command."

"Good and good, well done, all."

I glanced up, examining the rigging. Gizmit was perched at the tip of our mainmast, which extended backward at an angle and placed her nearly over my head. We were running at about a third of our sail capacity.

"Professor!"

"Captain?"

"When you repaired the auto-rig, did you get all the sails attached properly?"

"Aye, Captain, McCullers helped me. You've got all sails, or none, at a word."

"Splendidly done, Professor. Everyone stand ready. Hopefully this fool will say his piece and be off."

Tension hung over us like a fog, shrouding the ship and obscuring the sea around us. No one really believed that. Lanki was never wrong about danger. On the other hand, no one really believed that Silvergrin could seriously mean us harm, either; the Blackwater Raiders stood by their own, always. Being caught between two certainties was in some ways worse than facing down an unequivocal danger. We had no idea what to expect.

Silent minutes passed as the three ships gained. The Quarrel could outrun any of them, should we so choose, especially with the prevailing wind favoring us. However, with our sails lax as they were, the flotilla had no trouble catching up. I refused to attempt to run, warnings or no; it would be undignified at the very least, and possibly would raise ugly questions concerning what we had to hide. I held my unconcerned pose, and in fact turned to present my back to them as they approached. There was little to be gained in study; I knew these ships. Anything further I needed to know, Gizmit would tell me.

Commodore Silvergrin's flagship, the Death and Taxes, was one of the ubiquitous Tirasian designed frigates that seem to be the backbone of every human navy, if a particularly fine specimen. There were, as far as general knowledge went, no special or unique modifications done to her, which I distrusted. Such a thing would be unthinkable for a ship with a wealthy goblin commander. More likely, Silvergrin guarded his element of surprise carefully, which I respected; I protected the upgrades to the Maiden's Quarrel with similar zeal. The Dragonhawk represented his armada's speed and agility. She hadn't nearly as much firepower, but could outmaneuver and outrun most ships that sailed the South Seas. Most. Not mine. The sight of her always brought a sneer to my lips; just once, I would like to see Silvergrin and his crews meet a dragonhawk, just for the pleasure of watching them soil themselves. The real power in his fleet, though, was the Citadel, the only steamship in the Blackwater Raiders. Lacking sails, she was slow and cumbersome, but well named. The Citadel's hull was metal-plated, and her armament was colossal. She was, in a very real sense, a floating castle, able to take more punishment than most sailing vessels could deliver, and respond in kind.

"Captain," Gizmit called, "The Death and Taxes is signaling she wants to pull alongside and talk. Looks like the other two are falling back to let her."

"Any sign who's on deck?"

"Can't tell from this far. Their decks are a lot higher up than ours."

"Very well. Acknowledge and accept. Turf, hold her steady." I carefully adjusted my hat as Gizmit dived to the deck to retrieve the signal flags. "Grenka, stand ready. Raleigh, Gouge and Clog, be near the forecastle and ready to arm if something happens."

There came a chorus of "aye's." I finally turned to regard the looming figure of the Death and Taxes as she came up alongside us to starboard. Nearby, Lanki had broken off his mumbling and now stared flatly at the ship, fingering his beads. Catching my look, he nodded once, and I repressed a sigh. Trouble was still on. His spirits had better know what they were talking about.

This close, I could see the diminutive figure of the Commodore himself perched upon the port rail his main deck. It was hard to make out details, but I could see the glistening of the metal-capped teeth from which he derived his name. For them to reflect that much sun, he must be grinning very widely indeed. I gritted my own, trying to tell myself that the cold tingling at the base of my spine was just a response to the crew's tension. I am not an intuitive individual; I do not get cold tingles.

Since that day,of course, I've learned to recognize that tingle, and respect it.