“Erm, ahoy? Is this Foamswallower by any chance?” I called down to the terrified crew of yet another galleon. My wingbeats set their sails to shivering and blew their shaggy fur out from their bodies.

  This lot were some kind of possum-people. Or maybe stoats? Short, droopy snouts that ended in small black blobs of noses, prominent incisors, but no fangs, with long claws on the fingers of their hands.

  “It’s Foamsprayer we’re looking for,” Alicya grumbled. “They are clearly Vermilinguskin, for the love of the gods. Not Strix.”

  “Vermi-what-now?”

  “The Foamsprayer is that ship!” yelled a possible-possum with a heavily decorated jacket over his fur. Medals. Shiny and thoroughly approved. When he spoke, his tongue extended halfway down his chest like a long black worm.

  “Fucking anteaters! Not possums!” I yelled. Crossbows swung in my direction, and a pair of large ballistas on the deck that had been aiming ever so slightly away from me pivoted in my direction. “I’m going to remember this ship. If you send us to the wrong one, as three of your fellow captains have done, well, all that wood and tar looks really flammable. Just saying.”

  My wings beat harder as I struggled to gain altitude before heading in the indicated direction. “It’s that one!” The captain yelled hastily, pointing to a multi-masted monster of a ship two over from where he’d originally tried to direct me. I let out a spurt of fire from my nostrils as I wheeled in the latest direction.

  “I’m just going to land on this one. If it doesn’t have a Plop on board, I’m going to burn it and go to the next nearest one.”

  “What about the biomass you’ll get?”

  “I won’t burn the… people? Just the wood and stuff. If the fire gets them after the fact, it should be ok. Worst case, I’ll have to roll an evolution on the wing.” I did not like this idea at all. Some of them came with convulsions as pain wracked my body, and the thought of having to… I could swim. I was worrying about nothing, I’d just bob—heh—about on the water till I could get airborne again.

  My wings flared, my tails spread out around me like a backwards hydra, and my claws slammed down onto a wooden deck, making the whole ship rock wildly. A group of feathered sailors approached cautiously, crossbows and cutlasses held at the ready.

  Alicya slipped down my shoulder to the deck and strode towards the locals while I shifted back into my human form and pulled some clothes out of storage. By the time I’d got my boots on and looked up again, Alicya lay in a pool of brown blood as a birdman with a suitably shiny jacket and hat pulled a dagger out from the base of her skull.

  As I approached, they all backed away. I knelt down, careful to keep the knees of my trousers away from the foul-smelling and tasting puddle of Alicya’s vital fluids. Poison had taken her about thirty seconds to revive from, and it had probably been a really nasty poison, judging from the blackened veins under her skin. Having her brain stirred by an impressively curvy dagger might just take a while longer.

  “Didn’t she already prove it was her to Vakushi? Are you assholes going to kill her every time she announces herself to new people?”

  “No. My word will count for far more than a lowly Shesha. If she truly is returned to us.” Big yellow eyes turned back to Alicya’s unmoving form.

  “When I had to make friends with the orlics, I had a literal pissing competition. What the hell am I going to have to do with your lot?”

  “Show some respect to the Admiral,” screeched an owl-minion.

  “Piss off. Ok Poop, I’m just saying if you’ve killed her for real, you lot are in trouble.”

  “My name is Plop Scaredark, Clan Chief of the Crescent Light Strix, feeder on mice, slayer of bunnies and Admiral of the Revenge Armada.”

  “I’m a dragon called Bob, Baron of Fidlers’ Mill and the Longbottom, Dungeon Lord, Champion of Bulb, Chosen of Denarios, Victor of the Arena, Imperial Ambassador and purveyor of fine food and beverages. Titles are a waste of time—” Alicya coughed and raised her head, lifting a hand to the blood-matted fur on her chin. “—and a knife to the brain does take slightly longer to recover from than the slithery dude’s poison.”

  “It just takes longer for me to wake up if it’s brain damage. The poison took longer to heal. Half my organs turned to gloop. Are you satisfied, Admiral?” I offered her a hand and helped her climb shakily to her feet.

  “Moon Shiver, Mistress.” The owl-man bowed low, almost folding in half, and the rest of his band of feathered pirates fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads and beaks to the wooden planks.

  “Great. Can you tell them to turn this fleet around and sail home now?”

  Owls can straighten themselves out impressively fast. Plop turned to look at me, choosing to rotate his head in the opposite direction so it performed almost a complete revolution before he locked eyes with me.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “We are going to sack Ankmapak as payment for the many crimes of the Emperor’s nobles.”

  “Admiral, please issue orders for the fleet to return. Bob has been sent to negotiate reparations and a halt to the trade in girls with furry ears,” Alicya said gently.

  “What spell are you under? Moon Shiver led the sacking of Bonecrack and drove the humans out. Your claws were painted red, your fangs clogged with human flesh that night. And now you return at last and want us to make peace with them?” Owls' voices rise sharply when they’re pissed off.

  “I was rescued from the arena when Bob spared me the pain of yet another death. I’m not bewitched.”

  “Possessed then? Some demonic sorcery—”

  “I’m not possessed.”

  My head was flicking back and forth like I was watching a tennis match.

  “Some filthy implant in the base of your skull to control your mind?”

  “No!” Alicya turned and lifted the shaggy mane of hair that usually hid her neck. The owl reached forward and gently, almost reverently, parted her fur to check for metal and crystals. “The Emperor doesn’t want war. Bob is empowered to speak on his behalf on certain matters, but he can portal back to the city if he needs approval.”

  “We want the heads of the Hateskale, Dimpleworn and Bamblebunt families,” Plop said, looking at me.

  “I already ate lord Hateskale. Never heard of the second one, but the third might be a problem. What do you want to do with them?”

  “We will impale them along the wall at The Howl.”

  “Not sure I can swing that. Like impale them to death and let them bleed out with a spike up their bums?”

  “Of course not, we aren’t savages. We just want their heads. You can eat the rest of their bodies for all I care.”

  “Ah. I was hoping you just wanted to give them a stern talking to and extract some shinies from them.”

  “If I might have a word with my colleague alone?” Alicya said with a doggy grin as she pulled me away from the Strixkin.

  Once we were a few metres away, she began whispering to me. “Hateskale and Dimpleworn are no problem. They’ll be opposing you in the upcoming battle. Bamblebunt is an issue. The current head of the house is the Emperor’s foster-brother and best friend.”

  “Will two out of three be enough?”

  “No. Plop is being extremely generous. Probably because I’m the one asking. Oh, he’ll want some assurances that the people doing the slaving will be punished and stopped, but he named those three houses; he must have proof they were responsible.”

  “Get us alone with him. I’ll try and negotiate a deal.”

  We moved back to the group of pirates who crowded in close to their commander and glared at me. Plop blinked slowly, first one eye, then the other.

  “Can you accede to our demands?”

  “It has been a long journey. Please, could we discuss the details once we are out of the wind?” Alicya made a show of waving her soaked oilskin, now red-stained around her throat, and shivered as a gust of wind blew past us.

  “Of course, Mistress. We can retire to my cabin, and I will towel you down myself.” Plop gestured with an arm towards a set of stairs that led up to a raised deck at the end of the ship.

  “I don’t like it, sir. You shouldn’t be alone with the beast.” This guy looked like an officer to me. There’s always one not very bright asshole who tries to fuck up my plans and ends up getting eaten, and I was grateful he had made himself known so early in our relationship.

  “He will not harm you. He’s a dragon of honour.”

  I nodded at Plop. “You will be safe with me. As long as no one attacks my friends or me, we will just talk.” I waved a hand at the dragons circling a few hundred metres above us and saw the crew shift nervously as they glanced up.

  “Very well. Alone then.”

  I shot the mouthy prick a level four glare as Plop led us up the stairs to a door halfway up. The insides of the ship were cramped and damp; everything tasted of salt and sweat. The wood was smoothly sanded, and the thick panelling was clearly meant to be some kind of half-arsed internal armour.

  Nothing I saw would stand up to dragon fire or one of Jace’s bombs.

  The captain's cabin featured a swing. A low wooden bar that dangled a few inches over the ground from sturdy ropes. The rest of it was par for the course, a table covered in maps and weird navigational aids, a couple of chairs on either side of it.

  A large window gave us a view of the waves rolling past the ship that had already begun to turn back toward the south, and we rocked as a wave caught the side of the ship rather than the stern.

  “Mistress.” Plop pulled a towel from a sea chest and approached Alicya like a supplicant heading for an altar. She shucked her oilskin and stood happily as he began rubbing her down. Both her tails were wagging frantically.

  “Plop, I can do you two out of three. Bamblebunt is the issue. I can’t touch him. The others, we’ve got a date set, and I’ll hunt them down in the battle. If I don’t kill them myself, I’ll bring you their heads.”

  “What is the issue with Bamblebunt? He’s the worst of them all. The girls… the ones we’ve got back, they’ve all had harrowing tales, but the ones we got back from the Bunt estate had a much worse time of it.” His voice was thick with anger, and Alicya yelped. “I’m so sorry, Mistress, my talons slipped through the fabric. Please forgive me?”

  “He’s the Emperor's brother, basically, and best bud, so killing him isn’t on the table.”

  Plop continued rubbing down the werewolf, paying far too much attention to her chesticles than was decent, in my humble opinion. But his head rotated in that eerie owl-like way as his eyes narrowed in my direction.

  “His brother? By birth? Some kind of imperial bastard. That would explain everything. This cannot be forgiven. Unruly nobles, barely controlled at the best of times, we could forgive if a blood debt was paid. A member of the imperial family? That can only be answered by war.”

  “He’s not his actual brother. The Madson was fostered with the Bamblebunts,” Alicya said quickly. “You missed a bit near my tails, and you haven’t done my feet yet.”

  “Nonetheless. The Clans must have justice, Mistress. I’m afraid I must continue my mission despite your objections.”

  “You’re sure about that?” I asked.

  “There can be no other solution.”

  I thought for a moment, going back through the conversation in my head as Plop worked the cloth between the pads on Alicya’s right hand like she was a Kennel Club breeder and Crufts winner. OK. I could work around this. Mostly by lying, but I needed to reset and do this again.

  “Oblivastur Recentis!”

  Plop went very still, and Alicya growled in complaint.

  “What did you do?”

  “Wiped his recent memory. Give him thirty seconds, and he’ll be back with us. This time, we don’t mention Lozenge’s relationship with Bamblebunt. You don’t mind if he keeps rubbing you down?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Good.”

  It took me four more tries to get through the conversation without triggering a resumption of hostilities. Plop seemed more than a little dazed, and Alicya was both happy and very fluffy by the time we were done.