We don't, actually, have cutlasses, though Quarter and I have both equipped ourselves with knives from the dead raider's generous supply. I've still got the black glass knife, too, for whatever that's worth. Mercy, of course, doesn't need a weapon.

  She goes up the side of the ship first, which feels weird. Ever since she lost her arm and proved she was not, in fact, invincible, I've been feeling more protective of her. Which is obviously ridiculous -- even one-armed, she can clearly fight better than I can. There's probably some repressed childhood emotions playing out there, and I jam the lid down and go right on repressing them. the time for personal drama.

  "Murder," she whispers over the side after a moment, which I take to mean there's no one in sight. I climb up after her, the decorative spikes providing excellent handholds. The cutter has a flat, cigar-shaped deck with a waist-high rail, with a bulging protrusion poking through amidships to house the bulk of the engine. Stairways fore and aft lead inside. To this basic Navy configuration, the raiders have added spikes, a graffiti, spikes, stacks of long throwing spears, a huge icon of the Fifth fixed to the engine cowling, and spikes.

  "You know how this boat is laid out?" I whisper to Quarter as he comes aboard.

  "Aye." He starts pointing out sections from front to back. "Bridge in the bow. Armory. Engine room. Guns. Bunks. Stowage."

  "What'll it take to get her going?"

  "Depends what state she's in," he says. "Need t' check the tanks first. If I'm t' be on th' helm we'll need someone at th' engines."

  "Okay. Let's sweep front to back and make sure there are no surprise. Mercy, anybody looks like they're about to attack us or scream for help, murder."

  "Murder," Mercy echoes, looking determined.

  We descend through the front stairwell. The walls of the ship are covered in crude drawings, Fifth symbols, and unreadable graffiti. I'm not they're done in blood; it could be just … very flaky brown paint. Thankfully the actual working areas have been left relatively clear and free of spikes, but the main corridor still feels cramped. This is a ship built for speed, not comfort, unlike the relatively spacious holds and hallways of .

  The control room, a darkened mass of levers, instruments, and speaking tubes, is empty. The armory door is locked tight, and we leave it be for the moment, following the corridor after into the engine room. It turns into a metal walkway passing through the machinery, shafts and gears rising up and over our heads like the limbs of dead spiders. The gun deck is even more heavily decorated than the rest of the ship, with several Fifth icons set beside a pair of ugly-looking weapons on swivel mounts. Quarter frowns at them as we pass.

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  Beyond the guns is a closed door, and the murmur of voices comes from beyond it. At least two people.

  "Fuck." My mouth is very dry again, and I badly need to pee. Why do I always need to pee at moments like this? "Okay. I'll open the door. Mercy, you take whoever looks, you know, scariest. I'll be right behind you."

  "Protect," she says sternly.

  "I'll be careful," I mutter. "You protect, too."

  There's barely room for the two of us to stand side-by-side. I grab the handle, whisper a silent prayer to whomever among the Twelve might be listening, and slam the door open.

  Small room. Two people on opposite sides of a little table. Big woman, ugly little man, both in mish-mash raider garb. The man says, "You're early, we're here till second sun --" and then the woman surges out of her seat and starts to shout something.

  Mercy charges her, blade-arm extended. The raider woman jerks back and the blade sinks into her shoulder instead of her throat. She roars and grabs Mercy, lifting her entirely off the ground, then roars again when Mercy's bladed feet start kicking into her midsection.

  Meanwhile the ugly man has pulled a knife -- it's a big knife, honestly pretty to a cutlass -- and he's circling the table to stab Mercy from behind. Someone should really do something about that.

  Right. That's on me, isn't it?

  My own knife isn't as big, and most of my training is with a rapier, but that's okay because I don't remember any of it anyway. I just step forward and thrust, no technique at all. The raider sees me coming, sidesteps, and swings his blade for my throat. There's no room to back up and I don't trust myself to parry, so all I can do is step into him, blocking the slash by jamming my forearm into his wrist and pressing him backward into the table.

  His face is inches from mine, all mad pupils and tangled, bloody beard, screaming something. Spittle flies in my eyes. His off-hand slams into my ribs once, twice, but I barely feel the blows in the rush of adrenaline. I lurch sideways, spinning us around. Behind him I get a glimpse of the big woman holding Mercy in a bear-hug, giving a pained each time one of the epigolem's pointed limbs punctures her. Then my own assailant rears back, eyes crossing, and I realize Quarter has stabbed him between the shoulderblades.

  I lift my head and bring it down hard, right on the bridge of his nose. There's a crunch and a squirt of blood, and he goes momentarily limp in my arms, losing his grip on his knife. I pull my own blade in and jam it to the hilt under his chin. He goes rigid for a few heartbeats, then relaxes.

  Behind me, the big woman's knees have given out, and she's slumped to the floor while still hugging Mercy close. Mercy's arm is free, stabbing her over and over, eliciting a monotone . I stagger over and grab the woman's wrist, prying her weakening grip loose. Mercy springs up, eyes wide with alarm.

  "Murder!" she shouts at the dying woman, shaking her head. "Murder, murder."

  "Mad, the lot o' them," Quarter says. "You all right?"

  "Think so," I manage. I have no idea. I could be bleeding a torrent for all I know. My heart is hammering like roach's footsteps. I wipe my face and my hand comes away gory red.

  "Protect?" Mercy looks me up and down then gives a nod. "Protect."

  The room, now that I have a moment to look around, is a little antechamber. Doors to port and starboard stand open, revealing tight quarters with bunks stacked three high. Another door sternward is closed and barred on this side with a length of iron pipe, which doesn't make a lot of sense if that's a storage room --

  "Hey!" It's a young woman's voice, muffled but comprehensible. "Is something happening out there?"