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Wind Jackal’s face. ‘What you never told me, andI’ve always been afraid to ask is … why? Why did Turbot Smeal murder my mother and brothers?’
    Wind Jackal continued to stare out into the night, his face a silvery mask in the moonlight, as impassive as one of the statues on the top of the Sanctaphrax Viaduct. For a long time he said nothing. But when, at last, he spoke, his voice was a low monotone, as if he was battling to keep the rage and sorrow from exploding out of him, like an over-cooled flight-rock.
    ‘I have never spoken of it, Quint my son, because I believed that Turbot Smeal was dead,’ Wind Jackal began. ‘I didn’t want to dredge up memories almost too painful to bear. But now I know he’s alive, it’s only right that you should know the whole story …’
    He paused for a moment, then continued, never once looking at his son standing beside him.
    ‘The crew of a sky ship is like a living body’ Wind Jackal said. ‘Arms and legs, hands and feet, stomach, heart - all working separately, but together. All different. All essential…’ He nodded slowly. ‘There must be a captain. The head. Someone to take control, to make decisions … And then the captain needs a strong right hand - someone he can trust with his life if he has to, someone who’ll stick with him, come what may, and watch his back … For years, I had Garum Gall, the most faithful cloddertrog a captain could wish for, and when he passed on to Open Sky …’ Wind Jackal paused.
    ‘You’ve got me, Father, I’m your strong right hand.’
    For the first time since Quint first entered the garret alcove, Wind Jackal looked him straight in the eyes.
    ‘I’ve got you, Quint, that’s right.’ He smiled gravely, then went on. ‘The left hand,’ he said, ‘should be a fighter. Preferably a goblin, like Sagbutt. Not too smart, but a ferocious warrior in tight quarters. And the arms and legs are the fore-deckers, the harpooneer and his mate - Steg Jambles, Ratbit, Tem Barkwater. Strong and tireless, and highly trained. Then there are the eyes -Spillins the oakelf. And just as important, the heart. The stone pilot, without whom no sky ship could ever come to life and take to the skies. And finally, Quint, there is the stomach …’
    Saying this, Wind Jackal paused and swallowed hard as he struggled to keep his feelings under control.
    ‘The stomach of any sky ship is the quartermaster -and like any stomach, it grumbles and growls and demands to be fed. But it is just as vital as all the other parts. And just as a stomach nourishes the body, so a quartermaster nourishes a sky ship, ensuring it is well-provisioned, its cargo-hold is full and its voyages are profitable. It takes special qualities to be a good quartermaster - strong contacts in the leagues, an eye for a bargain and …’
    Again, Wind Jackal swallowed hard.
    ‘Utter ruthlessness … And Turbot Smeal was the greatest quartermaster of them all!’
    Quint looked uneasily at his father, but Wind Jackal seemed to be lost in a world of his own.
    ‘The Leagues of Undertown!’ He spat out the words as if they were an ancient Deepwoods curse. ‘They seek to control and exploit everything that comes in or out ofthis great city of ours, their greedy fingers in every Undertown pie. Nothing escapes their influence.
    ‘There are the great Leagues - the Blood Leagues, for example, which deal in livestock; the Leagues of Construction, which control all building work; the Leagues of Plenty, which trade in manufactured goods of all kinds, and the Leagues of Toil, which control all those who sweat in the workshops making those goods - not to mention the accursed Flight Leagues, whose leaders seek to control all who would take to the skies!’
    Wind Jackal scowled, his twisted face white with rage. Quint flinched involuntarily.
    ‘Each of these great leagues is divided into smaller leagues,’ Wind Jackal continued. ‘For instance, the Flight Leagues incorporate all kinds of minor