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wordlessly at Lucian, then moved to the stern hatch and descended. Down she went, passing her cabin and the splintered door to the head, then the quarterdeck. She paused for a moment at the stair to the hold; the faint smell of smoke drifted up from the mess. There was also shouting. Natasha recognized the voice as the usually silent, terrifying cook, Geoffrey Lords. What’s got into him? She gave a shrug and continued to the cargo hold below.
    The space was mostly empty. A single lantern hung from the ceiling to provide a small pool of light over several rugs, leaving the rest of the great space in darkness. Her husband walked amongst the rugs, examining their damage. Fengel was bent over and did not notice her approach.
    “You worm ,” she snarled. Fengel straightened in surprise and looked back to her. Natasha marched over to stand on the same rug he now examined. “How dare you hide from me down here?”
    “Hide?” said Fengel, disdain dripping from his voice. “I’m the one that came looking for you. Apparently, you’d finally left the cabin. I knew that would happen eventually, if only because I intentionally limit the rum you keep there.”
    “That was you,” Natasha growled. “How dare you paw through my things!”
    “Because someone kept leaving the half-opened bottles in my clothing! Look, look at this.” Fengel stood back and spread his arms. The fine vest beneath his waistcoat was stained across the left breast. “This was my favorite vest! And now the dye has all run because you couldn’t be bothered to clean up after yourself.”
    Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ye Goddess. You’re bitching about your clothes. Again. What are you, some prissy Perinese socialite? Never mind, I know the answer to that.”
    Fengel arched an eyebrow. “A gentleman has certain standards of dress to maintain—”
    “A gentleman has certain standards to maintain,” she mimicked, voice obnoxious.
    Fengel glowered. “Very well. I was coming down here to find out what ridiculous course you’ve put us on, but talking with you is impossible. I’ll just go and correct things, as I usually do.”
    He moved to walk past her, and she stuck out an arm to bar his way. “What? No. I came down here to ask you why you’ve put us on this ridiculous course. We should be halfway to Breachtown by now!”
    “Exactly,” said Fengel frostily. “The counting house raid, remember?” He made to push her arm away, then stopped. “Wait. But I didn’t order a change in course.”
    Natasha frowned. “Well, I certainly didn’t.”
    “Then who did?” asked Fengel.
    “Now!” shouted a voice.
    There was a great commotion in the darkness, and the rugs they stood upon shot upward. Natasha lost her balance and collided with Fengel, the two of them suddenly flung together into the middle of the net that appeared out from beneath their feet. It cinched tight, and they rose into the air of the hold, swinging crazily. Natasha fought to orient herself, but she’d fallen to her side, one leg out through the mesh, one arm bent painfully behind her back and up against Fengel.
    “What’s the meaning of this?” she cried at the whirling cargo hold. “Let me down before I cut your stones off!”
    “Thankfully,” said a voice, “that’s not an issue for me.”
    A figure appeared out of the darkness. She was waiflike, with knife-hacked hair and that horrible scryn pet of hers. Natasha recognized Lina Stone, the ex-doxy on her husband’s crew. Natasha opened her mouth to shout again, then fell silent as others appeared in the dark.
    Reaver Jane, Henry Smalls, Sarah Lome. All the crew she hadn’t seen up above or in their bunks walked out of the dark, some of them holding guide-lines for the trap she had stepped into.
    “Miss Stone,” cried Fengel, holding his monocle in place. “What is the meaning of this?”
    “She’s got to go, Captain,” said the waif.
    Fengel nodded sharply. “Ah. A capital idea. But you seem to