Chapter 1

The third sun was finally making its retreat, the lights in the Moonward Isle skysailors’ lounge rose to compensate, and, for Captain Xanthe Simeon, the night had finally begun in earnest. No messages by alldusk meant no change to her schedule – the Devil’s Advocate would set sail tomorrow as planned, and, until then, her time was her own.

First, time to let her hair down, yanking the tie loose and turning a semi-businesslike ponytail into a bouncy shock of fuchsia; the dye job was starting to fade and expose flashes of her natural brown, but she rather liked the way it looked. A quick shake of her head cleared the stray locks from her hazel eyes. Then she fed a half-sylve bit into the auto-bard, queued up a few old favourites, and called out for a spiced cocoa. It was ready by the time she reached the bar, and Gregory slid it across the counter with a smile. As a longtime patron, Xanthe’s first drink every night was free. As Gregory’s former crewmate and occasional bunkmate, so was her second.

The lounge was quiet tonight. Xanthe’s crew were all either on standby aboard the Devil’s Advocate (and probably standing down by now), or running errands elsewhere on the Isle. The dock hadn’t been busy, either, with only two other big ships and the usual gaggle of barges and skiffs, and none of the dozen or so sailors in attendance looked familiar to her. In the absence of exciting-looking company, she took a seat at an empty table between the auto-bard and four red-faced dust-trawlers, having a spirited, confusing argument about clouds. Pointless bickering for its own sake was practically a sport in the dusting business, and Xanthe was a keen spectator. It was best not to stare, but she could listen in and chuckle into her cocoa at the highlights.

“Look, you can’t argue with it,” said one. “If altostratus don’t have veins, then what were up with that thick altostratus bastard we flew through two days ago?”

“That was a cirrostratus, you muppet!” countered another.

“Didn’t feel very cirro,” grunted a third. “Where were the wisps?”

“Instruments said...” began the second trawler.

“Where were the fucking wisps, Julian?” bellowed the third.

Xanthe tried to stifle a laugh, but she doubted they’d hear it anyway over the general uproar that followed. To her disappointment, it died down fairly quickly as the fourth trawler, who was either in charge or just louder than the rest, imposed some sort of order.

And then, to her delight, someone saw the social machinery that was keeping these four from arguing, and casually tossed a wrench into it.

Heavy footfalls approached the table behind her. “Evening, gents.”

Xanthe pulled the compass from her pocket and pretended to check her reflection in its shiny silver case, angling it to get a good look at the newcomer. She caught his middle first: a battered serpentskin overcoat, reinforced with iridescent chitin plates, hung confidently from a thick, powerful torso.

“Couldn’t help but overhear your discussion, and, well, I’m no expert, but I’ve done my time in the skies...”

Xanthe tilted the compass back just a little and finally got a look at the man’s face. He was pretty. Oh dear, he was very pretty indeed. Perhaps a few years on her twenty-nine, and pleasingly weathered by it. His crew cut flattered him, the thick, dark beard couldn’t conceal a strong, stony jawline, and his terracotta skin had a faint bluish undertone that suggested a pinch of orc in his genetics. And he was smiling, an utterly shameless grin that screamed “I’m about to cause problems”.

“You sure you’re dealing with stratus there? ‘Cause I’ve been through some altocumulus that are bloody riddled with dust.”

Then he looked directly at the compass, and, for just a moment, Xanthe could’ve sworn she saw him wink at her.

“Just a thought,” he said. “Have a good evening.”

He was striding back towards the bar before they could reply, and one of the trawlers ventured, “Actually, I bet it was altocumulus. Hard to tell at that –”

“Marion, if you say ‘at that altitude’ one more time,” snarled Julian.

“Nah, nah, he has a point,” said the one who’d been a mediator before. “Youse never been stuck in an alto-C before? Those ripples?”

“There were no godsdamn pissing ripples!”

That would probably have set Xanthe off laughing again, but she’d tuned out a little, because the stranger who’d reignited the argument was making a beeline for her table, drink in hand.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, hand planted on the back of the chair opposite her. “Slow night, wouldn’t mind talking to someone other than the wall.”

Xanthe nodded. “Faster night now,” she said. “That was bad.”

“In my defence, it was also very funny,” said the stranger, settling into his seat. He was bigger than she’d realised, even sitting down – he probably had a good half foot on her. He extended a big, solid hand across the table. “Galva.”

“Xanthe.”

His handshake was iron-firm. “You been here long?” he said.

“Few days,” said Xanthe. “My employer’s been having some pirate trouble, so I’ve been on call to divert. Looks like a quiet one this time, though.”

Galva scratched his beard. “Didn’t have you pegged as a company woman.”

“Nor me,” admitted Xanthe, “but my girl took some knocks and we needed a sponsor. Contract’s up in a few weeks, though.”

Galva winced. “Big repair bill?”

“Pretty,” said Xanthe. “The Devil’s Advocate’s a tough old bitch, but when she fails, she fails.”

Galva’s eyes widened. “That’s your ship? That big red hybrid with the claw sails?”

“Oh yes. Six years and counting under my watch.” Xanthe smiled proudly. “Sorry, she’s not for sale.”

“Fuck, no, she’s way beyond my means,” said Galva quickly. “But I just thought ... gods, she’s gorgeous. Tough, sharp, just a little bit dangerous.”

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” said Xanthe.

“Yeah,” said Galva, “and her ship looks pretty good, too.”

Xanthe had the following thoughts, in no particular order:

I should have seen that coming.

Uh-oh. I’m definitely going to end up making out with him. At minimum.

Change the subject, quick, before he sees you’re flustered!

It was too late for that, alas; her pale cheeks flushed a crimson almost as deep as her flight jacket, and she fidgeted a little as she cleared her throat. His wry little smile didn’t waver. “What’s your line, then?” she managed to ask. “That’s a nice coat you have there. Bounty hunter?”

“No! Fuck, no,” said Galva, recoiling in feigned offence. “This is an heirloom. I’m just a trader. Small-time, not your calibre – it’s just me and my little brother.”

“What’re you hauling?”

“Oh, y’know, light goods,” Galva shrugged. “Construction gear, small-batch minerals, nothing too heavy. I take whatever I’m given.”

Xanthe nodded. “Right,” she said. “And what are you actually hauling?”

Galva scoffed, then leaned in closer. “Depends. Are you an inspector? You have to tell me if you’re an inspector.”

“That depends,” Xanthe said, leaning in to match him. “Are you a dirty fucking smuggler, Mr Galva?” In truth, they both knew that any Barony inspector who made it as far as the Moonward Isle was either hopelessly lost or hopelessly crooked. It wasn’t exactly a free haven – the mayor had a few standards – but, for anything short of actual piracy, the port authorities tended to have bad eyesight and worse memories.

They stayed close for a brief, charged moment, then Galva laughed and threw himself back into his chair, with enough force that Xanthe heard the wood creaking. “Alright, you got me, Captain,” he said. “I’m a dirty fucking smuggler. Guilty as charged.”

“And the coat?” probed Xanthe.

“Nah,” said Galva, “that’s legit. And pretty useful. When the locals think you might be a merchant prince slumming it, they don’t ask so many questions.”

“Well, then.” Xanthe drank up the last of her cocoa. “I think that concludes my investigation. Oh, but – just one more thing.”

“Hm?” Galva raised an eyebrow.

“What are you drinking tonight, lowlife?”

The titan opposite Xanthe eyed his glass warily. “Something harder than this,” he said. “What do you recommend here?”

Xanthe pursed her lips. “I know just the thing.”

The lounge was even quieter now. The trawlers had finally agreed to disagree and shambled back to their barge for the night, and even Zach and Monisha, who came here every night to play cards and seemingly never did any actual sailing, had retired early. There were four people left: Gregory the bartender, a surly satyr in the corner nursing his fifth glass of persimmon wine, and two sailors, perfect strangers to each other, who’d been talking uninterrupted for the last hour and a half.

“Sweet mercy,” rumbled Galva, setting down his mug. “And you drink this for fun, do you? It’s not some weird ascetic thing?”

Xanthe laughed, and this time she didn’t mind flushing a little. As it turned out, Galva, despite his size and manner, was something of a lightweight, and it was adorable.

“It’s only a flaming apple,” she teased. “I bet you’ve had far stronger belowdecks on the ... what’d you call it again?”

“The You Shall Know Us Only By The Spaces We Leave When We Depart,” said Galva, wagging a finger like an overenthusiastic teacher.

“Yeah. On there. You’ve hidden stronger stuff than this under the floorboards.”

“Partaking of the goods,” said Galva, “doesn’t get you many repeat customers.”

Partake of my goods, Galva, said Xanthe’s brain, which she quickly squashed down. “I never got an answer, by the way,” she said. “What are you carrying?”

Galva laughed, a deep, warm laugh that she wanted to dive into like a swimming pool. “I’m off to the Biarchy,” he said, “with forty dozen copies of a book they’ve just banned. The Vice of Saint Alexandra.”

“Ooh,” said Xanthe. “Heretical?”

“Most heretical book in a generation, says the archpontiff.”

Xanthe wolf-whistled. “Save me a copy, won’t you? I love a little apostasy.”

“I don’t think most of ‘em will be reading it for the theology,” smirked Galva. “Saint Alexandra had a fair few vices, it seems.”

“How many of them involved her getting her tits out?”

Galva thought for a moment, then said, “Three quarters or so.”

“Illustrated, this book?”

“Lavishly.”

“So it seems to me,” said Xanthe, “that what you’re actually hauling is, in fact, pornography.”

“One man’s pornography...” Galva began.

“You’re slippery,” said Xanthe, reaching across the table to prod Galva in the chest. He felt good to poke. Nice bit of yield. “You’re a trader, then you’re a smuggler. It’s theology, then it’s porn. Slippery like a serpentskin coat.”

Galva held firm, giving her a sleepy, even smile. “Serpents are pretty dry, actually,” he remarked. “No slime, they just...” He pantomimed a vague wavy motion with his hands, but broke into a giggling fit at his own attempt before he could finish.

“Fine. Then you’re slippery like ... something else,” said Xanthe, calculating the pause carefully for maximum suggestive tension. She settled back into her seat and folded her arms. “Am I ever getting a straight answer out of you?”

“No idea what you mean, Captain,” Galva said, eyes meeting hers. “I’ve been perfectly clear.”

“In some respects,” said Xanthe. “If I had any doubt you were coming onto me, you’ve certainly put that to rest.”

“Good,” said Galva, quirking an eyebrow. “Is it working?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” said Xanthe.

“True enough,” said Galva. “Hey, when did you say you were shipping out again?”

Xanthe grimaced. “Tomorrow,” she said. “By noon, if all goes well, which it probably won’t.”

“Such is life,” huffed Galva, leaning back again. He was even prettier all stretched out like that. On display, almost. Xanthe had to restrain herself from actually licking her lips, but the sentiment was probably still clear on her face.

There was a brief, charged silence.

“Why’d you ask?” said Xanthe.

“Well,” said Galva, “I wanted to know how long we had left. Y’know, to keep doing this.”

“This as opposed to...” Xanthe trailed off, instead pulling her chair in as far as she could and stretching herself out across the table.

Galva spread his hands evenly as he came in to meet her. “You tell me.”

Xanthe reached forward and traced a fingertip along the outline of his beard. “Slippery,” she said.

Their first attempt to kiss was cut short as they both tilted their heads the same way, bouncing back and giggling, but the second more than made up for it. He wasn’t as good a kisser as her – she was a true master, confirmed by many testimonials from her friends and lovers – but fuck, he was good enough. His beard tickled just the right amount, and he was good with his tongue, not too passive, not too aggressive.

“You can do that again,” said Galva, a little awed, when they broke apart. So Xanthe did. The second time was hungrier, a kiss that carried powerful, reflected intent, and his hand was in her bright hair within moments, holding her close. Not gripping or grabbing, mind – holding.

He’d done this before, she could tell. Meet a pretty stranger, slip into her attention and make her skin prickle with want, let her do the same to him. Practised. Seasoned. She could feel her heartbeat everywhere, including the beginnings of a twitch in her breeches – down, girl, she thought, you’ll get yours. Then her head drifted to whether Galva might be having similar stirrings, and that really got her heart jumping.

It was hard to pull back, and Galva looked almost disappointed when Xanthe did, like he could’ve done this all night and been satisfied. She folded her arms and grinned. “Well?”

“I’m sorry,” said Galva, “but there’s not much room on the You Shall Know Us. My brother has his boyfriend along. But I could get us a...”

Xanthe cut him off. “What’s my name, Galva?”

“Xanthe Simeon,” he said, puzzled.

“My full name.”

Realisation dawned in his eyes. “Captain Xanthe Simeon.”

“You’re damn right I am,” grinned Xanthe. “Care to visit my quarters?”

As they left, she paused to exchange a meaningful glance with Gregory, who nodded and gave her a thumbs up. He knew the meaning well by now: “I’ll pay my tab in the morning.”

The journey back to the Devil’s Advocate was short but unsteady; between the slight buzz of alcohol, the clumsy excitement, and some high winds when they made it outside, they both almost tripped a couple of times on the way. The ship’s service lanterns were lit, but the crew windows on her flank were almost all dark. The crew were probably getting the sleep Xanthe ought to be, she thought, and she hoped she didn’t deprive them of too much.

Rosa was on night duty, and saluted Xanthe as she approached – Xanthe didn’t run an especially strict ship, especially not for a friend as close as Rosa, but she’d picked up the habit in naval school and never quite shaken it. “Who’s this?” she asked. “You going to bed with him, Cap’n?”

“Galva,” said Galva, giving her a cautious, confused wave.

“Aye,” said Xanthe, grinning from ear to ear.

Rosa lifted her goggles and squinted at Galva, who helpfully stepped a little further into the light. “Nice,” she said at last. “He’s not coming with, though, is he? I’ve only provisioned for the crew.”

Xanthe shook her head. “Man’s got places to be. I’m just first on his list.”

“Good, good. Take care, Cap’n.” The bosun pulled her goggles back down and returned to her gear checks.

“Night, Rosa,” called Xanthe as she led Galva to the stairs.

Xanthe’s cabin was just below the bridge, and deceptively spacious given the Advocate’s sleek hull. She locked the door behind her and threw a switch to ignite the arc-lanterns hanging on the walls, casting a warm, inviting orange glow on the room. It was a mess, even more than the standard ambient disarray that clung to Xanthe wherever she sat down, but the bed was clear, made, and generously sized.

“Forgive the mess,” she said, crouching to unlace her boots and kicking them off into a corner.

“We’ll only make more,” said Galva, following suit.

Xanthe caught Galva between her and the door and kissed him again, this time making a play to get that coat off him. He let it slide off his arms, but caught it before it hit the ground, laying it on the edge of her bed. Off came his suspenders, dangling down at his hips, and the tight grey tunic that had shown off his shape so enticingly; now Xanthe had an unobstructed view, at least from the waist up. He was hairy, with a thick trail of fur starting at his navel and curling down towards ... well, it was hard to make out in the half-light, but she’d felt it against her, and she’d liked it.

Just as she was reaching for his belt buckle, though, Galva put a hand on her wrist. “Not fair,” he grunted. “Think it’s my turn.”

That was just fine by Xanthe, and she let him peel her flight jacket off her, and the shirt underneath. Her breastband wasn’t very secure, done up in a hurry, and one tug unravelled the whole thing; Galva stepped back and took a moment to admire her. Her tits were small, subtle, even, but Xanthe liked them on her frame, and Galva, from the flash of hunger in his eyes, seemed to concur.