famous, are we? So, what do they have? Maybe he saw an Wickfield Ironclad accompanied by a Firecrow and a Skylance. You’d have to be pretty dedicated to hunt us down on the basis of that.’
‘Quail won’t say a word,’ said Frey, warming to her optimism. ‘Though it’s probably best if our paths never cross again. Just to be safe, let’s stay out of Marklin’s Reach. Silo, put it on our list of no-go ports. Scarwater, too.’
‘Aren’t that many ports left to go to,’ Malvery grumbled.
‘Well, now there are two fewer.’ He looked around the room. ‘Alright, are we done here? Good. Let’s keep our heads down, forget this ever happened, and it’s business as usual.’ He began to leave, but was stopped by a soft voice.
‘Am I the only one who remembers there were people on that freighter?’ Crake said.
Frey turned around to look over his shoulder at the daemonist.
‘That thing was hauling passengers,’ Crake said. ‘Not cargo.’
Frey’s eyes were cold. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said, and clambered up the ladder to the exit hatch.
The crew dispersed after that, some still arguing between themselves. Slag remained in the middle of the table in the empty mess, feeling neglected. After a swift and resentful bout of self-grooming with his tongue, he resolved to make Harkins suffer tonight by creeping into his quarters and going to sleep on his face.
Frey stepped into his quarters and slid the heavy iron door shut behind him, cutting off the voices of his crew. With a sigh, he sat on the hard bunk and dragged his hand down his face, mashing his features as if he could smear them away. He sat there for a while, thinking nothing, wallowing in the bleak depression that had settled on him.
Every time, he thought bitterly. Every damned time.
Suddenly, he surged to his feet and drew back his hand to strike the wall, but at the last instant he stopped himself. Instead he pressed forehead and fist against it, breathing deeply, hating. A hatred without target or focus, directed at nothing, the blind frustration of a man maligned by fate.
What had he done to deserve this? Where was it written that all his best efforts should come to nothing, that opportunity should flirt with him and leave him ragged, that money should rust to powder in his hands? How had he ended up living a life surrounded by the witless, the desperate, drunkards, thieves and villains? Wasn’t he better than that?
That bastard Quail! He’d done this. Somehow, he was responsible. Frey had known the job was too good to be true. The only people who ever made fifty thousand ducats out of a deal were people who already had ten times that. Just one more way the world conspired to keep the rich where they were, and keep everyone else down.
The Ace of Skulls should never have exploded. It was impossible. What happened to those people . . . Frey never meant for that. It was an accident. He couldn’t be blamed. He’d only meant to hit the aerium tanks. He had hit the aerium tanks. It was just one of those things, like a volcano erupting, or when a craft got caught in a freak hurricane. An act of the Allsoul, if you believed all that Awakener drivel.
Frey sourly reflected there might be something in the idea of an all-controlling entity. Someone was certainly out to get him, intent on thwarting his every endeavour. If there was an Allsoul, then he sure as spit didn’t like Frey very much.
He walked over to the steel washbasin and splashed water on his face. In the soap-streaked mirror he studied himself. He smiled experimentally. The lines at the edges of his eyes seemed to have deepened since last time he looked. He’d first noticed them a year ago, and had been shocked by the first signs of decline. He’d unconsciously assumed he’d always stay youthful.
Though he’d never admit it aloud, he knew he was handsome. His face had a certain something about it that pulled women towards him: a hint of slyness, a promise of danger, a darkness in his grin -
