On Patrol: The Patrol
We fell smoothly but sharply away from Cloudstop, managing not to get hit by the many protruding bristles and spines on the underbelly of the floating island-tanker.
Thick cloud was the word of the day for the captain, whose mood had taken a definite turn for the worse. Time and time again he queried at the men on watch for a landmark, slightly angrier each time a negative was returned. We made sweeping passes, trying to get some visibility to fix our position, but it was for naught. As the sun dipped and the night helmsman saluted his way onto the bridge, all Firus could do was lay down a straight course and trust to the vigilance of the night watch to keep us safe.
I busied myself in the hold, knowing not to disturb the captain while he was angry, but he came to me instead.
“Captain,” I said after some time, laying down the last steamwork musket in the rack and turning to him, “What can I do for you?”
Firus looked at me searchingly, as if he expected to see some evidence of treachery in my eyes.