We slipped back into our normal roles as if the conversation had never occurred. Firus grunted and broke eye contact immediately, rubbing a worn hand along the thick pipes that lined the ceiling and branched off in every conceivable direction like a flattened-out bird’s nest of brass.

“If the estimate of our position was close, we’ll be past the Moonlit Isles and south of the Fenland Quarter by dawn. If the fog is clear, we’ll steer east and follow the shoreline to Turnpike Gasbag. And then north-west to the Raventops.”

I nodded vaguely. I was unfamiliar with this stretch of the archipelago – since the last time I’d passed by, some manner of unspeakably powerful weapon had turned a solid coastline into a potholed mess of fjords and submerged valleys. That had only been five years ago, but you’d be surprised how quickly people forget. But there’d been dozens of towns here once, and to feel secure sometimes you have to deceive yourself, I guess.

And if you had to fool other people too, then so be it.