Soooo, a lot to take in, there. As I've said, I am at least

  with swordplay and its inevitable aftermath, but typically when that sort of altercation occurs I aspire to be away from the scene as quickly as possible. I don't hang around to, as it were, take in the ambiance. Thus the first thing I try to acclimate to is the presence of various fluids and … bits, no longer linked to their persons of origin.

  One of these bits belongs to Mercy. And she is clearly the second item of business, because .

  "Mercy!" I rush over to where she's inspecting herself, poking at the blood splashed liberally across her body. "Twelve above. Are you okay?"

  "Murder," Mercy says, examining her maimed arm curiously. The cut surface has sealed over into new skin, like the nubby stump of someone born missing a limb. Mercy pokes it with her other hand and frowns.

  "Gray!" I fish him out of my bag, in case that helps. "Is she okay?"

  it depends on what you mean by 'okay', the skull says. There's disappointment in his dour tone. her essence reserve is much lower than i originally estimated. she will not be able to self-repair to any great extent until it is replenished. but she will not decay further unless she suffers additional damage, if that is what you mean.

  "Is she in ?"

  she does not feel pain as you understand it.

  "But --" My mind is still processing the last few minutes. "She didn't have to do that." Mercy had casually sacrificed the arm to get through the woman's defenses. "I could have -- I mean, I would have --"

  have. It was a fight to the death against fucking cannibals, who'd explicitly declared their intention to kill me. I'd held back to let Mercy take the brunt of it out of squeamishness, and now she has only one arm.

  "Protect!" Mercy says cheerfully.

  precisely, Gray says. while she possesses a rudimentary directive for self-preservation, it is subordinate to her primary drive to obey her operator's instructions. He clicks his tongue, which is a neat trick for someone who hasn't got one. she is much less useful in this state. i had hoped for better.

  "Fucking Twelve above. Mercy, listen to me! That's … objective number two, all right?"

  "Protect!" Mercy insists.

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  "You can't protect me if you're dead! Or if you've got no arms left. Just look out for yourself!"

  if she is destroyed, we can seek alternatives, Gray puts in. a weapon exists to be used. if it breaks in your hand, you find another.

  Mercy grins at me with big eyes, deaf to this casual dismissal. I glare at Gray, which has no effect.

  "Hallo? A moment, if ye can?"

  A new voice, with the harsh accent I associate with sailors and Navy men. It comes from the hidden compartment, where a skinny man has wormed his way out from behind the cloaked figure. His loose shirt hangs off him like a sail, and his face is almost lost between a great salt-and-pepper beard and a puff of gray hair.

  This of course, the

  issue on the agenda: establishing diplomatic relations with these strangers. I belatedly realize that my conversation with Mercy and Gray may not have helped in this regard.

  "Ah, yes. Hi!" I wave. "Sorry. This isn't quite what it looks like."

  "That's good t'know! 'Cause it looks like you're havin' an argument with a one-armed naked girl covered in blood and a , beggin' your pardon."

  I hurriedly tuck Gray away. "I mean, it's kind of what it looks like, I guess."

  "Not that we're not proper grateful for ye two dispatchin' those raiders, like, but we -- my companions and I, that is -- were wonderin' if ye meant to us or if this were more a psychotic rampage sort o' thing."

  "Rescue! Sorry. Definitely a rescue. I'm not interested in hurting anybody who isn't going to eat me."

  "Ah, that's reassurin'."

  "Is he going to kill us?" comes a woman's voice from behind him, thick with strain.

  "'E says it's a rescue!" the sailor calls back.

  "Pity," the woman mutters.

  "My name's Kal," I tell him. "I was a prisoner on this ship until yesterday. You were too, I take it?"

  "Aye," the sailor says guardedly.

  "Do you have a name?"

  "My mates dubbed me Quarter Cock."

  "That … doesn't sound very matey of them."

  "It weren't. Might be why I took an ax to the lot of 'em." He shrugs. "But I'm too old to get used to another moniker."

  "I'll call you Quarter, if that's all right."

  "Suit yourself." He thumps the big hooded figure with his heel. "Ye can get up now, Raz. Fight's over."

  The figure rocks but doesn't move.

  "Ah, don't get all sulky," Quarter says. "We're alive, ain't we? And that spear would have had me if ye hadn't been interposed, like."

  With a sigh, the big shape unfolds, ragged cloak settling around it. The voice that emerges is a deep, resonant buzz.

  "We are very grateful for the azziztance, Zir Kal," he says. "I am called Erazmuz."

  Standing, Erasmus is at least a head taller than I am and twice as broad. Through gaps in the cloak, I get glimpses of chitinous armor.

  "You were a prisoner, too?" I ask.

  "Yez. For dizobedience to my mazter."

  That doesn't explain why the guards had let him keep his armor, but that can wait. Quarter ducks back into the compartment and re-emerges with the woman draped over his shoulder. She's tall and dark-haired, her shirt soaked with sweat and dark bags under her eyes. Torn clothing is wrapped around her midsection to make a makeshift bandage, through which a dark stain is already showing.

  "I'm Agni," she says, wincing with the effort of speech. "Though I wouldn't waste time getting acquainted if I were you."

  "Here now, none o' that," Quarter says. "Still alive, like I said. Better'n expected already."

  "I don't suppose," I interrupt awkwardly, "any of you have any" -- hardly dare to voice the word aloud -- "water?"

  Agni snorts, then gives another pained wince, and Quarter gives me a doleful look.

  "That was what we were plannin' on askin' you."