To Farris’s relief, the first pair of wooden doors he opened led into a dining area, with several circular tables in the centre, and a long food-bar along the walls. More workers dressed in blue stood in a queue with empty trays in hand.

“Just grab a tray and join the end of the line, I suppose!” he suggested, laughing meekly. The knight and the Pyromancer didn’t look impressed, but the woman smiled and thanked Farris, giving him an opportunity to disappear into the crowd of hungry crewmen.

There were some Simians already seated, and they wore fine, white suits and dined with paper napkins tied under their chins. In comparison to the grubby mechanics and engineers, Farris reckoned these were the officers and navigators. The real Chester would be eating with them. He picked up a tray for himself.

The others took their seats as he noticed an obvious divide between both groups.

Chester would be with the whites, but they might recognise me and pry for details. He shuffled towards the servers as the line shifted forwards. On the other hand, it might seem strange if I join the wrong group. A tall Human chef in grey overalls grunted as he tossed two boiled potatoes and a quarter stick of butter onto Farris’s tray.

After some consideration, he joined the mechanics and deckhands, deducing that if there were other agents on board, it was more likely that the king would have them impersonate those who didn’t require years of experience to be there.

After all, the Crown didn’t even know Chester was a crewman in the first place.

Farris took a seat opposite the dark Simian he had already identified as an agent. A Human beside him spoke enthusiastically of recent events in the capital.

“Tragic, that Santos went the way he did, but that’s the nature of political terrorism. The Silverback claims that we were wrong to take his land by force, so he commits more murder to make a point.”

“Hear, hear!” exclaimed another Human, raising his cup in agreement.

There were eight of them in total, and Farris was quick to note that even the Simians were nodding as the first man relayed the details of the attack on the king. The black Simian agent sat mainly in silence.

Another Simian sat to the left of him. He was thin like a rail, with a wiry wisp of a red beard under his chin. He sat relatively confidently compared to his neighbour, adding to the conversation whenever the speaker took a breath.

“He claims to be fighting for us all,” the thin Simian said, his tone heavy with aggression, “but I still see him as a murderer and a fool. A fool who’s fighting a war nobody wants him to win.”

The door to the mess room opened, and more crewmembers spilled in, queuing for food as others grabbed a table just behind Farris.

How many of them are there? There still must be some working to keep the ship in the air.

From the corner of his eye, Farris saw the knight and the mages sitting on their own. If one of the mages were on the same mission as Farris, it would mean that the Church was involved too.

Good thing neither of them are Wraiths, at least.

It was a comforting thought, as Farris figured that the Church surely would have sent Wraiths on board instead of the mages if the king had commanded it. That still left the knight, however. He was wealthy, that much was clear, but he spoke and walked like one who was insecure or overcompensating. Farris grinned.

Or acting.

The table behind him was full now, and the white-shirts across the room looked as if they were getting ready to leave.

A sudden pang of terror struck Farris’s chest, as a hammer would a gong. His heartbeat accelerated, each beat sending quivering waves of fear through his bones.

This could be his only chance to have so many crewmembers in one room. Once those senior members went back into the bridge and closed the doors, they probably wouldn’t be seen again until landing. Once the other mechanics climbed back up into the hull, well, Farris could follow, but that would raise far too much suspicion.

I could wait. Another wave of panic crept up his spine and grasped at his throat. I could wait until we land in Penance and kill the spies there and….

He closed his eyes, figuring out the possible outcomes.

If I get caught, I can explain from a jail cell. If I fail, I could run and warn the Silverback but….

But in truth, he didn’t know what the king was planning from there. The strike on Penance could take place a day or a week from now.

Farris’s teeth began to chatter as another bolt of anxiety shook his skull. Stars and sparks danced in his vision. The others still talked to one another, exchanging friendly banter, completely unaware of Farris’s condition.

I’ve gone too far. I’ve dug too deep and now I’ve gone too far.

He tried to take a deep breath, but another shudder took him, as if every bone in his body was screaming, begging him to curl up and die.

Then he saw it. A tiny tray in the centre of the table, made to collect ashes and embers from pipes and cigars. The sight brought so much joy, it may as well have been filled with gold. The panic passed, disappearing as quickly as it had come, and he leaned back in his chair and reached for his own pipe.

A joke was said, and Farris pretended to laugh along as he began unrolling a measure of bacum, tapping the residue into his pipe. As he did, he felt a small prod at his elbow from behind.

“Hey, friend, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Farris turned to face a fat, bearded Human seated right behind him. He was leaning back to whisper into Farris’s ear, but kept his eyes focused forwards, still locked in conversation with his own group.

“You better put that away, before one of the officers sees.”

Two. Farris smiled as he reached for a light in his other pocket. This is too easy. He held the pipe in his mouth and struck the match in cupped hands.

“Oi! What the fuck do you think you’re at?”

Another crewman, a Human, now stood across the table, pointing a quivering finger at Farris’s pipe. “You trying to get us all killed?”

Farris paused. Three.

A thick hush fell onto the room. Even the officers about to leave stopped in their tracks. One of them, with blue and gold stripes over his shoulders, approached the man.

“What is your name and station, sailor?”

The third spy hesitated. “Fenían. Fenían Malroy, sir. Mechanic.”

The officer took a step closer. “And how long have you been a mechanic of this ship?”

“Just… just under a year, sir.”

“How much under a year?” The officer’s voice grew louder. “Eleven months? Six months? Three? Two?”

“Ten. Ten months, sir.”

“Ah,” said the officer, turning away to face the rest of the crew, still sitting in shocked silence. “And in those ten months, Malroy, how many times have you seen the inside of the engine room?”

There was a scatter of nervous laughter, as if some crewmen didn’t realise the gravity of the situation. Farris did, but he laughed along anyway.

The officer stepped right up to the spy, staring him down and leaving barely an inch between their faces.

“Are you not who you say you are?” he rasped. “Are you not Fenían M—”

Farris often considered himself an agent of chaos. When there were too many factors to consider, too much thinking to be done, he’d ruffle up some feathers, cause some disorder, and rely on his own instinct and improvisation from there. It had worked before with the Guild, and many times back in the Dustworks. However, nothing could have prepared him for the chaos that erupted there and then, thousands of feet in the sky aboard The Glory of Penance.