“Surely that is time enough for such a conversation,” interrupted Fitz. “Truly, I have never known you so reluctant to seek private discourse with a woman of distinction.”

“A woman who feasts upon human flesh,” protested Hereward as he followed Fitz.

“She merely does not waste foodstuffs,” said Fitz. “I think it commendable. You have yourself partaken of—”

“Yes, yes, I remember!” said Hereward. “Take your star sight! I will go below and speak to Fury.”

The helmsman looked back as Hereward spoke, and he realized he was no longer whispering.

“Captain Fury, I mean. I will speak with you anon, Mister . . . Farolio!”

Captain Fury was seated at her table when Hereward entered, following a cautious knock. But she was not eating and there were no recognizable human portions upon the platter in front of her. It held only a dark glass bottle and a small silver cup, the kind used in birthing rights or baptismal ceremonies. Fury drank from it, flicking her wrist to send the entire contents down her throat in one gulp. Even from a few paces distant, Hereward could smell the sharp odour of strong spirits.

“Arrack,” said Fury. “I have a taste for it at times, though it does not serve me as well as once it did. You wish to speak to me? Then sit.”

Hereward sat cautiously, as far away as he dared without giving offence, and angled his chair so as to allow a clean draw of the main gauche from his right hip. Fury appeared less than sober, if not exactly drunk, and Hereward was very wary of the trouble that might come from the admixture of a pirate with cannibalistic tendencies and a powerfully spirituous drink.

“I am not drunk,” said Fury. “It would take three bottles of this stuff to send me away, and a better glass to sup it with. I am merely wetting down my powder before we storm the fortress.”

“Why?” asked Hereward. He did not move any closer.