The barmaids of the Bird and Cloud catered specifically to sky pirates, the most despised criminals on the face of the earth. Something about air travel made people nervous by its very nature. Already one had to brave the heights, close quarters, a lack of control, and the possibility of burning alive in a fiery wreck. Throwing armed robbery in the mix just seemed cruel and untoward.

As a result of this prejudice, sky pirates congregated in numbers when they came to port, and many establishments took advantage of the trend. To name a few, there was the Aeronaut, a restaurant with walls painted like a tranquil sky, Lydia's Hall of Angels, an airman's brothel, and the Moon Balloon, a secret speakeasy in a hot-air balloon that lifted over the city once a month.

I could not afford to go to those establishments, but the Bird and Cloud suited me fine. Crews coming in from the mooring tower gathered around tables, playing daft games and grabbing at the women's skirts. The air was rife with the bilious odors of ale and vomit. I loved a spirited crowd such as this, and often came to get lost in it or to pinch some purses off the more inebriated patrons.

Sometimes, I would listen in on their conversations about life in the air. They would brag about skydiving from a raid gone sour or recount the time they had to crash land on water.

One night, I had nabbed myself an abandoned pint and was nursing it sip by sip, when the most impressive voice I ever heard bellowed beside me, "Damn that gypsy harlot!"

I did not know him then, but despite his reddening color, I saw that Captain Dirk was a striking, well-built man. He sat hunched over some kind of puzzle, twiddling with a row of brass letters that turned around a cylinder. As he tried to open it, he became increasingly enraged, finally slamming the thing into the table.

Seated around him were twelve other men, all wearing flight caps, except for one.

I studied Baker's dreadlocks, fascinated by their length and the trinkets woven in—an ivory bead here, a leather string there. Folding his burly arms, Baker laughed. "Never trust a woman who peddles opiates and old junk."

The men wore brown leather jackets lined in sheep's wool, some decorated with hand-painted patches depicting scenes of carnage and gore: fiery blimps, cannons, cracked skulls. One man had a row of bullet casings along his front laces. Another had an ace playing card sewn on the sleeve.

"What are you looking at?" remarked one of them.

My brain was too fatigued to remember my last scrap of meat. One swift punch could have knocked me out cold, so I didn't answer, just went back to my grog and pretended not to have heard him. As I eavesdropped, I learned the name of the gent with the cryptex, and that he was the captain of the Wastrel.

Leaning on the back legs of my chair, I raised my voice to speak to them. "Is that a cryptex?" I rasped.

The sky pirates eyed me warily. "Aye," said Dirk. "Bought it with the intention of keeping my gold pieces inside. Now it's jammed, and I can't get at my damn money."

The cryptex cylinder would only open for someone with a lettered code... or someone like me. Sliding my chair over, I said, "Give it here. I can open it."

"What's wrong with your voice?" asked one of the pirates, a young lad with a crooked underbite.

"What's wrong with your face?" I bit back.

The lad hid his face in his tankard, grumbling under his breath.

"What would you like as payment?" asked Dirk.

"How about you give me one of them taters?" I pointed to their plate of baked potatoes.

Dirk shrugged, and I seized the moment to devour one greedily. He nearly handed me the cryptex, but he hesitated. "If you run off with it, I will come after you. I'll find whatever hole you crawled out of and kill you and anyone else living there."

His eyes had an intensity suggesting he was not to be trifled with. Feigning nonchalance, I wiped my mouth on the back of my glove and nodded. "All right."

Dirk handed me the toy. "Damn gypsy said the code was spectre, but it's not working."

I went letter by letter, pulling at the release each time. If I lined up the correct letter, the lock would produce a gap, and each correct letter produced a little more of a gap until—click—the cryptex opened. As it turned out, the gypsy had not lied to him. She had simply used a variant spelling of specter.

The men were stunned by my speed, and they gawked as though I'd performed a magic trick. I was not sure which they found more amazing, that I had solved the code or that a street kid in Aixenport knew how to read.

The captain took my arm and gave me a firm handshake. "Name's Captain Alexander Dirk," he said.

"Clikk, at your service."

"How did you do that, Clikk?"

"Popped all kinds of locks when I apprenticed in a pawnbrokers' shop."

"Are you a pawnbroker?"

"Nah. Just your average brigand."

"Ah." He looked me over. I slouched forward, as I always did when anybody looked at me too closely. If he saw the girl, it meant trouble. "Then you've killed before?"

"I used to be Kindred." That was enough for him to understand that I had.

"Ordrick's crew?" Dirk blinked, evidently impressed. "There's a nasty bunch."

"Them the devils who jumped Garrett last year," said one of the crew. "Left him with a broken jaw."

"But you're not Kindred anymore?" said Dirk.

"No. Had a falling out... over a girl."

"I see," He ran his thumb over the patch of his reddish-brown goatee. "Ever consider sky piracy?"

"Course I have. I've heard sky pirates are the bane of the Duskmen."

"Occasionally, our paths cross."

"Every last Duskman is a pawn of the usurper's corruption. Does your ship have the artillery to take them on?"

Dirk surveyed the faces of his men before chuckling softly. "Their authority remains tenuous across Elsace. Nearer the capital, one might have to worry about coming up against an imperial warship, but we do not hunt anywhere close to Locwyn."

"But when you find Duskies, you kill them, do you not?"

"They don't exactly give us a choice."

"Then my sword is yours, if you'll have me."

"If you are to join us, you should know the risks. Good men die up there, drilled by bullets, blown up, maimed. It's not pretty. But we eat well, we die well, and every man gets an equal share."

There was something off about this sky captain. The way he spoke was more eloquent than any pirate or thief I'd ever met before. From his vocabulary alone, I could tell he was a well-read individual, a rarity amongst our lot.

"One thing worries me," he said. "Sky piracy demands a powerful physique."

"Get some food in me, and in a week or two, I'll be bigger than him." I pointed to Baker. The men laughed heartily at this, but I went on, "I've many skills, sir. You've seen I can pop locks. I can also appraise jewelry, manage a sword, play fiddle—"

"Fiddle, you say?" The captain had the slightest tell of intrigue in his blue-green eyes.

I nodded. "I know all the sky shanties."

Turning back to his men, Dirk asked, "What do you think, Baker? You need a new Fledgling. And this lad needs a job."

"I don't know." Baker folded his arms and leaned back with his knees apart. "I like his scar."

I adjusted my scarf to cover the fibrous tissue running across my throat.

"What I wonder is, can he keep the boys and me entertained? Aixenport is rife with kids who can fight, but what about a kid who can boost morale with a song? What do you say, boy? Got a song for me?"

I shrugged. "Sure."

"It's got to be fresh. I'm tired of the same old shite. You've got to show me you can think on your feet. Sing me something about sky pirates."

I took a moment to think. "All right," I said. "I can do that. Wait a tick." I went to the bar and asked Gretta for my fiddle. The young wench went in back and returned holding the case.

As I returned to the table of sky pirates, a few of them nodded approvingly at the sight of my instrument. She was old and scratched, but as I tuned the strings, they could hear her voice had the most soothing, resonant quality. I took a deep breath and stumbled my way through a ditty that lent itself to improvised verses:

I know a girl whose old man is away,

She's pretty as pie and will do as she may,

She works at a shop fixing watches and clocks,

If we handle her sprockets, she'll handle our cocks.

My verse did not play particularly well. One of the men cracked a smile, but the rest of them offered me only vacant stares.

"Come on. You can do better than that!" Baker shouted. He joined in on the next chorus, knocking the tempo into the table.

I frantically formulated a new verse for them:

I know it ain't easy to live in the sky,

Without wenches or doxies to help pass the time,

I'd never admit to be missing the land,

But it's just my first week, and I'm sick of my hand.

A better, though admittedly mixed, reaction lifted off the crewmen. Some laughed while others muttered derisive comments. Baker, at the very least, was laughing under his breath.

"Ain't it the truth!" he cried, and his praise bolstered my confidence enough to contrive the next verse:

Our ship has a baker, he's big, and he's tough,

On the roughest of skies, he kneads dough in the buff,

When he comes to port, all the girlies will dread,

How their little bread boxes can't fit all his bread.

Captain Dirk patted Baker on the shoulder as the man buried his face in his hands. He came up for air, laughing so hard he was almost crying. I played a rapid succession of notes, drilling my fiddle with a fervor that at last won the attention of the tavern's other patrons. When I finished, a much larger crowd applauded.

After the noise had died down, Baker said to the captain, "Yeah, all right. I'll take him."

"Welcome aboard, Fledgling," said Captain Dirk.

One of the men jumped up from his chair, came up behind me, and tried to pull down my trousers. I leapt away from him, knocking several empty tankards from the table as I did. Baker chugged the rest of his ale, grabbed his brother by the jacket and shoved him against the wall.

"Nobody hazes Fledglings in front of me!" he growled.

"I was skylarking."

"The lark'll be when I soapsock you in the dead of night."

"Baker," said Dirk. "Weren't you, just a month ago, caught dangling a Fledgling over the stern?"

"He said something about my mum. You're not going to say nothing about my mum, are you, Clikk?"

"No, sir. I'm sure your mother was a very nice woman."

"She wasn't. And don't call me sir. Baker's fine. This ain't the soddin' Sky Force."

"Got it."

I never forgot how much his smile surprised me after that churlish performance. In that moment, I knew there was something different about these men, something good in them. I had spent a great deal of time in the company of black-hearted thieves and mercenaries. Now, the mist lifted, unveiling a new layer above my gloomy little domain of Aixenport. These new opportunities held the promise of a better life for me. I had a future with these men. The sky was waiting.