Wren's footsteps echoed in the big room. It was nearly empty, save for a simple wooden desk and a sleeping soldier who woke abruptly at her entrance. Wren was glad to see that it was none other than Private Lester Turkin. Godfrey's estimates of the Paragon scheduling system had been accurate.

The crew had spent most of their time in Ice Gate shadowing the outpost's soldiers, trying to figure out who would make the best targets. Private Turkin had been an easy winner when he lost both his hat and gloves, tripped over his own feet, nearly set the local bakery on fire, and, worst of all, slapped a barmaid's behind-all during a single trip to town.

He may as well have ushered the pirates in, bowing hand over foot.

The Dirty Countess crew didn't have many advantages for a risky mission like this. They weren't rich, or particularly clever, nor did they have an abundance of time. What they had, however, was a keen sense of observation.

Past Turkin's desk was a tall door that led to the supply depot. Wren felt particularly justified in stealing from this output, as it held all the collateral from citizens who couldn't pay the Paragon's exorbitant taxes: the supply depot contained everything from cured meats to sheep's wool.

The supply door was covered with a complex maze of gears and keyholes. If someone put the wrong key in the wrong slot, an alarm would sound, alerting the entire outpost to the intrusion. Such doors were nearly exceedingly difficult to break into without a key-which was why Wren needed Private Turkin.

Turkin stuck out his hand. "Identification card and ship?"

"Private Sharts," Wren said, offering the card. "From the Liberty James."

Turkin gave the card a quick glance before waving it away. He began flipping through the paperwork on his desk, but frowned when he couldn't find any record of a "Private Sharts."

The satchel at Wren's side lightened considerably. Titus was out.

"Give me your ID card again, I'm not finding-" Turkin yelped as his seat was suddenly pulled back. He leapt up, tense. "What was that?"

"Sorry, what was what?" Wren asked, innocent.

"Something nudged my chair!"

"It looked like you just pushed it back."

"I didn't push it back," he snapped.

"Maybe the floor is slippery."

"It wasn't the floor! The chair moved."

Turkin stared down at it accusingly, brow furrowed in confusion. The chair, however, didn't move again.

They stood in silence for another few moments before Wren spoke again. "My officer will expect me back soon, so..."

"Yes, yes." He waved a dismissive hand and went to sit down again-but just as he was about to make contact, the chair was wrenched back again, sending Turkin crashing to the ground.

Quick as a flash, Wren was standing over him with her pistol in hand. "Hands where I can see them."

Turkin's eyes went from her face to her gun, then back again. He brought his hands up. Wren could practically hear the cogs turning in his head: should he fight or do as she said? Would she really pull the trigger if he protested?

She decided to put an end to his indecision and clicked off the safety. "Please, just give me a reason."

Titus appeared beside her. He stretched, shaking out his cogs.

Turkin gasped, eyes wide. "An automaton!"

"Don't look at him," Wren ordered. "Look at me."

Turkin obeyed, chin trembling.

Titus drifted over-Turkin flinched-and plucked the gun from his holster and the ring of keys from his belt.

Wren nodded toward the supply depot door, keeping her pistol trained on Turkin. "Get up and show me the slot. And it better be the right one."

A bead of sweat ran down Turkin's face as he slowly pushed himself up to standing. He backed towards the supply depot door, keeping his eyes on Wren and his arms in the air. Wren wasn't especially worried about him making a break for it. Turkin was a warm glass of milk of a man, and would do whatever it took to save his own skin. He was the kind of self-serving minion who gravitated to the Paragon, but he didn't have the fortitude to actually make something of himself-which explained why he was in Ice Gate, one of the least desirable outpost locations.

With a shaky hand, he pointed to a small lock on the lower right side of the door. Titus slipped in the key, and-Wren held her breath-the gears clanked outwards. The door eased open a few inches, unlocked.

Thank the fog. Now they just needed to find what they were looking for and get out before the Paragon discovered there had been a hand in their purse.

Wren faced Turkin. "Can I give you a little advice?"

He turned a little green. "Yes?"

She leaned in. "Don't slap barmaids' behinds."

She raised her arm and pistol-whipped him. Turkin fell to the floor, unconscious.

"I'll get the door," Titus said. "You get him."

"Yup, yup..."

Wren pulled Turkin's hands behind his back and wrapped a silver cord around them.

Titus leapt to the main door, the one that led out into the hall, and bolted it closed. He produced a handful of screws from somewhere within his nuts-and-bolts body and used a paw to drill them through the door into the frame. Extra security.

Together, they stepped into the supply depot.

"Whoa," Wren breathed.

The storeroom was filled to the ceiling with food, barrels of ale, various tools and trinkets, and hand-spun fabrics. There were even black velvet boxes that hinted at valuable jewellery. It was a treasure trove.

Titus moved through the rows of goods, his metal tail flicking with curiosity.

"Don't get greedy," Wren warned him. "We came for one thing."

The metal fox stared into a barrel of gnarled tubers, eyes gleaming. "But they have flummox root..."

"Put it back!"

"Don't be a spoilsport, Cutforth."

"Please, Titus..." Normally, she admired Titus's nonchalance-but she didn't have the patience for it when they were in the middle of risking their necks.

Wren walked through the rows until she saw rows of tiny glass bottles with brightly coloured liquids. "Found the medicine!" she called.

But her heart sank at the sheer number: there were thousands of bottles stretching all the way back to the far wall. She started sifting through them, going as quickly as she could.

Titus appeared at her side, frowning. "This is going to take too long."

"Better start looking, then..."

She kept her eyes peeled for Aravid. It was the remedy for Withering Lung-a cruel disease that caused rattling coughs and high fevers. Back on the Strand, hundreds of people were sick in the infirmary, counting on her and the crew for life-saving medicine.

She let out a frustrated sigh. The bottles didn't seem to be in any particular order, and they were wasting precious time. Every second they spent looking was another second that a soldier could try the depot door and find it locked.

"They're in section forty-three!" Titus called.

Perched at the end of the row, he held up a small booklet. "Inventory. I've told you many times: think smart, not hard."

"You're a lifesaver, Titus."

He leapt onto the counter, easily sidestepping the precarious bottles, and headed to the Aravid. "I'm aware."

Together, they gathered every bottle of Aravid and used padding to secure them into Wren's waiting satchel.

Wren and Titus dashed out of the storeroom, but came to a screeching halt.

Turkin was hunched over a radio, his hands still tied. He whipped towards Wren and Titus, open-mouthed. It was clear from Turkin's unfocused eyes and the way he was swaying that he'd only just regained consciousness.

Turkin pointed at the radio, threatening to use it. "Get back!" he panted. "Stay where you are!"

Wren was surprised-she'd expected him to remain a spineless willy. In one quick movement, she reached for her gun and lunged forwards. Turkin dipped behind the desk, taking the radio with him. "Thieves!" he shouted. "Thieves in the supply depot!"

Titus shot out a mechanical paw, which extended an impossibly long distance to the desk. Turkin yelped as the fox grabbed the radio and swung it at the far wall, shattering it into several pieces.

But a distant alarm was already shrieking, alerting the entire outpost to the breach.

"Fogging hell," Wren cursed. A quiet escape was off the table-the Dirty Countess would be in the air, headed for the aircraft bay as soon as they heard alarm bells. They needed to get to the aircraft bay as soon as possible.

Her eyes darted around the room, scanning every inch. "This room only has one door," she said in a rush, an edge of panic to her voice. She could hear Turkin whimpering from behind the desk.

The doors rattled as soldiers from outside tried to get in. Thankfully, the screws Titus had drilled into the frame were holding...for now, at least.

"The door isn't an option," said Titus. "We'd never make it past so many soldiers."

Wren's gaze found the air vent above them.

Titus saw where she was looking and started shaking his head. "No, absolutely not! Not after last time-"

#

Wren shuffled through the air vent on her elbows, the satchel strapped to her back.

Titus scurried just ahead. Being small had its advantages: he moved easily through the tunnel, although he turned his nose up at the dust.

"Air ducts never end well," he hissed over his shoulder at her.

"We don't have a choice," Wren whispered back. "Now be quiet or you'll get us caught!"

Just then, the vent creaked. She froze.

Titus tsk'ed. "Here we go. Be careful down there."

Wren braced herself. "Will d-"

But before she could finish her sentence, the vent collapsed under her weight, sending her crashing to the floor in a tumble of tin and dust.

"Oof..." she moaned, pushing herself up onto her elbows.

The room she'd landed in was full of vases, display cases, and old books.

A decorated military official sat at a large desk. He stared at Wren, a plump crumpet halfway to his mouth.

"What-who-what-" he sputtered, crumbs littering the desk.

"So long!" Wren said, then clambered to her feet and dashed off, leaving him to his snack.

#

She ran down the corridor, slipped behind a column, and stole a glance around the corner.

A troop of soldiers marched in her direction. Wren held her breath, making herself as inconspicuous as possible, and waited. The troop passed, and she fell into step behind them. She hoped her uniform wasn't too dusty from the air ducts...

Titus would have no trouble slipping by, but she was much bigger, and she was the one carrying the satchel full of medicine.

Just get to the aircraft bay, she told herself. Down this corridor, to the left, one level up, and it should be to the right...

The troop marched on, taking Wren with them.

"Annnnnd left!" barked a sergeant from up ahead, much to Wren's satisfaction. Exactly where she needed to go!

They continued onwards, the troop's boots marching in perfect synchronicity.

Wren held her breath as they moved towards the staircase. Would she get lucky again?

"Oooooonwards!"

Maybe not.

As the troop passed the staircase, Wren peeled away, darting up the stairs and through the doors-and emerged in the aircraft bay.

The area teemed with people: greasers in bright orange jumpsuits, mechanics shouting orders, soldiers moving past in thick, organized knots.

The noise was deafening. Drills, lifts, hydraulics, and the roar of engines all competed to see which could be the loudest.

The aircraft bay was much colder than the rest of the outpost. It didn't have a wall on one side, left open for ship access. She could see the vast sky, and immediately felt better-her ticket out of here was just beyond that crest.

Wren made a beeline for the open platform, where low-ranking soldiers worked to keep snow off the landing pads.

"You there, with the satchel! Halt!" someone hollered behind her. Wren debated whether to stop, but she was far from the edge of the aircraft bay. She forced the worried grimace from her face and turned around.

The sergeant caught up with her, scowling. "You know the rules, soldier!" he snapped. "No bags! Hand it over."

He held out a hand, waiting.

"Errr, I'm afraid I can't do that. Officer's orders."

The sergeant's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, really? And which officer is that?"

"...Officer Vos."

The sergeant narrowed his eyes at her, then, sensing something off, reached a hand to the gun at his hip-but she was faster. She slammed her fist into his nose, and it let out a loud crunch.

"Oomph!" he cried, reeling back and clutching his face.

Wren turned on her heel and took off, sprinting towards the open platform.

She heard angry shouts behind her as soldiers sounded the alarm. Bullets whizzed past her, one narrowly missing her head. She ducked lower and picked up the pace. Surrender was not an option-the Paragon made examples of pirates, even if they were only sixteen.

A bullet hit her satchel; Wren's stomach turned as she heard some of the precious bottles shatter. She pushed her legs to go even faster.

Come on!

A metallic tail flicked over the edge of the platform-the signal.

Wren veered towards Titus through the hail of bullets.

If the soldiers in pursuit thought she had no choice but to stop at the edge of the platform, they had another thing coming.

Wren didn't slow down. She didn't pause. She took the edge at a running leap-arms windmilling in the air-and landed hard on the rounded roof of a ramshackle airship. It was little more than a pile of rusted siding, crooked pipes, and sagging balloons.

She slid down the slippery surface, scrambling to find a foothold before she plummeted to her death on the mountains below. Titus stretched out a long arm and grabbed her collar just in time, pulling her back up to the roof.

"Thanks," she gasped.

He glared at her. "I told you. Air ducts never end well."

With a belch of thick, dark smoke, the ship began to chug up, up, up, and away.

The soldiers on the Paragon platform stood with their jaws open, dumbfounded. One of them smacked the others, and they fumbled with their guns, bringing them up to shoot-but the bullets ricocheted off the metal sheeting, making little plink sounds.

Other soldiers streamed around them, heading into their own ships to give chase. The Paragon's vessels may have been faster and newer than the Dirty Countess-but none of their balloons were inflated yet. They weren't prepared for speed in this normally quiet northern outpost, and the Dirty Countess was already well on its way.

With a sigh of relief, Wren pulled open the ship's top hatch and disappeared inside.