At the Edge of the Sky: 1

"Well, we seem to have lost track of our fine pilots in record time." Asher was scanning the tavern in vain; Jensen knew that much already, and indulged in a quiet draw of his ale before bringing as much to light.

"They went off with the first women they saw," he explained. "I doubt we'll see them again till at least tomorrow morning." It was certainly par for the course for those two. Every member of the crew had their particular way of enjoying themselves after a successful venture. Jonathan, the ship's doctor, devoted whatever profit he'd made to restocking his personal laboratory and the small infirmary beside it. Their gunner Malcolm inevitably sent the greater share of his back to a sprawling family he'd left behind in Spain. Both of them tended to keep to themselves when evening rolled around; they'd still been aboard the ship when the others left that night for a bit of revelry. And in all his years, including many with sailors - who had a well-earned reputation for such things - he'd never met a pair that took said revelry with more enthusiasm than Harvey and Louie.

The former was every bit the sort you'd picture upon hearing the description "Irish fighter pilot" - tough, loud; a small man but utterly fearless. Louie, on the other hand, was nothing you'd picture, no matter how she was described. At first glance she could have been a man, and he'd seen many make the assumption before; perhaps because she was easily the tallest of the crew, or perhaps because she wore trousers and waistcoats and spent a good portion of her time covered in engine grease. Between the two of them, they'd accounted for more reckless wagers, bar brawls, and female conquests than some of the saltiest enlisted men that Jensen had ever served with. One thing could be said about them - and it had to be said that way, for they were nearly inseparable - when they went looking for trouble, they did so wholeheartedly. And when they went looking for a good time, well, the same held true. Very often, they managed to do both at once. There was the time they'd ended up in some town's holding cell overnight, charged with making a royal mess of the tavern where they'd been drinking; of course, Asher's only disappointment had been that after a full day, they'd failed to con their way out of captivity, forcing him to do the necessary trickery himself. In a way, he supposed, an episode like that summed up a great deal about all parties involved. And it left him hoping that tonight, at least, they could all get by without anyone being arrested.

"Well, they've certainly earned the right to a bit of rest and relaxation," Asher started, then amended, "though I doubt very much that they're using this opportunity for rest. Still, good for them, in any case."

"What about you?" When he said that, Asher looked up, peering across the table over the edge of his own tankard. "Your plans for the evening, that is." Sometimes the captain went off by himself or returned to the ship early to admire whatever they'd made off with; sometimes the two of them just drank and talked together while the others handled the merrymaking; still other times, Asher would find company of his own, and some pretty young woman (or man, on a few occasions) would join them at the breakfast table the next morning. Whatever the case, Jensen quietly made his business to stay appraised of the situation. It wasn't that he had any particular interest in prying into Asher's personal business - though the man was hardly secretive about it to begin with - but while his young captain was a man of certain virtues, they rarely included caution. At least, not in any amount that Jensen could really find reassuring. And certainly not when there was fun to be had instead.

"Oh, I don't know," Asher sighed, setting down his drink and resting his chin atop laced fingers. They must have looked an odd pair, Jensen realized absent-mindedly - Asher in particular, with his pretty clean-shaven features and dapper attire. There was little of either to be found in a place like this, a rough little sailors' joint on a remote colonial island. Most of the crowd looked to be native, with cinnamon-brown skin like their gunner's and the unmistakable tattoos of traders' companies. Others, like themselves, had clearly come from more distant ports - but even among them, Asher cut a distinct figure. He didn't look like he could ever win in a fistfight, for starters (and based on what Jensen knew of him, this was probably true). And he was so neatly kept, so tidy; it was probably only a matter of time before the general dust and smokiness of the place offended his senses enough for him to call it a night. Jensen himself was perhaps just a little less conspicuous; with his simpler dress and unremarkable beard - just barely starting to gray around the temples - he could have passed himself off as someone from the colonial detachment. A member of the local government, perhaps. Or of the Navy.

It was just as well that he made no attempt to do so, though - a fact he realized keenly when a certain hush fell over the crowds nearest the door, and he spared a glance in that direction to see the two bluecoated men suddenly at the center of attention. There was a swagger in their steps; from that distance, he couldn't tell whether to ascribe it to drunkenness or simple cocky self-importance. He'd seen his share of both, in his nearly 40 years. Whichever it was, the pair was sneeringly unfazed by the disdain with which so many of the local ruffians were eyeing them, and sauntered their way through the crowds to the bar. They had to be used to it, Jensen supposed. Though he'd never had a colonial assignment like this place during his time in service - it all seemed impossibly long ago now - he'd had friends who had. It was no secret that contrary to the official stance on the matter, many of these "protected" people wanted nothing at all to do with their alleged protectors. Little acts of rebellion were common, especially in places like this, far from the heart of Her Majesty's empire. Jensen, for his part, intended to weather this potential storm via his preferred approach: keeping his head down and not doing anything foolish.

It was just a shame Asher rarely subscribed to such tactics.
" 'scuse me a moment, mate," he said cheerfully, pushing himself from his seat, tankard in hand. "I seem to be due for a refill."

"Captain---"
The attempted protest went to waste, lost either to the general noise of the tavern or to his captain's particular brand of selective hearing. Whenever something threatened to encroach on his enthusiasm - and so often that something was Jensen, not out of lack of humor, but simply by virtue of being the designated voice of reason - he tended to breeze right past it. And there he went, breezing again, right towards the bar. His lack of commentary on the men in uniform suggested he hadn't seen them, for like any pirate worth his salt, Asher could rarely resist taking a dig at their longstanding nemesis. The first time he'd done so around Jensen, the older man had been fresh from the service himself, and Asher had rather sheepishly apologized. Jensen, in turn, had made it clear that he needed no such apology, and it was a non-issue from that point on.

What was likely to be more of an issue, now, was Asher strolling straight up to the bar, barely arm's length from two sailors. Two sailors sworn to the crown - an entity Asher and crew made a living out of annoying - and from the looks of it, all parties involved were at least a few drinks into the evening. Jensen pulled in a deep breath, setting aside his own glass, and kept his eyes fixed on his captain. Surely, he tried to tell himself, the man could just get his drink and come back without incident. Then he made the mistake of trying to recall the last time they'd crossed paths with the navy without there being 'incident' involved. He was met with little success, and even less comfort. Over the din of the crowd, he couldn't hear Asher, and if he went up there to try and persuade him back to his seat, he'd only make a fuss and draw more attention than Jensen wanted to claim with the naval men sitting right there. Had he been a more religious man, he supposed, this would be a fine time to start praying.

All seemed well enough at first. He saw Asher falter when he caught sight of the pair in uniform, saw a look flit across his face that made Jensen profoundly nervous, but then it was gone again. By some miracle, the captain appeared to be leaning towards the side of sensibility, of self-preservation. Neither were traits for which he was especially well known. Considering the man's penchant for railing against the Navy and all it represented - a thorn in his side not just because of his current profession, but one with some ties to his past as well - Jensen had been bracing for the worst. But perhaps he was just in too cheerful a mood, not spoiling for a fight; perhaps he was actually being rational about the whole situation. Whatever it was, it gave his beleaguered first mate a moment's relief.

And then he tripped.

It might have been the rough floor, or the drink already in his system - Asher was too thin, too delicately built, to tolerate very much of the stuff they served in places like this. But something made him stumble, and as he lurched forward to catch himself on the bar, a good half of his newly refilled drink splashed up out of the tankard and all over one crisp blue jacket. Immediately, three bodies left their seats - the unfortunate dampened sailor's, his companion's, and Jensen's.

"Oh - I'm terribly sorry," Asher was saying, as he sheepishly tried to brush off the man's coat. And he probably meant it. For all his problems with figures of authority, he had a certain gentleman's politeness about him, and was never the sort to just pick a fight. Unless it was part of the job, but even then, he refused to indulge in pettiness or wanton destruction. It made him an unusual sort of pirate, but then, quite a lot of things about Asher did. Unfortunately, it seemed that not everyone was as prone to diplomacy as his captain; the sailor abruptly grabbed Asher's hand, with the gruff determination of someone who was not only annoyed, but most definitely a little drunk.

"You know who I am?" he demanded, loud enough to draw a few stares. Quietly, Jensen left his seat and began to make his way over. With any luck, he could defuse this before things got too rough. Asher, meanwhile, could only smile helplessly and try to pry the man's fingers from his wrist.
"I don't think we've had the pleasure, but please - let me pay for your drink, won't you? To make up for this little mess."
"I'll 'ave you know I'm a captain!" the man went on, as though he'd not heard a word Asher said.
"Small world," Asher answered with a wan chuckle, just as Jensen arrived at his side. "So am I. Now, please - there's no need to make an ordeal of this, is there?"

Up close, the ale on the sailor's breath was even plainer, and Jensen had to fight a sigh. The truth was, this probably wasn't anything new. Even in his youngest days, naive and freshly recruited, there had been senior officers who were just as prone to vice as any other man. But of course it wasn't talked about, and on the rare occasion it was, most were content to laugh it off. Oh, that Commodore Harris - fine man, fine man. A little too fond of the bottle? Well, who wouldn't be, in his position! Whether spoken aloud or simply implied, the general understanding was that a man's conduct in battle was what counted, and anything else was collateral at best. It was an understanding that Jensen had shared less and less with each passing year. And now, with those days as good as an eternity behind him, every flaw he'd been willing to overlook stood out bold and clear. A captain of the navy, drunk and argumentative - and his own captain, one of the criminals, acting as civilly as a man could in that situation. It was just the sort of contradiction that Asher himself was so prone to pointing out.

"Captain! Ha!" The man had a few inches and more than a few pounds of muscle on Asher, and he was making full use of it, stance full of pride and condescension. "What kind of 'alf-rotten, dutch-built little raft'd sail under a dandy like you?"

Asher's face was suddenly somber, the diplomatic humor fading fast, and he tried - to no avail - to jerk his hand free. "I'll ask you not to speak that way of my Osprey," he stated, tone level but unamused. It was hard to say that Asher was or wasn't a proud man; he could boast with the best of them, but he wasn't inclined to put others down in the process. But his ship - there was no room for equivocation when it came to that. It was one of the few things Jensen had ever seen him get into a real fight over. He only hoped that wasn't where this was headed, because while he liked to think that the two of them could handle a pair of slightly inebriated officers, he couldn't be sure of it. At least their pilots weren't still there, he thought absently, or chairs would have been flying by now.

" 'Osprey'?" the man echoed, wrinkling his nose and looking back to his ruddy-faced companion. "Osprey, huh. Y'ever 'eard of 'er, Thom?"

Asher looked as though he were holding back a punch - barely - and Jensen set a hand on his shoulder in a quick attempt to call him back to his senses. "Captain..."

"Actually..."

That was the second sailor, speaking up now for the first time, and all eyes went to him.

"Actually what?" demanded the first.

"Well - don' it sound a bit familiar-like t'you, Bill?" he asked, scratching his bearded cheek thoughtfully. He looked a bit older, and maybe a bit more sober, than his companion. "I swear I've 'eard the name before."

As both men paused to consider this, Jensen felt a distinct tug of dread building. Judging by Asher's expression, he'd yet to realize it, but they might be in more trouble than he'd thought. The other captain - Bill, was it? - didn't make him wonder about that for too long.

"Y'know, yer right," he said, looking back to Asher, still his unhappy captive. "And come t' think of it, I've seen yer face before."

"That seems unlikely," Asher answered with a pale attempt at a smile; Jensen could see realization hitting him, but what could they do about it now? "That is - I've not been to these islands in years, you see, and I've very few friends in the Queen's service - "

"Few friends! I'd say y' got no friends there!" he snapped, and Jensen knew his earlier optimism had been misplaced. "Y'know where I've seen that fancy little mug o' yours? Wanned posters!"

"Oh, no," Asher sighed, looking helplessly to Jensen before flickering his eyes back to the irate sailor and offering another worn grin. "I've seen that drawing. It's dreadful. Doesn't do me a bit of justice. - "

"You shut up, pirate," he snarled. Asher shut up. "The Osprey's the ship what took down our Kensington!"

"Kensington," echoed Asher, cocking his head thoughtfully. "Kensington, Kensington...yes, that does sound rather familiar. Wait, wasn't she that diplomatic ship? Oh, come now." He looked distinctly indignant. "We most certainly did not 'take her down'. Did a bit of damage, yes, but she was still very much airborne by the time we left."

"With every valuable on board!"

"Not every. We didn't have time to take the china. Shame, really, we could have used - "

One of Asher's particular flaws, as Jensen was being keenly reminded, was his inability to see when it was a good idea to stop talking. Which meant people very often pointed it out for him, and not gently either. This Bill was opting to do so by jerking him close, clutching his wrist so tight that Asher cringed and sort of wilted in the grip.

"You 'ave any idea what's the sentence fer comittin' piracy on that scale?" he hissed. Asher squirmed.

"I'm very much aware, yes. But come, now, that was - that was months ago. And very far from here. For that matter," he mused, fixing the sailor with a quizzical glance, "how do you know that was us? The Osprey, that is."

Jensen knew the answer to that one. He wished he didn't. "We told them, captain."
Asher twisted around to face him, plainly curious. "We did?"

"You did." Jensen's memory of the whole incident was clear enough - clearer, at least, than Asher's seemed to be. He almost envied the captain his ignorance right then.

"Why on Earth," Asher asked simply, "did I do that?"

"You wanted them to remember who we were," Jensen sighed. "In fact, I think you explicitly suggested that they go back and tell their superiors what a fine and daring crew we were. Or something."

"That does sound like something I'd say," Asher admitted with a thoughtful little half-nod. "Yes...that's right, the Kensington. I remember now. You know, in my defense, it seemed like a perfectly fine idea at the time."

"I hope you're at least re-evaluating that theory now."

"Very much so, yes."

"An' who are you, then?" interrupted the man with the ale-soaked coat, dark eyes fixed in a scowl on Jensen.

"This man's first mate," he replied. There was no point skirting around it, was there? The way Asher boggled at him, then frowned, suggested he wasn't in agreement.

"Damn it, Jensen, that was ill-conceived."

Jensen raised an eyebrow. "What would you have had me say?"

"Blast, man, I don't know! But not that! You could have - claimed no involvement! Walked out of here scot free!"

"Naw 'e couldn' have," piped up Thom, the bearded sailor. "We got 'im on a wan'ed poster too, I jus' now reccanized 'im."

"...Oh." Asher sighed. "Well, I hope the art on his is at least a bit more generous than mine."

That question would remain unanswered; for a moment, Jensen was sure Bill was about to just knock the captain out, or something. He, for his part, had long ago gotten used to Asher's idea of humor, and the fact that he invoked it at all the most inopportune times. Those dealing with Asher for the first time weren't always so forgiving. But the punch didn't come; in its place was a growled question, and a tightening grip on his wrist that made Asher wince and try again to squirm away.

"All righ', I've 'eard enough out o' you. Where's the rest o' your crew? I know it ain't just the pair o' you."

"Gone," Asher answered, without so much as a pause.

"Gone where?" Bill demanded, and Asher winced, shaking his head.

"I'll not tell you another word till you loosen up there, mate. I can scarcely feel my fingers."
To Jensen's surprise and relief, the annoyed sailor actually did loosen his hold, though not nearly enough for Asher to go anywhere. At least he recognized that much; he made no attempt to run, which would undoubtedly have just made things worse.  Assuming that they hadn't already hit rock bottom, which was up for debate, really.
"Start talkin', pirate."

"Captain pirate," Asher suggested.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. Now, then. My crew, you see - they marooned myself and my loyal first mate here. Mutiny, you know. Dreadful affair. We barely escaped with our lives. That was some time ago. I expect they're half-way 'round the world by now, and with my very pretty ship, no less."

It was, of course, completely untrue. Half the remaining crew was on that very ship, which was down at the town's western harbor, docked comfortably among countless others of similar repute. The other half, if they hadn't made it back yet, were out indulging in the finest company they could afford. And they were all loyal to a fault. Moments like this, Jensen thought quietly, were the ones that had kept Asher alive in spite of himself. For as good as he was at getting himself into trouble, he was even better at sneaking his way out of it. He acted without any thought for the consequences, but then when the situation got desperate enough, he had an unparalleled gift for improvisation. His lie now might or might not do them any good, but one thing was for certain: it would keep the rest of the crew safe. They were all as good as family to one another - he was sure any of them would have done the same (if not necessarily with the sort of dramatic flair that Asher had invoked). And if the crew were safe, perhaps they'd be able to get Asher and Jensen out of this fix. Perhaps. Jensen, as usual, was willing to hope for the best while silently bracing for the worst - just in case.

Asher's delivery, at least, had been flawless; the sailor eyed him warily, then broke into a crooked grin. "Bloody pirates," he snorted, all derision. "Ain' even loyal to yer own."

"The dishonorable wretches," Asher agreed woefully. "Now - in light of that, perhaps we could end this little altercation here. What would you say to that, mm? I mean, consider it, Captain..."

"Wright," he filled in, raising an eyebrow. He was looking at Asher like he was a bit daft, but Asher didn't flinch.

"Captain Wright, yes. Consider it. Myself and my unfortunate mate here are utterly stranded. We've naught but the clothes on our backs, and not so much as a rowboat to travel by. It seems inevitable that we'll while away our last miserable days on this rock, in squalor, ne'er to return to the green and pleasant glen from which we hail. Why - I'll never lay eyes upon my sweet wife again!"

Jensen raised an eyebrow, but held his tongue. If Asher was suddenly going to claim to be married, who was he to make him look dishonest? Unfortunately, simply convincing the man that they would be sufficiently punished by being left alone wasn't going to be enough; he could tell that much already, with the look of amused disdain on Captain Wright's face.
"Well ain' that just a shame. Sad, innit?"

"Real tragic-like," his companion agreed. He actually did look a little sympathetic. But he wasn't the one with Asher by the wrist.

"You lissen 'ere, 'mate'," Wright went on, turning back to face Asher with a smirk. "Ev'ryone was really un'appy about what 'appened t' the Kensington. You blokes took more'n a little off us. Left a lotta importan' people pretty sore."

"Did we." Asher was looking less optimistic by the minute. Jensen couldn't blame him.

"Sure did. An' I'd wager some o' those importan' people would 'and off a good solid promotion to anyone what brought the...infamous cap'n o' the Osprey in t' be hanged. Y'think I like bein' stuck on this godforsaken spit o' land?"

"Not a good assignment, then?" Asher inquired, putting on a show of sympathy. From the looks of things, it wasn't helping him any.

"Good assignmen'? Y'know what's a good assignmen'? 'ome!"

Well, Jensen thought, so much for talking their way out of this. Even Asher at his most charming couldn't be more appealing than the chance of a promotion and a better station. To a man in the position of Captain Wright and his fellow sailor, little could; Jensen knew that as well as anyone. At least now the crudeness of these two didn't seem like quite such a slap in the face of an establishment he'd once respected. The fact was, one had to be very poorly liked among the higher-ups to actually be kicked out of the service. Those who were just unpopular - or had done something wrong, but had well-placed friends - tended to end up in jobs like this, resigned to little more than glorified policemen in the many colonies of the great sprawling Empire. The chance at something better would be more than enough incentive, no doubt, to turn over even the most smooth-talking of criminals.

Asher seemed to realize as much as well; he'd ceased any attempts to free his arm from Wright's grip, and looked downright dejected at the way things were proceeding.

"Then we're to be brought back to the courts, are we?"

Thom was the one to speak up this time, peering quizzically at Asher. " 'Brough' back'?" He had a heavy, rural sort of accent, and there was something about him that seemed just a little less ready to anger than his companion. Jensen had the vague feeling that if Asher really had to spill his drink on someone, he'd have done better to spill it on him. "We got a court 'ere. 's got full legal right an' jurisdiction, too."

"Well, certainly," Asher conceded with a little flourish of his free hand. "I doubt they'd strand two fine fellows like yourselves in a completely uncivilized place. But I don't believe you want to try me here."

"An' why's that?" demanded Wright, skepticism written all over his face. He wasn't the only one curious as to where this was going, though Jensen was beginning to form an idea or two. Asher didn't disappoint.

"Politics, man! Surely a man in your position can appreciate that particular motive. Listen - here, please, you've already bruised me," he complained, making another attempt to pry Wright's hand off. This time, perhaps out of sheer surprise, he actually went along with it. And Asher, to Jensen's continued relief, still didn't try to run. It seemed he'd just wanted his hand back so as to better punctuate his speech with gestures and flair. It was entirely typical for him.

"Thank you," he sighed, rubbing the afflicted wrist, then continued. "As I was saying. Yes. You certainly could bring me to justice here. Have me tried and executed and the whole thing done with in a matter of days. I'm sure the courts out here aren't opposed to skipping some paperwork. But."

He stopped, giving the moment some dramatic effect, until Wright finally threw up his hands.
"But?"

"But," Asher resumed, with all the unflinching confidence of a storyteller, "think of the result. Think of that promotion you're after. The fellows in charge of handing it out - where are they? They're at home, aren't they?"

"Y'think any Admiral 'd ever set foot in this place?" Wright answered with a snort.

"Certainly not. He'd get muck on his very fancy shoes."

"Yeah, but - we'd tell 'em, y'know. Send a telegram an' all," Thom explained, scratching his chin.

"Oh, yes, of course, you could do that," Asher agreed. "But - and I hope you won't take this personally, gents - you are awfully out of the way here. If you say to them, 'look here, we've apprehended and sentenced the notorious Captain Asher Lee, dread pirate, and one of his crew' - well, that's fine. But can you be certain they'll believe you? Or be willing to spend the effort to verify this claim?"
The sailors exchanged glances, and Jensen had to fight not to smile. Now he understood. Asher really did have his moments.
"The fact is, it's rather...inconvenient for them to promote you, so long as you're still out here and with only your word to offer. Wouldn't you agree?"

"It's 'inconvenient' fer us t' go trompin' all the way back t' England," Wright pointed out, but his conviction was faltering visibly, like ice beginning to crack.

"Not at all." Once Asher got going, he rarely missed a beat. "After all, once you've received your acclaim, you're planning to be stationed domestically anyway. The only question is whether you make this journey before or after you've clapped me in irons. And I really would recommend doing it before. There are a good many important people back in dear old England who'd like to attend my hanging, I daresay. Consider it a means of...scoring yourselves a few more points."

Jensen had heard it somewhere - possibly from Asher himself, in one of his self-indulgent diatribes - that the best lies were those with a bit of truth at their hearts. And maybe that was the real secret to all this, to why the sailors kept trading glances that belied their thoughts. Asher wasn't really lying. Not much. About certain things, perhaps, but he was perfectly honest about the ones that really mattered. It would count in the sailors' favor to bring him back. What he wasn't mentioning was that it would count in his own as well, and by that omission, he had them doubting their own plans. If he could keep that up, they might get out of this yet.

" 'e's gotta point, Bill," Thom spoke up, crinkling his nose. "Couldn' we just put 'em in the brig now and 'aul 'em back wit' us?"

"What, the Daedalus?" Wright scoffed. "Christ. There'll be three months worth o' dust on all the rotors. Bloody mess."

"Three months?" Asher echoed, the sudden picture of sympathy. "What a dreadfully long time you've been stuck here. I expect you'll be gladder even than I when we make it back to our fair isle."

"I ain't sure what you got t' be glad about," Wright said, eyeing him skeptically. "They'll have y' hanged soon as you step off the dock."

Asher just smiled. "Home sweet home."

"Well, wouldn't want t' keep you waiting, captain." Wright's voice dripped with sarcasm, and with a cock of his head towards Thom, both had their pistols drawn. Jensen felt a distinct pang of nervousness; alcohol and sailors was a dangerous enough combination when they weren't armed, but with guns, things took a particularly threatening turn. He lifted his hands slowly, and nudged Asher in the side, gesturing for him to follow suit.

"This isn't really necessary," Asher protested as Wright turned him around with a shove, prodding him in the spine with the end of the gun; Jensen found himself on the receiving end of the same treatment from Thom, though perhaps a little less roughly.

"Just doin' our jobs," Wright answered. There was a distinct smugness in his tone; Jensen could all but see him smirking. And why shouldn't he? He'd caught two 'dread pirates'. All because one of them had, literally, been unable to hold his liquor. All he could do was try not to dwell too much on that - being irritated with Asher would benefit no one, at this juncture - and avoid making any startling movements so long as he and his captain were being held at gunpoint.
"We didn' bring irons or nothin'," Thom explained, almost apologetic.

"Then we're to be marched off to your ship like common criminals?" Asher sighed, and cast Jensen a dismayed glance; he could only offer a muted shrug in response.

"Y' are common criminals," Wright snapped. "Get walkin'."
What could they do? They walked.

Asher, he would muse that night, had a particular gift for creating situations like this.