After we walked a way down the deck, he spoke to our backs -- "Would ye be taking yourselves and that gnostic parrot below decks?" There was an edge to his voice.

Willie fluttered into the masts and screeched "Mucho thanko, good sailor."

"We were fools to leave this crew alone together for a moment," said Mr. Birdsong, eight barreled mob pistol already to hand. He kept each berrel loaded with twenty salt covered shot. Anyone not killed outright would be rolling the deck in pain no matter where he was hit, and if you were standing anywhere in front of the pistol you would be hit. The barrels were fanned out like the fingers of a spread hand. There is no nastier weapon on the Sea, and I doubt one will ever be invented.

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