The sky clouded over, and it began to rain. In the bay, there was a splish-splash as the first drops hit the sea, and a pitter-patter on furled sails. Within minutes it was bucketing down, sending Fayters scurrying for cover. Washing was hauled inside, and awnings were rolled up. Cockatrice Company banners and bunting hung soggy in the empty streets, dripping garish dye onto cobbles slick with water.

There was a fire going in the cozy serving room at Bootles’ Pie Shop. But all the same, Tabitha shivered as she watched the rain falling down the wet windowpane. In the excitement with the pirate ship earlier, she’d almost managed to forget about the old woman. That crooked gray face, hooked nose, and cold, dark eyes. Now, as she looked out into the gloom, she remembered. The old woman was still out there somewhere. The spider in the cupboard. Maybe somewhere very close. Maybe hunting for them …

She gripped the smooth leather hilt of her favorite knife. Whatever that witch was after, Tabitha wasn’t going to be frightened. This was supposed to be exciting. It was a chance to prove herself. A chance to turn Mandeville into a name that was respected, not pitied. If only Newton would stop mollycoddling her.

“Another pie, dear?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. Bootle, I’m full.”

Mrs. Bootle tutted and shook her head. It was well-known that the twins’ mother didn’t believe in people being full—especially not when there were pies to be eaten.

“Anyone else?”

Frank, Paddy, and Hal sat at a table, cheeks bulging with food. Even Old Jon was nibbling on a slice, although, as usual, he was sitting on his own in the corner, gazing into the distance.

“Yes, please, Ma” said the troll twins as one.

“Excellent pies,” added Hal. “My compliments to the cook.”

Mrs. Bootle’s face lit up again, and she bustled about with her tray.

Tabitha had no idea how the others could eat at a time like this. They were going to interrogate Phineus Clagg! They were going to find out what his mysterious cargo was and what the witch was planning to do with it. And the watchmen were just lounging around stuffing their faces.

The smuggler himself was in a chair by the fireplace, hands bound behind his back, while Slik darted to and fro tying knots in his long, greasy hair. The fairy had disappeared for a while after the rescue—probably trying to steal sugar from someone—but, of course, he was back now. There was no way Slik would miss a chance to torment someone.

“Will someone call off this flaming fairy?” pleaded Clagg.

“Pipe down, will you?” said Frank, through a mouthful of pie.

“Yeah, shut it,” said Slik with glee. He swooped in and jabbed Clagg hard in the forehead.

“Ow!”

“ ’Fraid Slik only listens to Captain Newton,” said Paddy, putting on a serious face. “But don’t worry, he’ll be here sooner or later.”

“You big, fat, drunken, useless lump,” Slik gloated, poking Clagg’s nose to emphasize each word. “Just you wait till Newton gets here. You’ll be in for it then.”

He tugged on a fistful of hair.

“Ouch!”

“That’s enough,” came a voice from the doorway.

Slik groaned, dropped down onto the table, and stuck his tongue out at the smuggler.

Newton stepped into the room, his blue coat streaked with water, raindrops glistening on his shaven head. He looked down at Clagg, bathed in the light of the fire, and sized him up. Tabitha looked too. Stubbled cheeks, unkempt hair, unwashed clothes, a lazy eye, a single tarnished earring, and a battered old coat. Captain Phineus Clagg. A master criminal, who braved a tormenta. Frankly, he didn’t look up to much.

“Pie, Mr. Newton?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. Bootle.”

“I wouldn’t say no,” said Clagg.

“Tough,” said Slik.

Mrs. Bootle bustled off to the kitchen, a single pie left on her tray. Clagg watched it go, sadly.

“Right,” said Newton. “Clagg. Know why you’re here?”

Clagg shook his head.

Newton sighed.

“All right, if that’s how it’s going to be …”

He pulled up a chair, sat down face-to-face with the hapless smuggler, took his pipe from a pocket, and began stuffing it with tobacco.

“First I’m going to tell you what we know. Three nights ago, you docked in Port Fayt, carrying a cargo in the middle of the worst tormenta in a decade. Now, that’s suspicious. Anyone trying to bring a wavecutter into Fayt during a magical storm is either insane, clueless, or wanting to avoid the attentions of the revenue men. You don’t look insane, Clagg, and from what I hear, you’re not clueless either.

“So it turns out you’re a smuggler. And more than that, you’ve got a cargo you’ll risk your own life for—not to mention the lives of your crew. That’s enough to get us interested. Then we run into your customer, who happens to be an extremely dangerous magician. A witch, in fact. So now we’re very interested. Smuggling, that’s one thing, see? But getting mixed up with illegal magic—that’s a dangerous game indeed.”

Everyone was watching the smuggler now. He opened his mouth and shut it again. A droplet of sweat crept down his forehead.

“I don’t know where you come from, but here in Port Fayt the use of magic is banned without a warrant. Especially magic like we’ve seen that witch perform. So you’re in big trouble, Clagg. But the good news is, I’m going to be generous. I’m going to let you go. As long as you help us.”

“And, er … What kind of help were you thinking of?”

“Fair’s fair. I’ve told you what we know, so now you can tell us what you know. Three questions. One: who is the witch? Two: what is the cargo she’s after? And three: where is it?”

Clagg squirmed. “The thing is, matey …”

“Don’t try to talk your way out of this. Answers. Now.”

The smuggler licked his lips, calculating fast.

“Well, what’s in it for me then?”

Tabitha scowled. Hal frowned a little and pushed his glasses up his nose. Paddy chuckled quietly, and Frank gave a low whistle.

Newton put down his unlit pipe. He sat still for a moment, then lunged forward, grabbed the front two legs of Phineus Clagg’s chair, and tipped it over the fire. The flames licked at the smuggler’s back.

“AAARGH!” said Clagg. “Mercy! Mercy!”

Slik spluttered with laughter.

“You’re not getting this, are you?” said Newton, taking his time. “We’re not the Dockside Militia. This isn’t an official investigation. Governor Wyrmwood shut us down, see? So right now, we’re acting outside the law. And I’m sure a man of your experience will understand when I tell you … we don’t have any rules.”

Paddy cracked his knuckles.

“They call us the Demon’s Watch, you know. So don’t think of us as the good folk. More like the dangerous folk. The folk who don’t have time to play games with numbskull smugglers.”

“Are we clear?”

The chair tipped back farther, and farther …

“Yes, yes, matey, clear as a cloudless sky.”

Newton let go, and the smuggler jolted forward, the chair legs landing on the floor with a bang.

“So, are we feeling a bit more helpful now?”

Clagg gulped and nodded.

“All right, all right, you win. I’ll answer yer questions. Untie me first though, will yer?”

“Aye. But no stupid escape attempts, please.”

Frank tugged the knots open, and the ropes fell to the floor. The smuggler wiped the sweat from his brow with a filthy coat sleeve.

“Yer not goin’ to like the answers, by the way.”

“We’ll hear them first, then decide if we like them.”

“Right y’are matey. You’re the boss.”

The watchmen laid down their pies and listened. For a few moments there was no sound except the distant rain and the sputtering of the fire, while they waited for the smuggler to recover. Tabitha found that she was holding her breath, and let it out silently.

At last, Phineus Clagg began to talk.