Captain Martin Renke did not like strangers aboard his ship. He didn’t trust strangers, and being stuck with someone you don’t trust twenty thousand feet above the ground in something that for all intensive purposes should not be flying was a dangerous thing.

Dr Grass was a dangerous thing.

The scientist was escorted aboard the ship an hour before dawn by a retinue of armed guards, most of whom were only one twitch away from unloading their clips into the back of the man’s head.

‘He’s… odd,’ their commanded had explained. ‘Really odd.’ Then he’d thrown the papers stamped with the royal seal into Renke’s hands and left.

Grass had been smiling.

Three hours later Grass had stopped smiling and was puking over the side of the ship.

Tucked away in his cabin, Renke ran his thumb over the seal and examined the papers.

‘Murderer,’ he read. ‘Yeah. Aren’t we all.’