As he flutters his fingers over the candleflames, the Captain’s voice is soft, distant.
“There is another on this ship—a spy of sorts. Working to unravel all the work that I have done.”
The Captain nods gravely. “If you are indeed from The Company, I need your help. We, you and I, must stop this spy. I have spent decades planning this mission, and it cannot be for, um, naught. I do not know what the spy looks like, only that he may not be working alone–he leaves cryptic messages, tiny flecking little words and symbols. I do not know if they are for him or for others in league with him. It could be any one of the sailors. It could be none of them. It could even not be a he. You see how desperate I am.”
You hear a scuttling beneath the desk, and the Captain snaps his fingers. A grimy dog, fur damp, rat-like, leaps upon his lap, and he scratches its onion-skin ears.
“If we are any of us to survive,” he says, “you must find this maybe-man. And you must kill him.”
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