"I rather think you've been doing that for quite a bit longer, John," she says, with teeth. And oh Lord, is this what another eternity with her in another dimension is going to be like? — the gloves have come off, with simpering worship traded in for extremely passive-aggressive barbs. Each one searching for soft flesh like a cat flexing its claws, almost matter of habit.

But as if to show that it's also not a real problem (Mercy has experience working alongside someone she both hates and loves, after all), she claps her hands together: brisk, efficient.

"Let go and hand over a few of them to me. Let's say... six." And as if she's not standing there vulnerable and half-naked and looking like a drowned rat tangled in a towel, she starts to reach out for the crewmen with her own ever-burning thanergy. Mercymorn the First is a flesh magician; she can puppet meat well enough. While she noses at their rubbery muscles, she adds, offhand, "And are there any more clothes in that captain's cabin? I'll wear men's."