Calliope slithered up the rope gracefully. Although she wasn’t a natural athlete, she was a slim woman without much tendency to fat. The previous week of sailing had helped of course. The Weather Witch was to small a vessel that anyone could afford to avoid work. While she didn’t do the heaviest physical labour, like working the windlass to raise a yard, she had spent enough time in the rigging to give the impression of being a help. The fact that it made climbing this rope a familiar task was just a bonus. Command, like any other task in the world, was a political process and only fools pretended it wasn’t. People who claimed they weren’t political were simply bad at politics. Another factor in her favor was that she wasn’t carrying much in the way of gear, merely her rapier, a heavy knife, and the Codex. 

At Markus’ insistence no one had been allowed to bring a flintlock that still held a flint. The odds of someone tripping or otherwise accidentally firing off a weapon were high enough, and the consequences ruinous enough, that the pirate captain had felt it a sound decision. Several of the raiders had bought pistols but they would have to screw the flints back in once the fighting started. Calliope hadn’t bothered with that. If the situation were bad enough that a pistol made the difference, it was likely to be bad enough that she wouldn’t survive either way.

The parapet of the seafort looked out over a broad section of the small bay. A river, or at least a large creek flowed into the interior tip of the inlet that flared out to two rocky prominatories. Thin strips of sand fringed the bay and coconut trees waved in the soft breeze, filling the night with a gentle rustling.  During the war the place must have been a handy place for warships and privateers to take on water and fresh provisions, as well as a handy place to offload cargo and prisoners and to bring prize ships for condemnation. Now the place was little more than a way station, a backwater just as Markus had said. The old trade, gold and spices, must have mostly dried up once the major shipping routes became safer.

They bay glittered under the silver moonlight and, down by the untidy settlement, where yellow lantern light was cast out over the water. The parapet seemed very dark compared to the shining water. Here and there a lantern hung from a wrought iron sconce but the commander of the fort obviously either didn’t see the need for a tremendous amount of light, or, more likely, was too cheap to spend money on the oil the lantern required. Calliope pulled herself fully up onto the parapet and looked around. There was still no sign of sentries, merely a second small tower from which the look out and the signal light should be located. There was no signal light tonight, another sign that the forts commander was both venal and incompetent.  It was sometimes the case that component officers got assigned to backwaters, but that tended to be because of a lack of political connection. Calliope was happy to discover that whoever was in command here wasn’t a master tactician.

“Which way from…” Calliope began. A gunshot sounded in the night down by the group of small buildings, a moment later a scream went up and there was a ragged volley of gunfire. Calliope could see flashes from one of the larger buildings. It must have been a tavern of some sort and as such had soldiers in it. Someone in the landing party had obviously screwed up. There was a sudden commotion and two half dressed soldiers clattered down the stairs, shouting with alarm. Calliope stabbed one in the stomach and kicked the screaming man over the parapet a moment before Markus skewered the other one.

“So much for secrecy,” she concluded.