[b]“As though we were smugglers not poor honest men!”[/b] the crew roared in unison. Camilla del Atranto sawed out the notes on her violin, short vicious jerks which would degrade the bow in a matter of a few weeks. A smile crooked her lips as she considered what her mother would think to see her playing pulley hauley shanties after all the money that had been spent to perfect concertos meant for elegant drawing rooms.

“Belay that catterwallin’” Antonio Domenquez, the first mate of the Espri’d’Mar snapped. Camilla lifted her bow and the music stopped, though the shanty continued for several more seconds as the crew completed the stanza out of sheer spite. Domenquez stalked  past her keeping his glance clandestine. He hadn’t addressed her more directly in the five weeks since he had grabbed her in a moment of drunken enthusiasm. The scar on his face was hardly noticeable now.


Esprit’Mar was rounding a low cape lined with verdant jungle. After so many weeks at sea the smell of greenery, trees, and tropical flowers was a pleasure. The sweltering tropical heat was less welcome. Camilla took off a broad brimmed felt hat and fanned herself. She had seen forests before of course, but what passed for forests in Medica were manicured, managed things, almost parks compared to this. And this wasn’t even the mainland, where the explorers told of trackless primeval rainforest that stretched beyond the horizon. As the ship came round the cape the smooth passage began to judder as the prow struck small waves and moved closer to the eye of the wind, little wavelets buffeting them every second or so. The bay opened its jaws, revealing masts and sails of dozens of other ships, each tethered to the settlement of Port Pact by wharves and jetties. Smoke rose from cookfires and industry, though compared to Atranto and its Blacksmith’s quarter it seemed pale and anemic.

“Where will you go once you are ashore,” Domenquez asked, coming to stand beside her at the railing, the interest in his tone casual enough to be obviously faked.

“Iontana,” she replied shortly. Away. Domenquez chuckled, though Camilla wasn’t complete sure he spoke and Medician.
“Not a big place, really no place to go,” Domenquez replied, the threat evident in his voice. Sailors were scrambling up the rigging now, bringing in loops of baggy sails in Castilian reefs, to take the way of the ship as it turned into the bay. The unpleasant slapping of waves against the prow easing as the sea began to follow. Camilla pirouetted, placing her hand on the hilt of her sword. Domenquez took a step back, then flushed with embarrassment.


“No where to go!” he called after her as she headed for her small cabin and her few possessions. 


As the Esprit’Mar pulled alongside the long wooden jetty, Camilla leaped from the bulwark onto the timbers. She almost lost her dignity and plunged into the ocean as she realised that the sea legs she had so painfully acquired meant that her land legs were unreliable. She threw out her arms and balanced herself moving swiftly down the jetty.


During the months at sea Camilla had enjoyed ample time to plan. Unfortunately without much information finding her lost love was going to be something of a challenge. His ship had been headed for Free Sail, but she had languished in prison for nearly a month and by now he might be anywhere. Her stomach tightened at the thought that he might have jumped ship or simply sailed back in the mean time. She had convinced herself he wouldn’t, partly because he wasn’t a fool and partly because she needed it to be true. If he was here, she had no doubt he would make a splash she would eventually detect. Hopefully before that idiot Domenguez sold her out to the Exchange, or obliged her to redecorate his intestines.


Passing a billboard Camilla slowed, her eyes focusing on the word Adventurous Souls Wanted. An idea occurred to her and she suddenly began to smile. She could search for him but he could search for her too, all she needed to do was to make a name for herself. She headed for the Golden Cove Hotel with a skip in her step that had nothing to do with land sickness.


In Medicia the term hotel was a noble one, bespeaking wealth, sophistication and opulence. Those expectations were sadly let down by the Golden Cove. It was a white washed adobe building in the Castillian style and had, in it’s day, been a fine establishment. Unfortunately that day had been sometime before Camilla del Atranto had been born. The white wash had been discolored by years of blowing mud and cracks ran through it where local moss was taking hold. The once fine roof of terracotta tiles had been patched with palm leaves and tar giving it a rather sickly look. The clientele was in somewhat better shape, though they would have been laughed out of any drawing room Camilla had ever been in. Still it wasn’t as though she had better lodgings to get too. Pulling her plumed hat down low on her brow she strode in to find a rather pudgy looking man sitting on a chair of woven wicker, puffing lazily at a cigar.


“Where will I find Sir Edmund Lauwrence?” she asked in  Castilian, making a silver coin appear and walking it over her knuckles.